The stench of sweat clung to the air like a curse in the Hollow Boar tavern. It was the kind of place where men drank to forget, fought to remember, and gambled away their last coppers for the thrill of losing everything.
Kaelen slouched in his chair, with his other arm draped lazily over the back of his seat. He looked like any other drunkard drowning his coin in cheap liquor.His clothes were worn, simple, and stained with ale—far from the silks and finery of the royal court. No one here knew who he was, and that was just the way he liked it.
"Another round!" Kaelen bellowed. "For every godsdamned bastard in this wretched pit!"
A cheer erupted from the gathered crowd. The promise of free drinks could turn enemies into allies, if only for a night. The barkeep, a burly man with one milky eye and a missing tooth, shot him a wary glance before waving a serving girl to start pouring.
"You must be a fool," a gruff voice grumbled to Kaelen's right. The man, was q thick-necked brute with a nose that had been broken more times than Kaelen cared to count, he eyed kaelen with suspicion. "No man throws coin around like that unless he's got something to prove—or something to hide."
Kaelen grinned"Or maybe I just like to drink."
He downed the last of his ale in one long gulp before slamming the tankard onto the table. The room was alive now— filled with booming voices as men bet on cards.
But Kaelen wasn't here just to drink.Rather, He was here to forget—the whispering shadows, that were clawing at the edges of his mind.
"I'll bet you all the silver in your pockets," he drawled, tilting his head at the brute beside him, "that I can drink you under the table before the night is done."
A ripple of interest ran through the tavern. Drinking bets were as good as bloodsport in the Lower Wards, and Kaelen had made sure his reputation never caught up to him here. No one knew his face, which meant no one knew he rarely lost.
The brute let out a bark of laughter. "You? A scrawny wretch like you?"
Kaelen smirked, reaching into his tunic and pulling out a handful of silver coins, letting them jingle between his fingers. "Scared?"
The man grunted, slamming down his own handful of coins. "You're on, bastard."
The first round came—two tankards filled to the brim with thick ale. Kaelen lifted his in mockery before downing the drink in a single motion. The brute did the same, slamming his mug down with a victorious grin. It wouldn't last.
The second round came. Then the third. The fourth.
The onlookers grew rowdy, shouting and banging their fists on the tables as Kaelen and his opponent continued their contest. Kaelen could feel the heat of the alcohol pooling in his gut, but he wasn't close to faltering yet. The brute, on the other hand, was slowing.
By the eighth round, the man's face was flushed, sweat was forming at his brow. His words were slurring, his hands trembling as he lifted his mug. Kaelen, still grinning, reached for his own drink and tipped it back as if it were water.
"Had enough?" he asked, his voice was teasing.
The brute groaned, swayed in his chair, and slumped forward, his head hitting the table with a dull thud. The tavern erupted into laughter and cheers.
Kaelen stood, stretching lazily before collecting his winnings. "Drinks are on me!" he called, sending the room into another fit of applause.
He leaned back, exhaling as the heat of the room settled over him. This was how he liked it—laughter, drink, and friendly bets. No thoughts of his impending doom crept into his mind, no reminders of a dark fate waiting just beyond the edge of this moment.
For now, he was just a man enjoying the simple pleasures of life, immersed in the revelry of the tavern .
But suddenly, The heavy wooden door struck the wall with a loud crack. A man slipped inside, his cloak drawn tightly around his shoulders. His eyes darted about the room, before he hurried toward the bar.
The barkeep, who had been chuckling at the drinking contest moments ago, stiffened as the man approached. Their conversation was hushed, lost beneath the tavern's noise, but Kaelen noticed the way the barkeep's expression darkened.
The barkeep's demeanor changed in an instant. His face, flushed from the laughter moments ago, became drained of color. His one good eye darted around the room, his hands were shaking as he shoved bottles and tankards aside.
"Hide that. Now. Move the damned crates to the back!" His voice cracked. "For the gods' sake, clear the damned tables!"
He wasn't just commanding—he was pleading.
The shift was immediate. The regulars, who were once rowdy and careless, moved with urgency. Chairs scraped against the floor as tables were wiped clean with trembling hands. A nervous hush swept through the room.
On the other hand,Kaelen smirked,the kind that sent men on edge and made wiser souls reconsider their next move. His fingers drummed lazily against the table, the picture of someone entirely unbothered—though his sharp eyes missed nothing.
The air had shifted. He could feel it—sense it.
The shadows curled at the edges of his vision, whispering, clawing at him like restless spirits eager to be set free. They coiled around his skin, dragging like invisible chains, stirring something deep within his chest.
Then the door swung open again. This time, they didn't slip in quietly.
A group of men strode into the tavern, their boots striking hard against the wooden floor. They moved like wolves, spreading out, their hands resting near their weapons. Their armor was dark, polished but without insignia.
Kaelen knew who they were before they spoke.
The Shadow Guards.
The tension in the room thickened. Conversations stilled. Even the drunkards at the tables seemed to sober at the sight of them.
The tallest of them stepped forward, removing his gloves. His presence alone made the air feel colder. His face was sharp, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—dark and piercing—swept across the room like a predator sizing up its prey.
Veylen Drakar.
Kaelen's grip tightened around his tankard.
As soon as Veylen sighted him, his lips curled into something that might have been a smile—if it weren't so devoid of warmth.
"Prince Kaelen Noctheos the Seventh," Veylen intoned, his voice carrying through the hushed tavern. "Regent King Malakai calls for you."
At the mention of the name Noctheos, the entire room fell into an uneasy silence. The Noctheos bloodline. Royalty. Cursed. The only family capable of wielding the Shadowborn abilities—gifts that had long been considered a blight upon the realm.
Kaelen threw his head back and laughed. He clutched his stomach as if Veylen's words had been the best jest he'd ever heard.
"You must be mistaken," he said, still chuckling as he reached for his ale. "I don't know who you're talking about. I'm just a lowly drunkard enjoying a night among friends."
Veylen's frown deepened. "Prince Kaelen, now is not the time for games." His voice lowered, it was edged with something dangerously close to impatience. "We have only a month now. You know this."
At those words, Kaelen's joy evaporated. His fingers tightened around the tankard. The shadows that lurking slithered closer, responding to the shift in his aura.
"A month." The words left his lips in a whisper, more to himself than anyone else."And if I refuse?"
Veylen stepped closer, his men shifting subtly ready for resistance. "Then the consequences fall not only on you but on the kingdom itself." His gaze was unwavering. "You know what's coming. You were never meant to run from it."
Kaelen leaned back, dragging a hand through his gray hair. He could feel the tavern's patrons watching, their gazes flitting between him and the Shadow Guard. Some with curiosity, others with fear. He could guess what they were thinking.
The Shadowborn. The cursed bloodline. The harbingers of darkness.
Kaelen exhaled, his grip tightening around the tankard before he let it slip from his fingers. His gaze flickered to Veylen, whose patience had worn thin.
"I suppose you won't let me finish my drink first?" Kaelen drawled, though the humor didn't quite reach his eyes.
Veylen's expression hardened. "Enough, Kaelen."
Kaelen sighed, the lazy smirk never leaving his lips. But as soon as he shifted forward, the shadows at his feet curled unnaturally, The tendrils of darkness slithering like living things.
Then he was gone.
A ripple of unnatural darkness exploded outward, swallowing him whole in an instant. The tavern gasped in unison as Kaelen vanished into the void, the only trace of his departure was faint air. A hush of disbelief fell over the room before the silence was shattered by Veylen's snarl.
"Find him! He cannot have gone far!"
The Shadow Guard sprang into motion. The tavern patrons scrambled out of the way, knocking over stools and tankards as armored figures surged through the space.
Some of the more unfortunate souls who had been too close to Kaelen's vanishing act were roughly shoved aside, their protests ignored.
Veylen stormed toward the door as he barked orders to his men. "Lock down the Lower Wards! Set the watchmen on high alert. He will head for the alleys—cut him off before he reaches the city wall!"
But even as he spoke, he knew Kaelen would not make this easy.