Pushing through the fog that had suddenly overtaken the Dungeon entrance, Zach stepped into an empty yet familiar tavern. It wasn’t hard to recognize. It was the seedy tavern that his father used to frequent. Worn and dreary just like those who visited the Plagued Rat, the patrons visited night after night to seek solace in the bottom of a tankard.

Not that his father ever found it. He’d been just like the rest of the idiots, beaten down and out of luck. And, Zach mused to himself, it was the perfect combination that made the stupid saps easy to take advantage of. The tavern had been his playground and, from a young age, he’d quickly learned the most important lesson in his life. A fool and his gold were soon parted.

He chuckled to himself as he made his way across the sticky floorboards, listening to the familiar squeaks of old termite-ridden wood. If this illusion was some kind of trap to keep people out of the Dungeon, then it was getting very old, very fast. Or perhaps it wasn’t the Dungeon, maybe this was a trap from his old pal Sykes? Hells, either way, this was just getting predictable.

“The old “face your past” illusion?” Zach said aloud, shaking his head. “Muddle through your fears while someone gets ready to gut you like a pig? I’ll be having none of that mate, my mind’s like a steel trap.”

The illusion, he noted, wasn’t even that effective. Gone were the crowds of drunks, the disgusting filth of the Slum-runners who had nothing better to do than drink themselves into a stupor night after night.

The prostitutes were missing too, breasts practically spilling out of low-cut dresses, wound around seedy-looking men who might be able to spare a few coins for an hour of pleasure. There was no sign of Morwenna, the crazy old hag who used to sit at the corner table and screech if anyone came near it.

She would sit there night after night, nursing her single drink, wearing a tattered gown, her wispy hair with its numerous bald patches done in wiry ringlets. Every night she dreamed of meeting her prince at the bar and every night she was left to stumble back to wherever the Hells she called home, alone. She was a great target to practice his sneaking on because the dumb old broad was so busy screeching at any drunken man dumb enough to approach her, she never noticed the young Halfling helping himself to her purse.

And there was no sight of Maen, the busty lead serving wench. There wasn’t a man or beast in the Slums that dared cause trouble in her tavern. She’d been somewhat of a second mother to Zach, offering him hot potatoes and tea when he was barely a lad. There were many a night when his belly wouldn’t go empty because of her. He could still remember her smell, beer, and her Wakeleaf scent. Sometimes, when he stole from her takings purse, the coins smelt like her.

Zach approached the bar and realized that he wasn’t alone. Sitting there, at the very stained old stool his father would often sit at, was someone that he recognized.

Sighing heavily, the ginger-haired Halfling hopped onto a seat at the bar himself. As if by magic...because well, it was, a tankard of mead appeared in front of him. He drank a good half, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and set it back down on the bartop.

“Go on then,” he said in a bored voice. “Say what you’ve gotta say, I don’t have all day here and when it comes to freaky fucking mirages or whatever the Hells-cursed place is, I’d rather get it over sooner rather than later. I’ve got some coin to make, and no bloody specter is getting in the way of my meal ticket.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

When he received no reply, Zach let out another heavy sigh, before draining another quarter of his mead.

“Ok, I get it. This is the part where I’m supposed to spill me guts. Tell you how I regret all the shit I’ve done?” Zach scoffed, leaning back on his stool for a moment.

Still no reply.

“Or maybe you’re like one of those preachy ones. Where you show me how things could’ve been if I weren’t such a shit person,” Zach continued.

Silence.

“Well, what is it?” Zach pressed. He drank some more of the mead, the honeyed booze better than it had ever been in reality. “Oh sorry Father, I didn’t mean to put that knife to your throat? I just fell and accidentally landed on your jugular blade first? Or maybe I should feel bad because I didn’t bother to find me Mam, after he sold her to the Butchery so he could afford to shag the fancier birds from a proper brothel.”

“Or maybe I’m meant to moan and groan about the first time I had to stab a friend in the back? How it was either him or me, no other options.” Zacharias chuckled a little. “That ain’t me mate, I’ve killed my fair share of men, women too. Sometimes I looked em in the eyes as I done it, other times they didn’t even see the knife coming. Still ends the same way, with their blood on me blade.”

His companion still said nothing, the damned illusion still nursing its cup of mead.

“Or is this some stupid puzzle I have to work out?” Zach said, not skipping a beat. “Y’know like, how many men does it take to dig a grave if they only have one arm?” He finished his tankard and slid it away. “That’s more Squeakers thing, I ain’t much for riddles.”

“Can I get ya another drink, mate?” His companion finally spoke up, his accent as charming as his looks.

“Sure, why not? For mystical weirdness mead, it was pretty decent,” Zach replied, while his drinking companion snapped his fingers and another tankard appeared before them.

“So that’s it? We’re drinking buddies?” Zach questioned. He took a drink from the new tankard. It tasted just as good as the first.

“Well, what did you expect?” His illusionary companion, a doppelgänger of himself, replied. The copy raised a tankard to the original, superior Zacharias, and took a deep drink. “You don’t have any regrets do ya?” Gods Below be damned, the clone of himself was handsome. Zach had always known that he was a good-looking guy but now that he was able to see himself from every angle? Well shit. It was no wonder he never wanted for a bedfellow!

“Too right mate,” Zach grinned. “So what? We just get pissed? As far as illusions go, I can’t say I mind this one. Though without the pretty birds to ogle, a bar loses most of its shine.”

“Well, I’m supposed to give ya these,” Clone Zach replied, casually draining his tankard. He reached down into a scabbard he had around his thigh and pulled out a pair of ebony black daggers with hilts that resembled a dragon and snake entwined. “Your mates will be getting stuff too but y’know, they’re gonna have to work for theirs.”

“Pfft.” Zach exclaimed. “That’s what ya get for having regrets and shit,” He said as he took the two daggers. They were a lot nicer than the ones he currently favored, feeling weighty yet light at the same time. The hilts seemed to pulse in his hands as he could feel the Mana they had been forged with acclimatizing itself to his grip.

Swirling the daggers round, the blade’s practically hummed with power, eager to seek fresh blood. Never one to disappoint, Zach lashed out swiftly, and to his great satisfaction, the shadowy blades expanded to the length of a regular sword, neatly decapitating his clone. As his head hit the sticky floor, Zach sheathed his new weapons.

“Bit of alright these are,” He said to himself as he finished his drink. “It’s a proper shame though. It would have been nice seeing the old Pa again.”

“I mean, how often do you get to kill your old man for a second time?”