> I put you on standby for now. Do not intervene. Observe only.

Logan strolled down one of the main avenues, hands in the pockets of his long coat, eyes hidden under the wide brim of his hat. Fortram had changed a lot lately. The lower ring, which had been buzzing with activity not so long ago, was almost like a ghost town compared to before. Some people still milled about, but the crowded feel of the slums was gone. Whether for better or worse, Logan couldn’t decide.

It almost felt like walking through a dream. The earth that enclosed the city cast a deep gloom over the lower ring, where luminous clovers battled the darkness constantly. The glowing plants sprouted straight from the stone, defying all sense and reason. Dungeon magic. Even more spectacular was the outer edge of the city, where the towering earth was layered with illusions. They showed green forests in the distance and a bright blue sky beyond, making it seem as if Fortram had remained in its original place up on the hill. The illusions were spectacularly realistic—but ultimately fake. They couldn’t replicate the rustle of the forest, the heat of the sun, or the chill of the wind.

> I put you on standby for now.

Logan hid his unease as he walked toward the middle ring’s gate. The Factory’s brick walls on either side of the road had certainly seen better times; the crumbling plaster was covered in graffiti and mold was forming under the dripping, rusty pipes. Steam hissed loudly as it escaped from a cracked duct above. A damp, unpleasant smell permeated the air. These weren’t the cause of Logan’s unease, however. No, what concerned him far more was the painting of a tiger that followed him along the walls. It looked like an illustration for a children’s book: a big head with a lumpy body, pouncing and bouncing with its tongue hanging out of its mouth.

Some people referred to these paintings as the Painter’s blessing, which in Logan’s opinion was a stupid name for a spy network. But of course, the common folk had no idea what these animated paintings were capable of. They just knew that if they painted on the walls, there was a chance that their creation would come to life. These living paintings wandered all over the city, though they liked to return to where they were born. They had limited intelligence and seemingly no memory; a primitive form of AI created by the Dungeon.

Yet this tiger was following Logan, and he had a theory as to why. He turned to a smaller street just as he was about to reach the edge of the lower ring. The tiger rounded the corner, walking over the surface of a metal pipe and pouncing over a grated window. On the other side of the street, a painted bat flew closer while sticking to the shadowy areas on the wall. Logan pretended not to notice as he walked toward the Mad Painter’s building.

> Do not intervene.

The building where the Mad Painter had once lived was now the heart of his realm. Courtesy of all the fanatics who painted every inch of its walls in bright colors, the building resembled a tasteless rainbow tumor that jutted out from among Fortram’s monochrome industrial buildings. One of the main entrances of the Undercity was hidden beneath it, but the building had other significance too. If someone had beef with the Mad Painter – or just wanted to contact him – they were encouraged to start right here. Not that there was any chance to meet with the man personally; he was said to be always busy and not a chatty type anyway. But many of the building’s rooms had been transformed into offices that allegedly forwarded everything to the Mad Painter, so there was that.

For someone who was supposed to be a mad man, the Painter had achieved quite a lot in a short time. He had his dirty fingers in the local business and politics equally, he had hundreds of people working for him, and he had built a remarkable infrastructure to support his interests.

In Logan’s experience, it was surprisingly rare for Players to invest so much in these worldly things. Sure, their Player Allowance was usually enough to break into the market if they wanted to—but doing so always had its consequences. Players who tried to be smart about their money didn’t last long, and that was a fact. The only good investments were made in the World Seed’s Shop, buying Player gear. Everything else was doomed to failure.

Was the Mad Painter going down the same path? He hadn’t simply just used his Player Allowance to become even richer; he was taking over the city with it. Perhaps that was the difference. Every once in a while, a Player would pop up to beat the odds, ascending mostly through clever investments. The Emperor himself had claimed the throne that way. Was the Mad Painter on a similar trajectory, or was it by pure chance that he had survived so far?

> Observe only.

Logan increased his pace as he spotted the Mad Painter’s colorful building up ahead, keeping only one goal in his mind: taking the Dungeon Core. The tiger and the bat followed him closely and were soon joined by a stick figure and a butterfly. They followed him closely now, jumping from wall to wall, occasionally gliding over the surface of the streets to get to the next building. Logan kept thinking about what would happen if he held the Dungeon Core in his hands. The source of his fortune, the heart of all of his investments. He pictured the fall of the Mad Painter, broken and beaten in more ways than one. The paintings trailed him in a flurry of colors, more and more joining in.

Logan then changed his mindset.

He thought about his past. The family he had left behind on Earth. His wife, his daughter. Little Missy would be an adult by now. Logan still remembered her smile and the way she giggled when he tickled her belly. He remembered the scent of her wife’s perfume and the pride in her eyes whenever she looked at their daughter. Logan had thought that he had it all, that he had his life figured out—and that was when the Pheilett took him.

The three-eyed aliens preferred to turn younger people into Players, but there always were exceptions. Logan had been one of them. The Emperor another. Being over thirty or even forty didn’t matter much. The exact requirements were a mystery, but it was widely speculated that a Player had to be comfortable in their skin in order to be chosen. Aged and overweight Players weren’t nonexistent, but they were very rare. Oh, and there were no child Players. That was Logan’s only solace in this tragedy, knowing that he would never see his daughter ever again.

The paintings left him. Logan stopped right in front of the Mad Painter’s building and looked back. Some of the drawings that had been trailing him lingered behind, but they seemed to have lost all interest in him. He walked back the way he had come from and spotted the goofy tiger napping under a patch of luminescent moss. Logan thought about challenging the Mad Painter and taking the Core from him. The tiger opened one of its eyes, regarding him suspiciously.

Well, that particular mystery was solved. Mind reading was disconcerting, but not uncommon in Nerilia. The next question was whether the same mechanism worked on the common folk the same as on hostile Players. The Pheilett had extremely advanced technology, but Logan doubted they were constantly able to read every single citizen’s mind. Players were different, with the collars around their necks and whatnot.

Still, one didn’t have to be a mind-reader to spy on others. Listening to speech wasn’t a far-fetched idea; perhaps talking about the Dungeon Core would do the trick just fine.

> I put you on standby for now. Do not intervene. Observe only.

Logan eyed the tavern on the other side of the street, grinding his teeth in frustration. He couldn’t go against the Emperor’s orders, even if those were issued months ago. Most of the time this didn’t bother him; Emperor Sharidan was a reasonable man with reasonable orders. This latest assignment, however, was heavily testing the limits of Logan’s patience. Why wasn’t the Emperor putting a stop to this madness? Logan had watched Fortram slowly fall into anarchy, and his only orders were to sit tight and observe. He wasn’t even allowed to finish the mission he had originally been sent here for! It didn’t make any sense.

Logan tried to trust Sharidan, he really did. The Emperor had his own ploys and secrets, most of which Logan knew nothing about. A Hand did not need to know what the Head was planning. Still, it was difficult not to feel frustrated about not being able to do anything. A man of Logan’s caliber set to simple espionage was a waste of resources. Anyone could have figured out that the wall paintings were drawn to ill intentions toward the Dungeon Core—so what was Logan doing here?

He opened the tavern’s door and stepped inside. The place was a windowless noisy little nook with stale air and moldy walls, but the furniture was in good shape and the room was well-lit. There were humans inside drinking and dining, making the tavern almost fully packed. Logan ordered some ale, waited for the barkeep to pour it, then grabbed his mug and searched for a place to sit. Every table was occupied, but he found an empty seat beside three drinking patrons.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked. Three middle-aged men with callused hands, wearing Factory uniforms. They peered up from their mugs at Logan. His leather coat and black gloves covered him well, so he wasn’t worried about being recognized—not immediately, at least.

“Not at all,” one of the men said, giving a kick to the fourth chair so that it slid out from under the table. “What brings you here, bud?”

“Just relaxing after work,” Logan said, sitting down. “It’s been a stressful day.”

“That, we can understand. What’s your job?”

Logan took a sip, debating what to tell the men. They appeared to be curious and talkative, which was good, but if he told them too much that would no longer be the case. Still, some honesty might go a long way.

“I’m a private investigator of sorts,” Logan said, adjusting his hat for show. “Though it’s not that private, if you get what I mean. My employer doesn’t need to hide his intentions. I think that … I can confide in you. I’m investigating the Mad Painter himself.”

The men looked at each other for a moment, clearly uncomfortable.

“Well, good luck with that.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Logan said. “It’s dangerous, right?”

“We’re not the one to ask, bud. But if you want my opinion, I don’t think it’s dangerous. The Painter doesn’t care about you so long as you don’t poke your nose too close. What’s that you’re investigating anyway?”

Logan shrugged. “Everything. The City Watch has apparently made peace with the Mad Painter, so it’s up to others to keep an eye on him. He claims to follow the city’s laws, but there are people out there who doubt his sincerity. They hire investigators like me in hopes of confirming their suspicions.”

“Now I understand why you feel stressed. Ain’t envying you, that’s for sure.”

Logan grunted, allowing a brief lull in the conversation. He could see that the three men weren’t exactly put to ease by his words, and he was admittedly quite rusty at this. He probably came off as an oddball, coming here and immediately confiding in strangers and whatnot. Naturally, they would look at him strangely. But he wasn’t here to make friends; he just wanted to keep the three men talking.

“You say the Painter wouldn’t care about me,” Logan said. “Why?”

“Why?” one of them snorted. “Why, because he has better things to do than going after snoopers! He’s got a city to build.”

“You talk as if he wasn’t a tyrant.”

The men gave him an odd look. “Only insomuch the Governor is a tyrant. Except the Painter actually does something for the city. For us.”

Logan frowned. “So, you say that the Mad Painter responds only to real threats? Like if someone tried to take the city from him?”

“You sure you’re an investigator, bud?”

“I am.”

“You must be new in town, then. Obviously, the Painter protects us. Why would he let anyone take the city?”

“I get that,” Logan said, looking around the small tavern. “But I only heard about one big attack, a raid for the Dungeon Core. When did the Painter ever prove that he can protect the city? I think he just got lucky so far.”

“Then you better step up with your investigation. There were lots of smaller attempts recently, like thieves and gangsters thinking they were clever enough to outsmart the Painter. They were all dealt with, of course.”

So defensive. Logan lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if considering what to say next.

“I see,” he murmured. There, in the shadow of a corner, a small painting of a snake slithered closer along the cracks on the wall.

“You’re a strange one, bud.”

Two of the men whispered to each other, and Logan pretended not to notice as they took closer glances at his leather coat. It was a tad too warm in here, but if he took the coat off then his Player collar would have been visible. Which, unsurprisingly, was exactly what the men were whispering about. People who hid their necks were suspicious. The three patrons nodded at each other, then stood up.

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“Well, we gotta go,” one of them said. “Good luck with your investigation.”

“Thanks,” Logan said, his eyes still on the painted snake. For a moment it seemed to hesitate as to who to follow, then it slithered after the men as they left the tavern. A few more patrons stood up and left, casting wary glances in Logan’s direction.

He wasn’t an investigator. Well, he was, just not a very good one. Most of the time it was either the Emperor or his informants who told him what he needed to know and that was it. Logan was a man of action. His current assignment was ill-suited for him, and though he recognized it as an opportunity to better himself, he also knew that he was nowhere near good enough at it. Frustrating. If it weren’t for the Emperor’s orders to stay still and observe, he would have captured the Mad Painter long ago. He was getting tired of this. He needed a break.

Logan loosened his coat and pulled off his gloves, revealing his red hands for all the tavern to see. His hands weren’t simply red, but scarlet. From his fingertips straight up to his elbows, his skin was permanently discolored. Logan grabbed his mug and took a long pull. He was sure that by the time he put the mug down, the tavern would be empty. People saw Scarlet Hands as sheriffs at best and assassins at worst. Either way, Logan wasn’t a welcome company in this crime-ridden corner of the city. He hoped that the barkeeper would stay at least. He would need a second drink after this one.

“Mind if I sit?”

Logan glanced up in surprise. The man addressing him wore plain clothes with a colorful scarf wrapped around his neck. No weapons in sight, just a bowl of soup he held in both hands. The tables behind him were completely empty.

“Not at all,” Logan said, gesturing at the empty chair beside him. He took a closer look at this fearless – or perhaps clueless – newcomer. He was a young man with a bald head, a thin face, and dark rings under his piercing green eyes. He put his bowl down and took the offered seat. Smooth, careless movements. He held out his right hand and a black spoon appeared between his fingers. The orange jewel adorning the spoon glowed faintly as the man stirred the soup and blew at it gently. Logan sat transfixed.

“Kind of annoying, isn’t it?”

“What?” Logan asked.

“That they all run away. Well, either that or they ask for favors and autographs. I don’t know which is worse. Famous Reapers have no chance of blending in.”

The Mad Painter flashed a sad smile at Logan, then spooned some soup into his mouth. He had acted so casually, his posture relaxed and seemingly unguarded, that it almost fooled Logan. He sat frozen, watching the Mad Painter eat. Was this against his orders? The Emperor told him to observe—but what if the one he was observing came to interact with him? Surely, this much was allowed. It wasn’t like he had arranged this deliberately. Right?

“I wouldn’t say you’re famous,” he finally said. “Infamous, perhaps, and only within this city. In the grand scheme of things, you’re a small man.”

“Maybe, for the time being,” the Painter replied. “But I intend to change that! That’s why I sent bards to every major city of this region, you see. Did you know that there are quite a few catchy songs about my exploits? I’m a rising star.”

Logan chewed on the inside of his cheek. It would have been so easy to reach out and just … smash the Mad Painter into a paste. To just grab him with his Royal Hands and squeeze until there was nothing left of him. The man was basically asking for it too, with this smug facade of his. Logan could end the threat that the Mad Painter represented right here, right now. And yet … orders were orders. His options were limited.

“I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself yet,” he said, extending his right hand. “I’m Logan.”

The Mad Painter put his spoon down and took his scarlet hand without the slightest bit of hesitation.

“I’m Randel,” he said. “I’d say that it’s nice to meet you, but truthfully, I’m still a little mad that you tore one of my legs off. It’s been an inconvenience ever since.”

Logan’s grip tightened on his opponent’s hand.

“But I’m a law-abiding citizen,” the Painter continued, “and I understand that you were keeping everyone else’s safety in mind when you did it. I forgive you, Logan.”

The Painter broke the handshake by flickering in place; he disappeared and then reappeared with his hand on the spoon. Logan grunted, then turned his own hand over to check where it made contact with the Painter. He couldn’t spot any black tattoos on his red skin.

“That’s very understanding of you,” Logan said, wiping his palm in his trousers. “I don’t need your forgiveness, but I’m glad you feel this way. It’ll make things…”

He trailed off as he noticed that the Painter wasn’t paying attention. The man was staring at his soup, his eyes vacant, unblinking. Was this another trick to appear defenseless? A few seconds later the Mad Painter stirred, lifting his spoon and continuing to eat his soup as if nothing had happened.

No, not nothing. Tendrils of amber light had spread under the Painter’s skin, pulsing with his heartbeat. The colorful scarf couldn’t quite hide them as they crept further up his face. Logan couldn’t bear it any longer; hoping that no one would notice, he activated Mutual Analysis for a brief moment. The world around him changed its colors, becoming sharper and richer as information flooded his brain.

Something was very wrong with the Mad Painter. Logan saw that the glowing tendrils were spreading all over the man’s body, originating from his heart—if he even had a heart anymore. Logan instinctively knew that the Painter wasn’t human anymore. He had analyzed cyborgs and biologically enhanced humans before, but the feeling he got by looking at the Painter was not quite similar. His Mutual Analysis Ability classified the man as … something else.

Logan had also seen men and women possessed by shades before, and though he felt a similar wrongness while looking at the Painter, it wasn’t exactly the same either. The Painter’s mind hadn’t been consumed, Logan was sure of that. His greatest fear hadn’t come true yet. It was far from reassuring, however. Logan couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that he was seeing something much, much worse in front of him.

Mutual Analysis also gave an understanding of the Painter’s capabilities. His kit was about teleportation and defense. His Legend was 4, and he had no attribute points assigned. Logan learned this with a single glance before deactivating his Ability. Better to use it sparingly. The last thing Logan needed was someone seeing him with his Mutual Analysis activate.

“Ah,” the Mad Painter said, straightening in his seat. “Where were we?”

Logan straightened up in his seat. “You were about to tell me what you want from me.”

“Hmm. Were we?”

Logan watched as the Painter zoned out once again, the spoon slipping from his fingers. The tendrils beneath his skin spread further. Logan wasn’t quite sure whether to feel irritated or alarmed by how slow this conversation was going—but he was beginning to understand the mad part in the Mad Painter’s name.

“Yes, I think there’s something you want,” Logan said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered to visit me personally.”

The Painter blinked, then teleported the spoon back to his hand. He seemed as if he was considering whether to eat the rest of the soup, but then shook his head and twisted in his seat, turning toward Logan.

“I tire of playing games, so I’ll be blunt,” the Mad Painter said. “I want you to find the shade in this city.”

Logan jolted at the mention of the shade, looking around the tavern quickly. It seemed to be empty—even the barkeeper had left.

“How do you know about that?”

“I know a lot of things,” the Painter said, “but that one was a guess. So there is one, right here in my city.”

“It’s not your city.”

“Not officially. So tell me, Logan: if there’s a shade around here, how come you haven’t captured it yet?”

Logan pressed his mouth in a thin line, meeting the Painter’s piercing stare but saying nothing.

“Curious, curious,” the Painter said. “You’re not allowed to talk about it, I take?”

“I can talk about it. I just don’t want to.”

“Why? It’s in both of our interests to find that monster and make my city a safer place. Do you know what else they call me besides Mad Painter?”

“Randel Shadeslayer,” Logan said. “An obviously made-up name.”

“Made-up or not, it isn’t without basis. You saw how I dealt with that shade in the Dungeon.”

“Poorly.”

“Hey now, let’s not demean ourselves by throwing insults at each other. Think about what I’m suggesting, Logan! I could deal with this shade in the blink of an eye—you just have to point me in the right direction.”

Logan leaned back in his chair, thinking. The Painter had played it cool so far, but now that they were talking business, he seemed much too eager.

“What do you get out of it?” Logan asked. “I doubt you’d do it out of the goodness of your heart. You’re excited to hunt this shade down.”

“I’m Fortram’s hero. It’s my duty and honor to take down evil!”

Logan crossed his arms over his chest, staring at him.

“It’s for power,” the Painter said with a sigh. He twirled his spoon between his fingers. “Of course it’s for power! What else would it be for? Whenever my weapon consumes a shade, I grow stronger.”

“Is that it? You just want to gain more power?”

The Painter spread his arms. “Power, strength, influence. All the things people like me covet. I’ll defeat every opponent the gods throw my way. I’ll be the strongest Player alive. I’ll ascend to godhood.”

“I see. Good luck with that.”

“You sound so doubtful, and I don’t get why. What else did you expect from a man like me?”

“Something realistic. Something more grounded and believable.”

“You think a cunning man like me would have more realistic goals.”

“I didn’t say you were cunning.”

“You think it’s not realistic for me to become the strongest Player alive. But you know what I think? I think I could rule this planet if I wanted to. Not just the Terran Empire—the entire planet. It’d be a lot of work to get there and so I have no such intentions, but it’s not a far-fetched idea. I’ve done greater things with less than I currently have. For someone like me, taking over the world is a very real possibility.”

Logan nodded, not believing the Painter’s rambling in the slightest. He was growing more and more satisfied, though. He was observing the Mad Painter just like the Emperor told him to, and he was finding out more than ever before.

“Why should I help you gain more power?” Logan asked. “It seems counter-intuitive. We’re likely to face each other at some point, so why would I give myself a handicap?”

“Because it’s your duty to make the Terran Empire a safer place to live in, and letting a shade roam free threatens that safety. Oh, and also because capturing that shade wouldn’t make too much difference—you’d still be much stronger than me.”

Logan lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “You think you’re the weaker of us two.”

“I know it. It doesn’t matter much, though.”

“It doesn’t?”

The Painter shrugged. “The system is broken. When it comes down to it, your powers are irrelevant. It’s the strength of your story that matters! That’s the world we live in, you know. So what is your story in it, Logan?”

A man who had lost everything but his will to survive. A man who had become powerful just to keep on surviving. A man who had reached the end of the road and found nothing there. A man who obeyed another, so that he no longer had to make decisions for himself. A broken man.

The Mad Painter was talking lots of nonsense, and yet … some of it made sense. Logan was incredibly strong, but he had no strong motivations. He was powerful, yet with all that power he had failed time and time again. How many times had he lost in spite of everything at this disposal? He was able to flatten buildings with a single wave of his hand, but unable to save the people within. Able to level mountains, but unable to stop the earthquake. Able to capture the Mad Painter, but unable to do it without orders.

“What’s your story?” Logan shot back, dodging the Painter’s question.

“I didn’t realize it at first,” the Painter said, his eyes wide and unfocused. “I was uncertain and foolish, but I’ve made up my mind since then. Mine is a long and arduous journey to the top. Bleed and suffer and succeed, or die trying. A nobody painter rising high in power. An absolute zero becoming a hero.”

“Sounds far-fetched.”

“That’s the point, Logan. You see, I cannot fail at this stage, because my grand journey has only just begun. If I’m defeated now, nobody gets to see the rest.”

“The same could be said about lots of other Players. Dead Players too.”

“Yes, but I’m special. Unlike those dead Players, I’m someone worth watching.”

He said it with such a straight face too, as if he actually believed it. Logan was tempted to dismiss his speech as nonsense, except … he knew what the Inspectors could be like. He understood where the Painter was coming from; Logan had met his fair share of Role Players. It was a delusional mindset that some Players used as a coping mechanism, nothing more. Although role-playing certainly had some merit in this world, the problem with it was that everyone believed that they were the protagonist. Players like that ended up in early graves more often than not.

The Painter appeared to be one of such self-proclaimed protagonists, but … something about his speech felt off. The pieces didn’t quite fit. He said he wanted to become the most powerful Player, but he also explained how power didn’t matter as much as a good story. Could it be that the Mad Painter didn’t see the contradiction in there? Surely not. But if he was aware of it, what had his speech been for? Why spun this unimaginative tale around himself? It almost sounded as if he was mocking the world.

“Mad Painter.”

“Yes?”

“You really are a madman.”

The Painter put an elbow on the table, slowly and deliberately, leaning on it as he tilted his head toward Logan. His face was blank and expressionless, framed by those unnerving glowing veins. Logan tensed up, his heart racing, ready to fight. When the Painter spoke again, his tone was quiet and measured.

“I take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t,” Logan said against his better judgment. “Don’t mistake me with those mindless lackeys who kiss your ass all day. You’re a deranged, festering bandaid on this sorry city—and the worst part of it? You think you deserve this. You think you’re so smart, so tough, so resourceful that you can laugh at the world as you pass by. All madmen do, before their inevitable fall! But let me tell you this: whether you take my words as a compliment or not, I don’t care the slightest. I could flatten you with the flick of my wrist if I wanted to.”

The floorboards creaked once and then the tavern fell silent. The Painter sat still, unblinking and motionless—a completely different person than the smug and egoistic brat before. Sweat trickled down the side of Logan’s face as he held the madman’s gaze. He certainly wasn’t a skittish person, and yet there was something about the Painter that made him feel small. A terrible hungry shadow, just barely contained behind those pitiless green eyes. Logan clenched his crimson hands into fists, ready to defend himself.

“I suppose,” the Painter said, “that you’re allowed to have an opinion. You are, however, a guest within my domain here. I would consider it a basic courtesy if you at least pretended to take me seriously.”

“Seriously? What’s there to take—”

“Consider what I said carefully,” the Painter cut him off without raising his voice. “Consider my offer about the shade. Then, once you’re ready to help the city, come and find me.”

He placed a small card on the table and pushed it to Logan. There was a curling black symbol on the otherwise blank piece of paper.

“Draw it on a portal disk,” the Painter said. “See you later, Scarlet Hand.”

The Mad Painter pushed himself to his feet and Logan jerked in his seat at the same time, feeling a sudden tug on his boots. He glanced down just as a tendril of the Painter’s black weapon detached itself from his feet and slithered back into the madman’s trousers.

“What—”

But the Painter was already stepping away from the table, his solid black foot making the floorboard creak under his weight. He walked away without so much as a glance behind, placing a few coins on the counter as he left. Logan listened to the sound of his footsteps fade into the noise of the street outside. Then, it was over. He was left alone in the empty – and surprisingly unwrecked – tavern.

Logan let out a shuddering breath and took off his hat to wipe at his sweaty forehead. He was a Scarlet Hand; he had faced countless monsters during his career. Powerful creatures and disturbing things. He had bested them all. This one was nothing new. Logan had nothing to fear. He glanced at his almost-finished mug of ale.

“I need a stronger drink.”