The pallid glow of the moon flooded the dark and notorious alleys of Ys, transforming the uneven cobblestones into a grim tableau of scattered debris, silent testimonials of the night's excesses. Empty bottles and shards of glass crunched underfoot, the cold stone walls painted with dancing figures by the flickering lanterns. The air was heavy with an acidic blend of fermentation, an unpleasant cocktail of spilled beer and urine, a scent so potent that it seemed to seize the throat and leave a bitter aftertaste on the tongue. The echo of a raspy melody, sung by a drunkard who mixed his lamentations with a popular song, resonated between the narrow walls, like a spectral sound.

In contrast to the icy ambiance of the alley, a soft warm glow emanated from a building bearing the sign of the "Roasted Pig". The loud laughter and cheerful singing coming from within created a bubble of gaiety within the grim surroundings.

Inside the tavern, Henry's travel companions were comfortably settled around a sturdy wooden table, nestled in the back of the room for optimal discretion. Sylvia, Adam, Yavé, and Michael patiently waited for a contact, their keen eyes analyzing the crowd while sipping on cool beers and exchanging sharp remarks.

After a while, Michael furrowed his brow, his worry reflected in his gaze scrutinizing the tavern's entrance. "Where in the world has Henry gone?" he murmured. Yavé responded with an indifferent shrug, a sign of his confidence in the priest's ability to defend himself, no matter the danger lurking in the village. "Perhaps he has stumbled upon a distressed soul to rescue," Sylvia retorted with a mischievous smile, once again demonstrating that she held more information than she let on. "I would even say he has gone to claim his reward," Sylvia added.

Michael nearly choked on his beer at Sylvia's remark, his throat seized with a nervous laugh. He was well aware of Henry's leanings and his insatiable appetite for attractive young women, especially young mothers.

However, their conversation was interrupted by an individual whose face was hidden under a gray hood. The mysterious stranger sat at their table without a word, creating a palpable tension around them. After a moment of silence, the unknown man uttered an enigmatic phrase, his voice low and rumbling. "The silver lion," he stated.

Michael promptly responded his voice calmly assured. "Never surrenders."

The response seemed to reassure the stranger, who lowered his hood to reveal a man in his thirties, with jet-black hair and multiple scars that crisscrossed his face hardened by time. He bore the marks of more battles than an ordinary man could withstand, and although he remained inconspicuous, his presence radiated a gravity that seemed to darken the light ambiance of the tavern.

Michael turned to him, his eyes settling on the newcomer's scars.

"And who might you be?" The hooded man then introduced himself.

"Call me 'Rust'."

He had earned this nickname for his notorious preference for using rusted blades against his adversaries. Michael remained stoic and continued the questioning. But that didn't stop Sylvia from choking on her beer; she would have liked to make fun of his nickname, but the moment was ill-chosen.

"What were the proceeds from the last raid?"

The man paused, taking a moment to evaluate the people sitting across from him before he answered.

"Arlor was generous."

He discreetly slid a purse onto the table, filled with gold coins that jingled softly. At the sight of the gold, everyone's eyes around the table shone with a greedy glint, even if they managed to maintain their impassivity. Rust had just deposited the equivalent of 500 gold coins on the table. Yavé, the sharp-witted archer of the group, scrutinized Rust with suspicion. Her keen gaze missed no detail. She then addressed him with feigned nonchalance.

"How many viable people are in this village?"

Rust seemed slightly uncomfortable at the elf's question, scratching his beard before answering.

"It was a small village, about 500 inhabitants. We did our best to conserve as much merchandise as possible, there are always losses and always people who play the hero."

His words, though heavy, were spoken with disconcerting ease, as if he were discussing the sale of livestock rather than human lives.

"When is the Ys raid scheduled?"

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Asked Michael, his eyebrows knitted together in sharp attention.

"Tonight,"

Rust replied, his dark eyes sweeping the room.

"That's why I'd advise you not to linger."

Sylvia grumbled at these words, her hand clenching around the handle of her wine goblet.

"By the gods, I wanted a good night's sleep, not a night spent riding a damned horse!"

Adam, the quietest of the bunch, looked at Sylvia. He lifted the purse of gold coins to the young woman's eyes.

"This should remind you why you shouldn't complain."

He said in a hoarse voice, a smug smile on his lips.

"Finish eating quickly, we need to prepare the horses."

Michael ordered.

"We will head straight for the capital. I'll go get Henry. I hope he's finished up on his end as well."

Michael rose abruptly, his chair scraping against the paved floor as he backed away. He nearly knocked over the heavy, solid wood table in his hurry. The tavern door slammed behind him, his cloak swirling in the wake of his hasty departure. He left a trail of curious gazes as he pushed his way through the crowd of drunkards.

Rust watched him leave, an unasked question burning in his eyes. He turned to the three remaining adventurers, his face lit by the flickering candlelight.

"Why are people as competent as you involved in this kind of trafficking, I must admit, it baffles me?"

He finally asked, his tone betraying a hint of bewilderment. Adam furrowed his brow, his look heavy with a silent warning.

"Mind your own business, Rust."

He retorted sharply, his acidic tone slicing through the silence that had settled. However, Sylvia leaned forward, her amused gaze fixed on the scarred man.

"The life of an adventurer isn't easy, you know..."

She began, her voice carrying a somber and serious tone. Her index finger traced random circles on the worn wood of the table.

"We constantly risk our lives to protect the kingdom, for those who rule us, who mock us, who bet on our survival, and who live in an opulence that borders on the obscene. We were forced to make choices... In order to survive." Her voice softened, almost melancholic, as she shared this slice of their reality.

Rust listened carefully, his dark eyebrows knitted into a perplexed expression.

"We turn a blind eye to certain dark activities, we will divert the guard patrols, and in return, we won't bother you. We do what we have to do..."

Sylvia paused, her gaze wandering momentarily into the void as if she was revisiting images from the past.

"And then, I believe that sacrificing a few people for the common good is a rather trifling price." Her words, although spoken lightly, resonated heavily in the bustling tavern.

After listening to Sylvia, Rust felt a chill run down his spine. He had always considered himself the dregs of society, an outcast, an unscrupulous scoundrel. But these adventurers too trembled in the darkness. They accepted it, they adapted, all for what they perceived to be a common good ideal.

He rested his elbows on the table, crossing his hands in front of him, his dark eyes scanning Sylvia's face, searching for any sign of remorse or doubt. But he saw only determination.

That was what terrified him most. Their actions were not motivated by greed or desire for power, but by ideology, a conviction that they were doing what was necessary, that they were paying the price for a better world.

A frightening reality then unfolded before him: these adventurers, these heroes, were willing to dirty their hands, to compromise themselves in the worst atrocities, if it meant preserving the balance of the kingdom they had sworn to protect. It was a chilling commitment, a resolve that sent shivers down his spine. He was no longer sure he could view these heroic figures, whom he had long held in high regard, in the same light. The world in which he moved had just taken on a darker, more terrifying hue.

He took a deep breath, every fiber of his being absorbing the heaviness of this conversation. Then, suddenly straightening up, he made the wooden chair creak against the irregular cobbles of the tavern floor.

"In that case, here's to a better world!" With a broad and determined motion, he lifted his mug to his lips and emptied it in a few robust swigs. He set the mug back on the table with a resounding slap, the remaining amber liquid swaying inside. Without casting a final glance at the people he had just shared a moment of raw intimacy with, he turned on his heel, disappearing into the shadows. It was unlikely that they would cross paths again.

Yavé, who had spent most of the conversation in silence, was now observing her magician comrade with a new, almost foreign eye. Sensing the weight of this inquisitive gaze, Sylvia merely shrugged nonchalantly, responding before the archer even had the chance to form her question. "I just told him what he needed to hear... My real reasons, I keep to myself." The evening concluded in solemn silence, each of them finishing their meal in silent introspection. As they left the tavern, the chill of the night enveloped them as they headed for the stable, ready to prepare their mounts for the road ahead and to stay far from the hell that was about to descend upon Earth.