The rain fell in a steady rhythm, a quiet, persistent patter that blurred the edges of the world. The narrow streets of the city were slick with water, reflecting the faint glow of lanterns as they swayed in the mist. Lyra moved through the night like a shadow, her cloak drawn tight against the cold. The city smelled of wet stone and saltwater, a reminder of its proximity to the sea, though here, in the lower districts, the scent mingled with the sourness of spilled ale and rot.

The Black Swan Tavern loomed ahead, its crooked sign creaking in the wind. The light spilling from its windows offered the only warmth in the misty gloom, and the faint hum of voices inside promised noise, life—an escape from the weight of the night. Lyra paused just outside the door, listening to the muted sounds of the tavern. Laughter, the clink of mugs, the low murmur of conversation. All of it familiar, comforting in a way that made the unease in her chest seem all the sharper.

She shouldn’t be here. Kael Raventhorn was no one important. Just another rich boy with more charm than sense, the kind who thought the world was made for his amusement. And yet…

There was something about him.

Taking a slow breath, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Warmth greeted her, heavy and thick, the air inside the tavern dense with the smell of roasting meat, spilled ale, and smoke from the hearth. The noise was a constant hum, voices overlapping with the strumming of a bard in the corner, the fire crackling as its heat fought back the dampness. Bodies crowded close, huddled over tables, lost in conversation or drunken laughter.

Lyra moved through the crowd without drawing attention, her steps quiet, her hood pulled low. The Black Swan was full tonight, the kind of place where no one asked questions, where the weight of the city’s troubles could be forgotten for a few hours. She found a seat in the shadows, a rickety chair near the back, where she could watch without being seen.

Her eyes scanned the room, and there he was—Kael.

He was leaning back in his chair, a grin tugging at his lips as he gestured animatedly, his raven-black curls a mess and his sharp blue eyes alive with mischief. He spoke with the ease of someone who was used to holding court, his voice cutting through the noise just enough for those nearby to hear him. His long legs were stretched out under the table, one boot propped lazily on the chair next to him. Beside him sat Aric, quiet but alert, his posture more guarded.

Kael was telling some story, one of his many wild tales, and the people around him—strangers and friends alike—were hanging on his every word. He was always talking, always spinning something out of thin air, turning even the dullest moment into an adventure. But there was something more to him than the charm, something sharper beneath the surface. Lyra could see it in the way his eyes flicked to the door every now and then, in the way his fingers drummed absently on the table when he wasn’t speaking.

At the next table over, a group of dockworkers were deep into their cups, their accents thick with the harshness of the coastal towns. They were Saltbrook men, from a village along the coast known for its fishing fleets and rough folk. Their words tumbled out in a lazy drawl, slurring the edges of sentences in a way that made even simple conversations sound like secrets.

“I’m tellin’ ye, Zallen, ye toss that net in the deep water again, an’ ye’ll be swimmin’ after it yerself!” one of the men said, his words punctuated by the thud of his mug hitting the table.

Zallen, a burly man with a face like a weathered stone, grunted. “Aye, and if ye had the stones to come with me, ye’d see it done proper.” He took a long swig from his mug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The others at the table laughed, their voices rough and full of the briny slang that came from years spent at sea. “Floatin’s easier when ye’ve no cargo weighin’ ye down!” one of them added with a wide grin, and the others chuckled, raising their mugs in agreement.

The Saltbrook accent was unique, its syllables clipped and vowels stretched, making everything they said sound like a jest or a challenge. Lyra had encountered it before on her travels and knew it well. These men weren’t dangerous, just drunk, but their voices added to the growing tension in the room.

Her attention drifted back to Kael. He was still talking, spinning some ridiculous tale, his grin widening as the people around him laughed.

“…and the old trader says, ‘Ain’t seen coin like that since the king’s coronation!’ So I told him, ‘Well, ye’ve met the man who’ll be wearin’ the next crown!’” Kael’s voice lilted with a mock regal tone, sending another wave of laughter through his small audience.

Aric sighed, shaking his head. “One of these days, Kael, you’re going to talk us into a noose.”

Kael’s grin didn’t falter. “Only if you stop keeping an eye out for me.”

Lyra allowed herself a small smirk. Kael always danced too close to the edge, and he knew it. But he was reckless in the way only a rich man’s son could be—someone who had always been able to buy his way out of trouble or charm his way out of a bad situation. But even that had limits. And tonight, she could feel those limits pressing in.

The door to the tavern swung open, and a group of men entered, cloaked and dripping with rain. They moved like shadows, their steps quiet, their eyes scanning the room. They were dressed like the others in the tavern—heavy cloaks, worn boots—but there was something different about them. Something dangerous.

One of the men, taller than the rest, with broad shoulders and a scar running across his jaw, let his gaze linger on Kael. Lyra’s instincts sharpened, and she felt the familiar tension coil in her gut. Her hand slipped beneath her cloak, fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger. She didn’t know why, but something about these men felt wrong.

The Saltbrook men at the next table didn’t seem to notice, still laughing and slapping the table with their heavy hands.

“Ye’ve got more fish in yer head than in the net, Zallen!” one of them jeered, his words slurring together. “Ye’ll be swimmin’ to the depths while I’m at market with the finest catch!”

Zallen just grinned, taking another long drink. “I’ll bring ye somethin’ from the deep, alright—ain’t a man alive can pull the nets like I can.”

Lyra let the drunken conversation fade into the background, her attention fully on the group of newcomers now. They hadn’t made a move yet, but the way they moved, the way they lingered at the bar, told her they were waiting for something.

And then, one of them—the tall man with the scar—started walking toward Kael.

Kael noticed him too, though he didn’t react right away. His grin slipped, just for a moment, and Lyra saw the subtle shift in his posture. He knew something was coming. Aric noticed too, his hand dropping to the hilt of the dagger at his waist, his body tensing as the man approached.

The tall man stopped in front of Kael’s table, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his own dagger. He was silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he looked Kael over.

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“Kael Raventhorn,” the man said, his voice low and rough, his accent thick with the coastal slang. “Been lookin’ fer ye.”

Kael’s grin returned, though there was something harder behind it now, something less playful. He leaned back in his chair, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Well, you’ve found me,” he said, his voice smooth as ever. “Now what?”

The man didn’t smile. His grip on his dagger tightened, though he didn’t draw it—yet. “Ain’t here for talk. Ye’ve been meddlin’ where ye don’t belong. Time to pay the toll.”

Kael’s eyes flicked to Aric for the briefest moment before returning to the man in front of him. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, friend. I’m just a merchant’s son, here for a drink. Nothing more.”

The man’s jaw tightened. “Ye can play dumb all ye like, Raventhorn, but we know. Ye’ve been dabblin’ in things ye shouldn’t be. Word gets around fast in these parts.”

The tension in the tavern thickened, the noise fading as more people turned to watch. Even the Saltbrook men at the next table had gone quiet, their drunken banter forgotten as they leaned in to see how this would unfold.

Kael’s smile faltered, though only slightly, and then it returned—sharp, calculated. Lyra saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, but his voice remained as smooth as ever.

“Well, if word gets around so fast, I’m sure it’s told you how little I enjoy paying tolls,” Kael said lightly, tilting his head as if considering the absurdity of the situation. His fingers drummed against the table in a rhythm too calm for the tension that rippled through the room. “Now, maybe you can enlighten me. What exactly is it that I’m supposed to have meddled in? Because, as far as I can tell, I’ve done nothing but drain a few mugs tonight.”

The tall man didn’t smile, didn’t blink. His hand twitched at the dagger, and his voice came out in a low growl. “Enough o’ the talk, Raventhorn. Ye know what I mean. Now give it over, or ye’ll regret it.”

Kael’s hand stilled on the table, his grin fading entirely. Aric, still seated beside him, tensed, his eyes flicking between Kael and the stranger, his hand hovering over his own dagger.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Kael said softly, though his tone had lost its usual carefree edge. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice so only the stranger could hear him. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Last chance.”

The whole tavern seemed to hold its breath. The flickering light from the hearth threw long, dancing shadows over the walls, the fire popping and crackling as if it, too, sensed the tension in the room. The Saltbrook men were dead silent now, their eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a brawl.

Lyra’s heart raced as she watched, her fingers still resting lightly on the hilt of her dagger. She didn’t know what the man wanted from Kael, but it was clear that whatever this was, it wasn’t just a simple misunderstanding. Something bigger was at play here, something Kael wasn’t telling anyone.

Kael stood slowly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. “Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender once again. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it now, something that hadn’t been there before. “Let’s not make a scene. We can take this outside, have a chat, clear things up. No need for knives in here, right?”

The man’s grip tightened on his dagger, his eyes never leaving Kael’s. “Ye don’t get to walk outta here until I get what I came for.”

Kael’s eyes flicked to Aric, who had risen to his feet beside him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed like Kael was going to try to defuse the situation again, but then his posture shifted ever so slightly, his eyes hardening.

“You don’t want to do this,” Kael said quietly, his voice suddenly cold. “Not here. Not now.”

The tall man hesitated, his hand twitching on his dagger. But something in Kael’s voice must have given him pause, because instead of drawing his blade, he took a step back. “Outside, then,” the man growled, his tone dangerous.

The tension in the room broke slightly, the tavern returning to its usual hum of noise as the crowd sensed that the immediate threat of violence had passed—for now. The Saltbrook men exchanged glances, grinning at each other as they raised their mugs in silent approval of the coming fight. The fire popped again in the hearth, the warm glow of the flames flickering over the rough stone walls.

Kael let out a slow breath, his posture relaxing as he gave Aric a tight smile. “Guess we’re not done yet.”

Aric rolled his eyes. “You think?”

Together, they followed the tall man toward the door, the tension still heavy in the air. Lyra watched them go, her mind racing. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this was about more than just a simple confrontation. There was something deeper at play here, something that had drawn her to Kael in the first place. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

As they stepped outside, the rain hit her like a cold slap, the mist clinging to her cloak as she moved silently into the street. The cobblestones were slick with water, and the familiar smell of damp stone and salt filled her lungs. She kept her distance, staying in the shadows, but close enough to see everything.

Kael and Aric stood just a few feet away from the man, who had drawn his dagger now, the blade gleaming in the dim light of the street lamps. The rain dripped from the hood of his cloak, his eyes cold and focused on Kael.

“Ye’ve meddled long enough, Raventhorn,” the man said, his voice rough, the coastal dialect making his words sound harsher than they were. “I’ll not ask ye again. Hand it over, or I’ll take it from ye.”

Kael’s hand drifted to his own blade, but he didn’t draw it. Instead, he let out a slow, almost weary sigh. “I told you, friend, I don’t have anything to give you. If you’re looking for something, you’re wasting your time.”

The man’s eyes flicked to Aric, as if weighing the odds. “Then ye leave me no choice.”

Before anyone could move, the man lunged. His blade flashed in the rain, the metallic scrape of steel cutting through the quiet of the night.

But Kael was quicker than he looked.

With a fluid motion, he sidestepped the attack, his hand darting out to grab the man’s wrist. In one swift motion, he twisted, forcing the man to drop his dagger into the slick mud at their feet.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Kael muttered, his voice low.

But before Kael could finish, the man lashed out with his other hand, shoving Kael hard into the wall of the alley. The impact knocked the breath from him, and for a moment, Lyra saw a flicker of real fear cross his face.

Time to act.

Lyra was moving before she even realized it, her own dagger already drawn. She moved like a shadow, slipping through the rain and the darkness, her cloak trailing behind her. The man didn’t see her coming, didn’t even hear her until her blade was pressed against his throat, cold steel against skin.

“That’s enough,” she whispered, her voice deadly calm. “Leave now, or the next breath you take will be your last.”

The man froze, his eyes wide with surprise as he glanced down at the dagger against his throat. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected her. But Lyra had learned long ago that surprise was her best weapon.

Kael, still recovering from the shove, blinked at her in confusion. “You…?”

Lyra didn’t look at him. Her focus was entirely on the man in front of her. She pressed the blade a little harder against his throat, feeling his pulse quicken beneath the steel.

“Go,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. “Now.”

The man hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting between her and Kael, as if weighing his options. But then, slowly, he raised his hands in surrender and stepped back.

“Ye’ll regret this,” he spat, his voice filled with venom.

Lyra didn’t move, didn’t lower her dagger until he had disappeared into the rain. Only then did she step back, her heart still racing, the adrenaline pulsing through her veins.

Kael stared at her for a long moment, his breath coming in short gasps. “You… you didn’t have to do that.”

She finally looked at him, her eyes cold. “Yes, I did.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the rain, the soft patter against the cobblestones, and the distant murmur of the city.

Kael let out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his wet hair. “Well… that was… unexpected.”

Lyra sheathed her dagger, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders as the rain continued to fall. “You’re reckless,” she said quietly. “One day, that’s going to catch up to you.”

Kael grinned, though it was weaker now, less sure. “I’ve always managed to stay a step ahead.”

Lyra didn’t respond. Instead, she turned and began walking back toward the shadows, her steps silent in the rain.

Behind her, Kael’s voice called out through the mist, half-joking, half-serious.

“I’d hate to think what I owe you now.”

She didn’t answer. She just kept walking, disappearing into the night like a ghost.