Year 3918 of the Almanac of Ages, Kingdom of Solstice capital Whirich.

Elynor Thorne

As soon as I entered the Broken Crow Tavern, the stench of stale beer and smoke hit me like a gust of rancid air. People stopped to look at me for a moment, but when they realized I wasn't a threat - or that I didn't intend to interfere - they quickly returned to their business, exchanging raucous laughter and nudges. I felt out of place in that environment, still wearing my robe, which made me feel like a fish out of water.

My eyes swept the room methodically. Drew was there, just as I'd expected. The elf had stationed himself at a table in the darkest corner, engaged in a card game with four men whose expressions suggested the evening wasn't going their way. One of them, particularly notable, was half-naked save for a tattered jacket draped across his shoulders, his face flushed from what I could only assume was a combination of losing hands and excessive drink. Oh, Drew, I sighed to myself.

I claimed an empty table, doing my best to remain inconspicuous. The game at Drew's table was growing increasingly boisterous, the players' voices swinging between mocking jests and poorly disguised frustration at that disheveled elf's endless winning streak. Before I could complete my assessment of the situation, a weary-looking serving girl approached.

"Something to drink?" she asked in a flat voice, staring at me with sleepy eyes.

"Do you have any Fraglia wine?" I asked, hoping against all logic to find a bit of decency even in this tavern.

She stared at me as though I'd requested eternal youth in a bottle. "Fraglia wine?" Her laugh was sharp. "We've got beer - bad, and worse. The worse is warmer, if that's your preference."

I exhaled slowly, maintaining what dignity I could. "Perhaps... some hot milk?"

The waitress's eyebrow arched skyward. "Milk's for children, miss. But I can warm some up for you, if you insist." I passed her a coin, and she retreated, shaking her head and muttering under her breath.

I returned my attention to the gaming table. There he was - Associate Professor Andrew Neville, or Drew as I call him. The dim light caught his fair skin and short brown hair, which fell in its usual disheveled way across his forehead. His Arcanum robe, still draped about his shoulders, was worn and stained in a way that spoke volumes about his nocturnal activities. I chose to believe the dark smear across the emblem was merely wine, rather than contemplate less savory possibilities.

Drew's face wore that clever smile of his as he needled his opponents with razor-sharp wit, winning hand after hand. With each collection of coins and trinkets from the table, he'd perform a mocking half-bow, deliberately stoking their anger.

He wielded his arrogance like a weapon, seeming to relish their growing rage. That attitude will get you strangled one day, Drew, I thought.

The waitress eventually returned, setting down a cup of steaming milk with undisguised amusement. "Your milk, my lady."

I acknowledged her with a slight nod, fighting back a blush. I'd sooner drink milk than resort to their swill just to blend in. I tossed her an extra coin before lifting the cup to my lips, grateful for its warmth.

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At Drew's table, matters were deteriorating rapidly. The player with the remaining shreds of a shirt and wine-stained complexion slammed his fist down, making the glasses dance and drawing every eye in the tavern.

"Listen here, elf! Don't you dare play clever with me! No one's this lucky, damn you!"

Drew's answering laugh, accompanied by that provocative smile, sent a shiver down even my spine. "Lucky? Me? My dear fellow, this is pure... magic." He dropped the last word to a whisper, his tone dripping with suggestion, and I watched the man's face darken further with rage.

I hid my own smirk behind my cup, watching Drew bask in his barely disguised talent. He could be brilliant when he chose to be, but gods, he could also be insufferable.

The tavern's tense atmosphere had drawn me in completely, its cacophony of laughter and curses blending into a strange harmony. The players around Drew's table grew increasingly agitated, particularly the large man with the tattered shirt, who seemed to unravel further with each lost hand. Drew's smile grew more taunting with every coin he collected, and I could see disaster approaching like storm clouds.

"Damn it all to hell, elf! You can't win every bloody hand!" the large man roared, his face purple with drink and fury. His hands trembled as they hammered the table. Drew merely met his rage with a challenging look, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Peace, friend. Lady Luck may be blind, but I'm merely—"

The man's fist cut off Drew's words, catching him square in the face. The impact made me jump so violently I nearly wore my milk. Drew went airborne, scattering dark droplets in an arc as he fell. The tavern exploded with shouts and cheers, chair legs scraping against wooden floors as spectators scrambled for a better view.

He rose with that uncanny elven grace of his, but something had changed in his bearing - a predatory quality I'd never witnessed in the halls of the Arcanum. He launched himself forward, taking his massive opponent to the floor with such force that the boards groaned beneath them. Pinning the man with his knees, Drew landed a punch that seemed to make the very air vibrate.

Before he could strike again, the skinny companion grabbed his robe's collar, tearing the fabric. Drew twisted like a cat, but couldn't quite avoid the glancing blow to his temple. In one fluid motion, he responded with an elbow strike that produced a sickening crack against the man's nose.

The giant seized his chance to break free. With a bellow, he seized Drew by the waist and hurled him into a nearby table. Wood splintered beneath the impact, sending tankards flying. My breath caught as I watched Drew roll aside, his fingers finding the neck of a discarded bottle.

When the big man charged, Drew struck: the bottle exploded against his temple with a sound that made me wince. Glass and blood caught the lamplight like cruel stars. Someone called for the guard, but their voice was lost in the roar of the crowd as it divided itself into two camps, each backing their chosen fighter.

The skinny one returned wielding a stool. Drew ducked smoothly, letting it crash into the wall behind him. In one continuous motion, he drove his fist into the man's ribs, folding him in half. The giant tried to grab him from behind, but Drew twisted free and landed a hook that turned the big man's eye into tomorrow's bruise.

Standing amid the devastation, his breath forming ghostly clouds in the cold air, Drew cut a striking figure. The Arcanum robe, symbol of our esteemed institution, hung from his body in bloodied shreds. Yet as he ran a hand through his thoroughly disheveled hair, that infuriating smile still played across his lips.

"Anyone else care to dispute my winning streak?" he asked, his tone dripping with mockery.

The innkeeper bellowed something about the city guard, but his words were lost in the general commotion as the crowd began to disperse, leaving Drew at the center of a ring of overturned tables and glittering broken glass.

I found myself frozen in place, suddenly aware that I'd watched the entire spectacle without moving a muscle. Glancing down at my nearly empty cup, for the first time that evening, I found myself wishing for something considerably stronger.