Scade Rover gently swirled his glass of whiskey in the shadowed corner of the bar. Moonlit Ruin, they said, was the last true experience for the fine tasters in town. The vintage setting was unmistakable. Mahogany stools, carved from raw tree stumps, stood beside solid and finely engraved tables, their borders adorned with intricate vines and blooming flowers.
He held the whiskey to his eye and spied toward the counter. Of course, he had to choose the table with the lamp flickering, struggling to cast the shadows away.
Behind the counter, Lyra diligently polished the last of the glasses, while Scade sat in his dark corner, listening to her cheery hum. The melody, with its shifting pitches and rhythm, reminded him of a song he'd heard dozens of times in the city. Though repetition often annoyed him, Lyra’s rendition brought out a faded beauty in the light.
“You finished yet, or should I come over and show you how it’s done?” Lyra asked.
Scade replied with a snicker, downing the beverage in one gulp. The alcohol left a slight burn in his throat, though the faint off-taste lingered on his tongue.
“This…”
Lyra strode eagerly toward his table, hands on her hips. A few strands of auburn hair draped over her face, which she tucked behind her ear. Her sun-kissed skin, glowing after a day’s work, shimmered enticingly. Her rosy lips were soft, perfectly shaped. Scade’s gaze lingered on her eyes, a perfect blend of green and hazel.
Under her bib apron, just as he had seen her this morning, she still wore that dress he had warned her about. The black summer dress, with delicate white petals scattered across the fabric, clung to her waist before flowing gracefully out from her hips. Her bare arms, slender and pristine, were toned and lovely.
“So?”
He hesitated, picturing a reaction he dreaded. She had worked tirelessly for months, each attempt more frustrating than the last, chasing the refinement her father’s beverage once held. Scade considered lying but quickly shook his head. She wouldn’t forgive him for this lie.
“Lyra It’s getting close…”
She sighed and started to walk back to the counter before he finished.
“Just a few more batches and you have faithfully recreated his whiskey. But I still believe you should create your own, like he wanted.”
Lyra turned and stormed toward him, slamming her hands onto the table. “You know I can’t!” The glass toppled and rolled off the table, shattering into shards on the floor. She gasped, but quickly steeled herself, returning to her unwavering glare. “I will never stop,” she hissed.
Scade sighed and gently took her hand. “And so you shouldn’t, but this place…” The bar had its charm when it bustled with bellowing men and smiling women. But time changed, and so did the people. Nowadays, it felt abandoned. Any curious visitor from outside the neighborhood would’ve guessed the same. “…this bar, your bar, in this state cannot last. No matter how much you want it Lyra.”
Lyra swiftly pulled away. “Just say it! You want me to sell Moonlit Ruin and turn my back on my father’s legacy.”
“No,” he replied, slowly rising from his seat to embrace Lyra. “I want you to be happy, safe, and cared for. But you won’t let me.”
“We can’t Scade.” She gently pushed him away.
His heart sank, despite already knowing the answer. Hearing it again and again didn’t make it easier; it only made it more certain.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t help with rent or supplies or whatever you need.”
“My father warned you, ‘My daughter doesn’t marry a Strider,’ yet you became one.”
He’d known Lyra and Jerren since he was little and was bartending here at sixteen. It had been an enjoyable and easy job, especially when he worked alongside Lyra, taking orders, pouring drinks, cleaning up, making small talk, and occasionally listening to the hard truths of people's lives.
It was the latter that set everything in motion. Three years ago, it happened and changed his mind forever.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was a bright, sunny day, and the clouds seemed to pull away from Solace, as if shrieking away from the city. The birds rested in the trees, drifting into a peaceful sleep with the softest breeze brushing through. The stone walls stood tall, keeping out the strong gusts and from the wasteland leaving the air inside calm and still.
That day, a rugged man with short, ruffled black hair walked into Moonlit Ruin. His thin beard revealed a long scar that ran from his lip to his ear. Clad in dark gray fabrics and a cloak to match, he wobbled into the bar, his feral frown settling into place. His worn boots crunched with each heavy step, the sand stuck to his soles falling away as he moved with purpose, scanning the tables around him.
“Hey.” Scade said with a borderline friendly tone.
The man shifted toward the voice with a speed that was startling for someone built like him. His feral eyes softened as they met Scade’s gaze, and he wobbled toward the counter.
“With what can help you with?” asked Scade.
The burly man rummaged through his coat and tossed a few gold coins onto the counter. “Give me your best.”
“Three goldies for our best?” He chuckled, “one silver gets you twice that.”
The man silently stared at the coins, shook his head, and waved it off.
Scade picked up on the cue and turned to grab a Jerren Ruin from the bottom shelf. With a twist and a pop, he uncorked the emerald bottle and poured the old man’s spirit brew into a rocks glass.
“Tough day?” Scade said while wiping dry the freshly washed glasses.
The man groaned and took sip of Jerren’s whiskey. “Tell me about it, but no. Just the usual strangeness life sets before my footsteps.” He took another larger sip, “yours?” His gravelly voice made him sound as though he had been smoking for years.
“Same old same old.” Scade said, he slid the towel from his shoulder and threw it in the bin. “So what makes you come around these parts, I figured any man carrying coin would’ve gone to Central. Not here, not this close to the wall, they don’t want to be seen around rubbish parts, so I keep hearing.”
The man eyed Scade, and gulped the drink in one go then slid the glass towards Scade, “another one.”
Scade grabbed the glass and poured another round. “It’s not my place to ask about private business but I can’t have Officers smashing and throwing this place to bits pieces. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Nothing to fuss about. Just meeting with an old acquaintance. You’re Jerren’s boy?”
“No, I'm a friend of the family. Jerren has a daughter.”
“Ah… it was a girl. Been away since before she was born, didn’t know if it was a girl or not. Jerren always boasted about first being a boy, so I put one and one together. Seems I was wrong.”
Jerren had never been one to speak much about the past, but the revelation of his desire for a boy left Scade wondering. Her father had always seemed proud, unassuming, a man with unwavering belief and confidence in his daughter. Scade couldn’t decide if the stranger had spoken the truth or if he had simply spun a web of lies.
“Lyra will be mad hearing that.”
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“Lyra… sounds nice. Anyways, you know when he will be here?”
“Should be back in half an hour or so, Jerren is hauling with Lyra a few supplies from Fredric’s Ware. A store bordering Central, near the Tolg river.”
The man pulled a silver pocket watch from under his coat, “probably spare half an hour. Can I trust you?”
“A friend of Jerren is a friend of mine.”
The man nodded, satisfied with Scade’s response. “The name’s Kadrian Hex. If I can’t stay longer, tell Jerren to meet me at our old spot. He’ll know what it means.”
Kadrian flinched, his gaze snapping toward the entry as the door swung open. A group of mercenaries stepped into the bar, their weathered leather armor worn and scarred, with fur draped over their shoulders. They carried swords, daggers, and a few axes slung over their backs. The trinkets and collectibles fastened to their armor jingled softly, breaking the tense silence that hung in the room.
“You there!” bellowed the bald giant of a man, “show me your face.”
Kadrian faced Scade and whispered, “whatever you do, don’t run and stay behind the counter”
Scade nodded, the mercenaries began to spread and surround Kadrian like a pack of wolves. They shoved and pushed the chairs over, forming obstacles to cage and entrap their target.
Kadrian’s fingers wrapped around the glass and threw without hesitation in the face of bald merc.
“Arrgh” the man howled, clutching his bleeding face, “kill him.”
Swords were unsheathed, and axes were raised. To Kadrian’s left, a hook-nosed blond charged, swinging. Kadrian dodged the incoming axe, which lodged deep into the hard wood of the counter. Grabbing the man by his long hair, Kadrian smashed his knee into the mercenary’s chest, caving it in. The man collapsed to the ground, wheezing with every breath, struggling to catch air.
Scade held his breath, trying to control his heartbeat. Every fiber of his being wanted to flee, but he couldn’t abandon Kadrian. He was, after all, Jerren’s friend.
He had to be.
“At your right!” Scade yelled.
An unkempt, sword-wielding woman lunged at his throat like a wild animal. He collapsed into a roll and struck at her feet. Kadrian wrestled her into a headlock and twisted, a loud snap rang out.
Scade winced at the sight, the woman convulsed on the floor. She gargled with chilling clicks, her wide eyes pleading for help.
A strange feeling swirled in his stomach. He clenched his teeth, forcing down the bile rising in his throat. At sixteen, he was confronted for the first time by the inevitable: death.
Kadrian seized a dagger from her body and broke into a sprint. The hooded mercenary jolted in surprise, clumsily fumbling with the throwing knives on his belt. Noticing the hooded man’s intent, Kadrian flicked his wrist and hurled the dagger, striking dead center in his chest.
The bald mercenary wrenched a shard from his bleeding cheek and swung the axe, roaring in a wide arc. It cleaved straight through the seats and tables, sending splinters flying. Kadrian watched the chaos unfold, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he waited for the mercenary’s approach.
The man heaved, “You! I'll tear that grin from your face, behead you, and drag your corpse through town, straight to the guild."
“You wear your foes' trinkets as prized medallions, their spirits from beyond laugh at your childish antiques. The scum and wastrels you’ve killed know their possessions are worth nothing, yet you wear them with pride.”
“I will murder you and scalp that kid alive!”
Kadrian watched patiently as the mercenary stomped toward him like a crazed bull, his axe raised, ready to cleave him in half. The blade blitzed down toward his skull. Kadrian caught the handle before the blade touched his head and snatched the axe from the mercenary's grasp. He twisted the sharp end into the mercenary’s hand, severing it clean off.
“Wait!” Scade yelled out too late.
The bald mercenary fell to his knees, wailing like a pig as blood spurted across the wooden floor, the wreckage of tables and chairs scattered around him. Desperately, he fumbled to reattach his severed hand.
Kadrian stepped over the body of the hagged woman and moved toward the counter. Without sparing a second glance at the bald mercenary, he took a seat as if the violence had never occurred. He calmly glanced at Scade and said, “Last one.”
Scade felt adrenaline coursing through his veins with a mix of angst and excitement. The man before him had just annihilated an armed group without a weapon to his name. Rumors had begun swirling around the area about the Blackbloods, a group founded only months ago by Astle the Giant. The murderous savages seemed to forget the “alive” part for the slightest of bounties.
He grabbed two glasses from beneath the counter and poured the half-full Jerren’s Ruin into both. Scade slid the glass toward the man and drank his own with a big gulp.
“I don’t drink, but right now, I need one.” Scade said.
“You don’t say. Story of my life.”
The rest of the time, they waited in silence. Scade wanted to pry for answers but kept his mouth shut, deciding he’d rather leave it be. He drank the last half in a gulp, brooding over how to explain to Jerren that Moonlit Ruin was quite literally in ruins, and before he knew it, twenty minutes had passed.
"What in Azenor's wake!" Jerren exclaimed, standing in the doorway, his mouth agape as he struggled for words. He stroked his graying beard, his frown deepening as he took in the destruction. His gaze shifted to Scade, standing behind the bar, arms crossed and posture stiff, his eyes fixed firmly at Kadrian.
“Hello old friend. It seems trouble can’t help but follow me.” Kadrian said, and slowly turning on his seat to face Jerren.
Jerren swallowed and paused. “It never did, friend.” He turned toward the stone road and called out,
“Lyra! Go.” He flung his hand toward the road, as if casting her away. “Go home and wait for me.”
“I thought this kid was yours.” He pointed at Scade with a thumb. “But it was little Lyra… so obvious, I should have guessed. Is Myra home? I would like to speak with her one more time.”
“Wait, what? This stranger knows you and Myra?”
“Stay silent, you fool. This man is no stranger,” Jerren snapped, his words sharp, echoing in Scade's mind.
This gentle man, who had never shown this side, was unrecognizable in his vexation.
Jerren sighed loudly, rubbing his forehead before running a hand through his long auburn hair, streaked with gray. “I’m sorry Scade,” Jerren approached them with careful steps, making sure to keep his distance from the dead woman and hooded man lying on the floor.
“And I’m sorry Kadrian… Myra left us early.”
Kadrian mumbled, then pressed his lips shut, shaking slightly.
“This kid—” Jerren continued, “believe me, I begged her for It. But Myra couldn’t do what you asked us all those years ago. This kid…” Jerren hesitated, “is that baby.”
The glass in Kadrian’s hand shattered. “You…!”
“Jerren, what do you mean?” Scade asked, but was ignored.
“You promised me, Jerren. I told you to hide it far from here, not in plain sight, nor keeping it near my sister. She probably died of it!”
“Myra loved him as her own, even when I decided against it. And you know her—when her mind was set, it wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I fought it.”
“This cre—” Kadrian head snapped to the door. “We are not done speaking. I will meet you tonight.” He vanished, the seat balanced on its legs, clattering.
“Who’s he?”
“Shut it. Don’t speak of him. Not a word, got it.” Jerren asked, his gaze tense and full of worry.
Scade nodded. There was urgency in his tone that made Scade believe, despite the confusion he felt, pushing it deep down inside, and listen to the man who had cared for him all his life.
A group of Officers stood by the doorway, panting loudly, as if they had run a great distance. Dressed in black with red sleeves, ashen leather chest plates, and wrist guards, their gear was strapped on their belts: cuffs, swords, and vibrant glowing shards emitting energy.
An officer with a peculiar mustache growing outward stepped forward from the group. “We were informed—” the older man coughed, “that the traitor and wanted criminal Kadrian Hex is hiding here.”
“Not hiding,” Jerren corrected. “But holding my friend and me hostage.”
The officer checked the pulse of the woman and the hooded man. “Both are dead. How long?”
Jerren glanced at Scade askance and nodded. “Half an hour, give or take.”
“And his demands?”
“His sister, Officer Wendel,” Jerren said. “You know his character.”
“A lot can change in sixteen years, even Kadrian.” Wendel walked to the pool of dried blood and rubbed his finger on the floor. “Demanding to see your wife. Must have been hard, telling him of her passing. Four years, is it now?”
“Yes, it was. He flew into a fit of rage, killing and injuring those people.”
Wendel tilted his head, “by people you mean mercenaries, correct?”
“I wouldn’t know. They spoke less than they slashed.”
"Seems like their method. Astle's Blackbloods tend to solely rely on the man's stature. Can't wield a sword for the life of them. He picks them up in the alleys at Central. The beggars and wastrels will do anything for a droplet of fuma."
"Anyways," Wendel cracked his back, "for now, go home and rest. I'll come by later or tomorrow for the details," he said, stretching out his hand. "The keys. I'll lock up after we're done."
Jerren nodded, tossed the keys to Wendel, and gestured for Scade to follow him out.
The sun flared in his eyes, blinding him. He followed Jerren's footsteps along the uneven road as his eyes adjusted to the light. The roads near Moonlit Ruin, or rather, the wall itself, were little more than dirt paths. The more sophisticated—arguably more civilized—districts were the affluent ones: Central, Driftveil, and Gearhold.
The houses lining the road were constructed from slabs of stone and wood. Slanted roofs were covered in either hay or worn wooden tiles. Doors were barricaded with planks or were simply missing altogether, leaving gaping openings. Few buildings still had glass windows, and most had only rectangular holes with wooden shutters. The city and its people had abandoned Firststand. After the monster tide years ago, fear took hold, and many fled to Ashzone and Reach.
Scade looked at Jerren from behind, his back slumped, shoulders hunched. He wanted to say something, do something. But as the words failed to come, he realized they would be meaningless. Just a reaction to his own emotions. With a tired sigh, Jerren straightened his back and shoulders, his legs picking up the pace towards Lyra and his home.