Nil stepped inside the tavern, and the air hit him like a—thick with the scent of roasting meat, sweat, and ale. Laughter and shouting clashed against each other, drowning out the rhythmic creak of the wooden floor. Somewhere in the haze of pipe smoke, a mug crashed against a table, followed by drunken jeers.
The tavern's interior was as cheap as its sign—a splintered wooden board near the entrance that read Welcome to Gleo. The chairs and tables wobbled, patched together from low-grade wood. It wasn't filthy, but far from clean.
Nil's nose twitched as the sharp tang of alcohol cut through the greasy scent of cooked pork,Hesle,beef. His stomach clenched, a hollow ache spreading through him. I need food.
He pushed forward, his patience already wearing thin. The noise clawed at his nerves, the laughter and slurred conversations grating on his ears. Three empty chairs sat near a support beam, and he took one, resting his arms on a beer-stained table.
The minutes dragged. He exhaled, tapping his fingers against the wood. A waitress passed by, young and pretty, though there was a sharpness in her eyes that suggested she didn't tolerate nonsense. He raised a hand.
"Ale. And something to eat."
She nodded, disappearing into the shifting crowd.
Nil leaned back, exhaling slowly. His stomach twisted again, a hollow reminder of how long it had been since he'd last eaten. The scent of ale lingered, tempting and rich.
Then came a screech of wood against the floor. Voices sharpened—slurred insults, an argument turning dangerous.
Crash.
A mug shattered, and suddenly, two men were on each other. Fists swung wildly, one sending a chair flying as the crowd roared with laughter, their drunken amusement drowning out the sounds of fists on flesh.
The waitress arrived, setting down a jar of ale and a plate stacked with four thick Hesle legs. She barely glanced at Nil, too busy moving from one table to the next.
Nil took the jar and smirked, nodding toward the now-finished fight. The red-haired man stood victorious, his opponent groaning on the floor.
"You get some good entertainment around here," Nil remarked.
The waitress sighed. "Happens every day. Don't mind it." Before he could respond, she was already weaving through the crowd, tending to another order.
Nil eyed the roasted leg and the jar of local alcohol on the table. Without hesitation, he filled his mug to the brim and downed it in one gulp. The burn hit instantly, searing down his throat like fire. His face twisted into a grimace—whiskey face, as they called it.
"Finally... finally." He exhaled, his voice almost a sigh. It had been over a week since his last drink.
He tore off a chunk of the roasted Hesle and sank his teeth into the crispy, charred skin. The juices burst onto his tongue, rich and smoky. His stomach tightened in satisfaction. Was the food truly this good, or was it just his hunger twisting his senses? He didn't care. He took another bite.
Nil leaned back, letting out a satisfied sigh as he wiped his mouth. "Damn... it's been a while since I had something this good," he muttered, downing the last of his ale. "I could smell this from a mile away."
He set his mug down, the warm haze of alcohol settling in his head. Across the room, the tavern was still as lively as ever—laughter, shouting, the scrape of chairs against the uneven floorboards.
A shadow fell over his table.
"Mind if I sit here?" a voice asked.
Nil glanced up. The man was already pulling out a chair.
"Don't see many open seats, do you?" Nil said.
"Not really." The man shrugged. "Guess I'm sitting here then."
Nil smirked. "I don't own the chairs. Do what you want."
The man settled across from him, dropping a massive bag onto the floor with a thud. His red coat was fine but worn, his brown trousers sturdy and practical. A merchant, most likely. But something about him felt... off. Nil narrowed his eyes.
Mana. Faint, but there. It clung to the man like an unseen aura, yet he didn't carry himself like a mage.
Nil eyed the newcomer as he settled into the seat opposite him. After a long pause, he spoke in a low, measured tone,
"And what might your name be, sir? You don't strike me as one of these parts."
The man offered a courteous smile. "I am Deon, a merchant from the East."
Nil's interest piqued. "From the Helin Kingdom, I presume?"
Deon's smile deepened with mild amusement. "Indeed I am. Strange that you should know—are you of Helense stock yourself?"
Nil, taking a deliberate bite from his second Hesle leg, replied with a dry chuckle, "Your bearing is unmistakably Helense, so I guessed."
Deon laughed softly, a sound like wind over autumn leaves. "It seems you are observant indeed," he said. After a brief pause, his tone shifted, inquisitive yet friendly, "But enough about me. What is your name, sir?"
Nil hesitated, his gaze narrowing as he weighed the question. In his mind he mused, Should I reveal my true name? What harm can a merchant do? With a final, resigned sigh, he answered, "It is Nil."
Deon tilted his head, his pale features sharp in the dim tavern light. "Where are you from? Your bearing is... difficult to place."
Nil took a slow sip of ale before answering. "From Dnih."
Deon raised a brow. "Dnih? One of the wealthiest duchies in Zlandria? Well, that explains a thing or two." He studied Nil for a moment before adding, "You don't look like a merchant. Too young. What business brings you here?"
Nil eyed him, noting the white hair, pale skin, and the sheer height—Deon had to be at least six feet. He seemed shrewd, but not threatening. "I'm headed to the capital. The School of Zlandria."
Deon let out a low whistle. "Ambitious. Even nobles struggle to get in. For commoners, it's a dream." He leaned forward slightly, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Or... perhaps you're of noble blood yourself?"
Nil let out a short laugh. "If I were, do you think I'd be here, eating Hesle in a place like this?"
Deon chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, well, you're not wrong."
The waitress returned, setting a roasted chicken before him. The golden-brown skin glistened under the dim tavern lights, juices pooling on the plate. The scent—rich with spice and fat—filled the air, mingling with the ever-present tang of ale.
Deon tore off a piece, the meat pulling apart with ease. He held it out. "Want some?" His smile was easy, but his eyes studied Nil with quiet interest.
Nil waved a hand. "I'm good. Just ate." He leaned back slightly. "You don't drink? The local ale smells... strong."
Deon smirked. "Not much of a drinker." He took a bite of his meal, chewing thoughtfully. "So... how old are you? You look young."
"Just turned eighteen," Nil said smoothly, keeping his face unreadable. It wasn't true—he was sixteen—but what did it matter? People made assumptions. Sometimes, it was best to let them.
Nil leaned forward, studying Deon's face. "You look middle-aged... What exactly are you selling?"
Deon smirked, tapping a gloved finger against the heavy bag beside him. "Artifacts. Everything from cheap G-rank scraps to high-grade dungeon loot. Got a few things elves would kill for, too."
Nil raised an eyebrow. "Elves, huh? In Zlandria, they're mostly down south, near Arta. Beyond that, there's an entire elven kingdom." He took a slow sip of his ale, letting his words sink in. "If you're heading to the capital, though... well, let's just say traders like you will definitely be sold out ."
Deon's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "That so?" His voice was smooth, but his eyes stayed sharp, watching.
Nil took another deep gulp of ale, slamming his mug down with a laugh. He was getting louder now, the careful edge in his tone dulling with each drink. His shoulders loosened, his focus drifting.
Deon leaned back, swirling his own untouched drink. "You sure you can hold your liquor, friend?"
Nil smirked, swirling the last drops of ale in his mug. "This stuff? Hits hard at first, but after a few rounds, it's just water." He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The warmth in his chest dulled his usual sharpness.
Deon raised a brow. "That so?" He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Nil. "So... what's a man like you heading to Zlene for?"
Nil leaned back. "Magic school. The capital." His voice was casual,
Deon stilled for a heartbeat, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "The magic school?"
Deon blinked, then let out a dry chuckle. "Magic school? You?" He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. "Didn't take you for a dreamer, Nil. You realize peasants don't get into Zlandria's academy unless they can throw fire from their hands by the time they can walk."
Nil laughed "by the time I was waking I was splitting mana"
Deon burst out of laughing followed by Nil bursting out of laughing.
Nil hesitated before speaking. "Hey, Deon... you staying here tonight?"
Deon smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Unless you know of a better place."
Nil shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh... was thinking we could split the bill. Just for the night. I need to save some coin for the road."
Deon studied him for a moment, then chuckled. "That works for me. I've got a long way to go too."
Relief washed over Nil. "Great! Fantastic." He extended his hand, perhaps a little too eagerly.
Deon raised a brow but shook Nil's hand anyway, his grip firm and deliberate. "Just don't snore."
Nil smirked, but his fingers twitched slightly before pulling away. I really hope this guy isn't planning to slit my throat in my sleep...
Across from him, Deon studied Nil with the same polite expression, though his thoughts ran colder. Doesn't look like trouble—but neither do most problems before they start.
They released their grip at the same moment, though their eyes lingered a moment longer—each measuring the other in silence, as if to discern what lay beneath the surface.
Around them, the tavern swelled with life, the air thick with the mingling scents of roasted meat, sweat, and ale long gone stale. Laughter rang from shadowed corners, voices rising and falling in a drunken tide. Somewhere, a minstrel plucked a tune lost beneath the clamor of tankards striking wood.
Nil, still flushed with drink, leaned back and called the serving woman with a lazy flick of his fingers. "What's the sum?"
The woman, unfazed by the casualness of his gesture, barely paused in her stride. "Fifty Cre for you. Eighty for your friend."
Deon, ever methodical, had already withdrawn his coin pouch, unfolding a set of well-kept notes with the quiet efficiency of a man accustomed to trade. He counted without hesitation, placed the sum on the table, and gave a slight nod of finality.
Nil reached into his coat, fingers brushing the cool, worn metal of his coins. Not Cre. Copper. Currency from another land, stamped with the sigil of a duchy far from here.
He laid two of them down, the weight of the metal soft against the wood.
The serving woman did not move. Her arms crossed, her eyes unimpressed. "That's not Cre."
Nil exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an inconvenience. "It's coin all the same."
"Not in Gleo, it isn't."
Her tone was neither rude nor cruel—merely factual, the voice of one who had seen travelers try and fail to barter with foreign metal more times than she cared to count.
Nil glanced at Deon, then back at the woman. The tavern had not paused for their exchange, yet in this moment, the space between them felt stretched thin, charged with a tension as old as trade itself.
The copper coins gleamed dully in Nil's palm, catching the flickering candlelight from the tavern's smoky air. He turned them over, rubbing his thumb against the stamped emblem of Dnih.
"This coin spends in the capital. The northern duchies. Even the south," he said, his voice laced with irritation. "And yet here, it's worth less than the piss on the floor?"
The serving girl shrugged. "You can exchange it in Glen."
Nil barked out a laugh. "Oh, brilliant. A week's ride to trade a few coppers. Perhaps I should send a letter to the count himself, ask what in the seven hells he's thinking." He tossed the coins onto the table with a smirk. "Maybe he's smoking something strong enough to make sense of this."
Across from him, Deon watched with an amused glint in his eye. Without a word, he reached for the coins and pocketed them, pulling out a handful of crisp Cre in return. "I was wondering when you'd get around to asking."
He laid the Cre on the table, smooth as a man who had done such dealings a hundred times before.
Nil exhaled, shaking his head. "Bastard," he muttered, but there was no heat behind it.
Deon only smiled. "You're welcome."
Nil leaned over the counter, bracing his forearms against the ale-stained wood. "You got a room? Two beds, if possible."
The serving girl barely looked up from counting coin. "All full."
"Of course," Nil muttered under his breath.
"But," she added, tapping a fingernail against the counter, "there's one left. Won't come cheap."
Deon adjusted his coat, eyes steady. "How much?"
The waitress glanced between them, weighing their purses before she spoke. "Nine hundred Cre."
Nil let out a sharp breath. "Nine hundred? That's—what, thirty-six coppers?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "A lord's ransom for a single night?"
Deon shrugged, already reaching for his coin pouch. "Expensive, yes. But we need a room."
Nil gave him a long, incredulous look. A merchant who doesn't bargain? He watched as Deon counted out the notes, sliding them across the counter without hesitation.
"Are you truly a merchant?" Nil muttered. "Or do you just enjoy getting robbed?"
Deon smirked but said nothing.
Both men entered the room in wary silence, each keeping the other within the edge of their sight. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and dust, and the single window let in little more than the muffled din of the tavern below.
Nil set his bag down near the foot of the bed, the worn leather creaking under its weight. Across the room, Deon did the same. Suspicion lingered between them like an unspoken agreement—neither trusted the other, but neither wished to be the first to show it.
Nil shrugged off his cloak, then pulled his tunic over his head. He was lean, nowhere near as broad or hardened as Deon, but wiry in his own way. Deon, by contrast, had the build of a man accustomed to carrying weight—both in coin and in battle.
Nil smirked, tossing a handful of copper coins onto Deon's bed. "Eighteen, as promised."
Deon picked one up, rolling it between his fingers before slipping it into his pouch. His smile was easy, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. "Nice. Now, of course, I could kill you in your sleep and take the rest."
Nil chuckled softly, stretching his arms behind his head. "Not if I kill you first."
Deon laughed, shaking his head. "Ah, of course."
The mabul above flickered, casting shifting shadows over the rough wooden walls. The bed frames, cheap and unpolished, creaked under the slightest movement. The room was far from comfortable, but it was a place to rest—so long as neither man put a dagger in the other before sunrise.
Nil lay on his back, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The old beams above were warped with age, the knots in the wood forming patterns he traced with his eyes. The mabul flickered at the corner of the room, casting unsteady light.
"Deon," he said, voice low, thoughtful. "You work for the guild. Can you make me an adventurer?"
Deon didn't answer at once. He sat on the edge of his bed, undoing the buckles of his satchel, methodical in his movements. At last, he glanced up, one brow raised. "You want a card?"
Nil turned his head toward him. "That's what I said, isn't it?"
Deon's fingers found a fresh adventurer's card inside the bag. He pulled it free, running a thumb along the edge. The thing was bone-white, smooth as polished ivory, its surface catching the dim light. "I can register you, sure. The real question is, do you want it?"
Nil's lips curled into a smirk. "Wouldn't have asked if I didn't."
Deon gave a short, knowing hum. "And what rank do you think you'll be?"
"That depends," Nil said, rolling onto his side. "Let's say I'm a battle mage."
Deon chuckled, shaking his head. "It's not up to me." He tossed the card onto the table beside them. "The card measures your mana. The guild measures everything else. Back at the main office, you'd have to prove yourself—two, maybe three tests. Your ability with a sword, how well you fight, how much you actually know. The guild keeps records. This card can be edited as you go, depending on what you accomplish."
Nil let out a breath, stretching his arms above his head. "Let's just do the measuring, then. I'll deal with the rest later." He turned his head toward Deon, studying him. "If you can issue these things, you must be high up in the guild."
Deon's smirk mirrored Nil's now. He leaned back, hands resting behind him, tilting his head. "Well... if you think so."
The mabul guttered, casting shadows like clawmarks across the walls. Deon's grin stayed lit.
Deon: "Mana test. Now. Before you vanish into your next nap."
Nil: "If sleep's a sin, chain me."
Deon: "If laziness were lethal, you'd be a cursed object."
Nil stared at the roof. "We're already in bed. Just turn off the Mabul and sleep..."
Deon sighed. "Can't you show a bit of energy for once? ...Alright, fine. We'll do it tomorrow."
He reached over and turned off the Mabul. The room went pitch black.
Nil muttered, "Mabul's so common in this village, isn't it?"
Deon yawned. "Yeah... this whole central region's pretty rich. Not much crime, no civil unrest. Goblins, orcs, and all that don't affect it much either... well, not as much."
Nil gave a soft, "Hmm... you're right."
A few minutes later, their tired bodies gave in. Sleep came quietly, like a shadow settling in.
Deon began to snore—but it didn't matter. Nil was already gone to dreams.
The village that had once buzzed with life fell into uneasy stillness. Taverns locked their doors, laughter faded, and lights winked out one by one.
Beyond the village walls, something stirred.
Distant roars echoed in the dark—monsters, hungry and restless, just beyond the reach of firelight.
Few hours passed.
Deon stirred.
Sleep had abandoned him. He lay still for a moment, eyes unfocused, before sighing and tossing the blanket aside. The room was quiet, save for the sound of his slow breath.
What time is it? he wondered, blinking as he turned toward the window.
The sky outside was a pale gray—dawn hadn't broken yet, just the faintest hint of morning brushing the horizon. He reached for his watch on the nearby table.
"4:06 a.m.," he muttered. "Damn. Early, as always."
He sat up, spine aching slightly, and turned his head toward the other bed.
Nil was still asleep—sprawled across the mattress, one arm hanging loosely over the side. He looked peaceful, untouched by worry. Like nothing in the world could bother him.
Deon's brows furrowed slightly.
Kid sleeps like a corpse. Must be nice.
His thoughts lingered longer than they should have.
Like a lazy brat, but... he's sharp. Too sharp. And his control over magic—hell, most adults don't pull off the level of mana he is controlling .
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
He's hiding something. No way he's just some backwater commoner...
A faint roar echoed from somewhere far outside the village—subtle, but real. Deon barely flinched.
Whatever. If he is something more... I'll find out eventually.
Deon stirred awake, his limbs still heavy with sleep. The tavern room was dim, the air thick with the scent of old wood and ale. As he sat up, he noticed Nil across the room, shirtless, the pale morning light brushing across his bare skin. His silver hair fell loosely over his eyes as he sat silently, lost in thought or perhaps still half-asleep.
Rubbing the sleep from his face, Deon rose and poured cold water into a basin. The shock of it against his skin jolted him fully awake. He dried off with a worn cloth and dressed quickly, the tavern's chill nipping at his skin through the thin fabric of his tunic.
He sat cross-legged on the floor and closed his eyes, beginning his morning ritual. From deep within his core—just below his navel—he drew mana, guiding it in slow, deliberate streams through his limbs. It coursed like a gentle current, smoothing out the stiffness in his muscles, sharpening his senses. The room was silent but for the faint whine of a mosquito drifting lazily near the ceiling.
Time passed unnoticed. When he finally opened his eyes, the world felt clearer.
He crossed the room and pushed open the window. A cold breeze swept in, crisp and clean, brushing across his face. He inhaled deeply, savoring it. Below, the tavern had begun to stir—the low clatter of pans and footsteps hinted that the staff had arrived. The innkeeper's voice carried faintly, issuing orders, starting the rhythm of another day.
Outside, the village was beginning to wake. One by one, mabuls flickered out and doors creaked open. Smoke rose from chimneys. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster called.
Deon sat near the window, a thick leather-bound book resting on his lap. He flipped through pages—runes, battle incantations, fairytales, even dense passages on mana theory and old mathematics. Knowledge passed beneath his fingertips, but his mind drifted.
The first rays of sunlight spilled across the floor, painting golden lines between the wooden slats. Outside, the world was waking. The view from the window was breathtaking—mist still clung to the hills, and the sky was stained in hues of rose and fire.
Behind him, Nil slept soundly, breath slow and steady.
Deon smiled, briefly. Then, the weight in his chest returned—heavy, bitter. The warmth of the sunrise couldn't reach it.
I wish you were here to see this, he thought, his fingers tightening around the book's spine. You're more beautiful than any dawn, Liari... I just want to save you. From that monster.
A tear slipped down his cheek, catching the morning light. His face hardened—eyes narrowing, jaw clenched with barely restrained fury.
I will get you back, my daughter.
But then he felt a stir behind him. Nil murmured in his sleep.
Deon wiped his face quickly and took a deep breath. Calm down, Deon, he told himself. This boy is here. You must stay composed.
The mabul flickered at the corner of the room, casting unsteady light.
Just waking up by the sun rays piercing through the window and hitting his face,
"Deon," Nil said rubbing his face,