Chapter 41

  The door creaked open with a dry, dragging sound as three figures stepped into the tavern’s common room. The scent of tobacco smoke, aged floorboards, cold iron, and the sweet aftertaste of a long-settled argument hung heavy in the air. The warmth of a hearth was absent—instead, the cold from outside crept in like a fourth companion, as if it too wanted a drink.

  Behind the counter, the barkeep silently poured a beer for a bearded man in fur armor. No nod, no greeting. His gaze slid over the newcomers as if they were nothing but a passing breeze, soon to be gone again.

  The tavern was dimly lit. Not crowded, but not empty either. Traders from the south—easily recognized by their coats too thin for the climate—haggled wearily with the broad-shouldered locals. A half-giant sat alone at a round table, staring into the void, a drinking horn half-full in his massive hand. In the back corner, three young ogres tried to outdo each other—with dares, loud laughter, and light brawling.

  The tavern’s name hung above the entrance in weather-worn letters: Thulegard’s Ale. Not a creative name, but no one in this town expected creativity—just honesty, a strong beer, and as few questions as possible.

  Thulegard was the Edge Of The Nord of Tirros. Those who came here stayed either out of stubbornness, duty, or because they had nowhere else to go. The air was thin, dry, and bitingly cold. The buildings were made of black stone and cold ironwood, the people of silence, work, and frost resistance. Among the tables sat half-giants, ogres, the occasional elf with sunken cheeks, a few despised dragonkin—and in between, the hardened fisherfolk who made their living catching the legendary ice salmon.

  And then they were suddenly there—three strangers whose mere presence stirred a moment of unease. No word was spoken, but several heads turned their way.

  Leading them was the Wrong Paladin. His pitch-black armor barely reflected the flickering oil lamp light. With each step, his chainmail clinked faintly beneath heavy plates. The sword at his side bore the sigil of the Eagle Order—ancient, honorable, and in Thulegard, a rare and unwelcome sight. Some nodded silently, others cast skeptical, wary glances.

  To his left walked an elven woman with white hair tied into a practical braid. A yellow travel cloak clung to her slender frame, and a smile played on her lips—not false, but restless. Her eyes moved from face to face, scanning, nervous.

  To his right, the third figure moved with a calm, almost graceful ease. The cleric wore a black shirt, slightly open at the sleeves, revealing the fine, glimmering rings on her fingers—small artifacts that shimmered with magic. Her dark hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her eyes were watchful mirrors behind which something older stirred. Something ancient.

  After a brief pause, conversations resumed, and the three made their way toward the barkeep.

  The man behind the counter—a broad-shouldered fellow with a weather-worn face and arms like braided rope—was wiping a glass with a rag that had clearly seen better days. Without looking up, he began routinely, “What can I get you to–” But then he stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he had spotted the symbol of the Eagle Order etched into the sword’s crossguard, and his gaze shot upward. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a sudden shift in demeanor—the initial distrust gave way to a cautious, almost restrained respect. At least partially.

  “How can I help you?” he now asked, his tone polite but laced with a hint of reserve.

  “My name is Luken,” the paladin replied bluntly, wasting no time. “We’re looking for someone. A warrior named Rurik. Do you know where he might be?”

  The moment the name was spoken, the atmosphere changed. A noticeable ripple went through the tavern, as if everyone had collectively held their breath. The conversation at the merchants’ table ceased abruptly, one of the ogres froze mid-boast, and the half-giant at the round table lifted his head. All eyes turned to the group—curious, but also measuring, as if the name had stirred memories or stories not casually shared.

  The elf woman, Vin, seemed to feel the stares like cold wind on her skin. Her restless smile froze, and she unconsciously crossed her arms, as if to shield herself from the attention. Yet the silence in the room carried no hostility—only caution, and here and there a furrowed brow, as if the patrons were wondering whether speaking up would be wise.

  Then the half-giant cleared his throat and spoke first, his voice as deep as a mountain spring: “Rurik is a gambler. If you’re looking for him, you’ll find him at the Howling Wolf.” At the mention of the name, a flicker of annoyance and embarrassment passed through his eyes. “That’s where I lost all my coin,” he added in a murmur, as if ashamed of the admission.

  Luken studied him briefly, then reached silently into his pouch. With a swift motion, he let a gold coin flash between his fingers and flicked it discreetly toward the half-giant. It landed with a metallic clink on the table. The man picked it up, stared at it for a heartbeat, then nodded—grateful and quietly ashamed.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  It wasn’t exactly a wise move to hand over a gold coin in a tavern full of ogres, dragonkin, and poor fishermen. But no one stirred to react. Either they hadn’t noticed—or they chose to ignore it for some reason. Perhaps the symbol of the Eagle Order was enough to dissuade questions.

  “What’s the Howling Wolf?” Luken finally asked, his gaze back on the barkeep.

  The man slid the freshly polished glass aside and leaned forward slightly. “The Howling Wolf is a tavern—but not just any tavern. It’s where people go to drink themselves under, or to test their luck at dice and cards. A place for gamblers, mercenaries, and those who think too highly of themselves.” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth as he added, “Rurik definitely belongs to the last category.”

  Luken noticed the other guests nodding again, this time in agreement—as if everyone had a story to tell about that place, but none were eager to share it.

  As he and his companions turned to leave, it was the barkeep who called after them. His voice was calm, sincere—lacking the usual edge of distrust that colored every conversation in Thulegard.

  “Be careful there,” he said as he set down the empty tankard.

  Luken cast one last glance over his shoulder. The man behind the counter stood straight, hands resting on the bar, meeting their gaze openly.

  “I don’t mean any offense,” he added, “but you should stick together. Especially watch over your friends.”

  His eyes flicked briefly to the elf and the cleric. The tone remained friendly—but the final sentence came with a sly grin, like a teasing remark meant to be more humorous than serious.

  Vin barely rolled her eyes, Maira sighed quietly—but neither of them really reacted. This was Thulegard. A comment like that was just part of the local charm.

  A few steps later, the three stepped out into the frigid afternoon of Tirros’ northernmost city. The air bit sharply through anything not tailor-made for this kind of cold. Snowdust whirled in fine spirals across the frozen ground. Even the city’s usual sounds were muffled, as though the frost had swallowed all noise.

  “I think we should listen to hi—” Luken began, but didn’t get far.

  An armored figure stumbled out of the tavern behind them, stepping quickly onto the street—and called after them.

  “Hey, wait! Please! You’re a paladin, right?”

  Luken spun around, hand already on his sword’s hilt. The voice hadn’t been aggressive, nor demanding—it sounded… pleading.

  The figure revealed itself to be a dragonborn, red-scaled, wings folded tightly and trembling slightly. Her snout was reptilian, but her eyes were large—almost childlike—and looked up at him with a mixture of determination and fear.

  Something twisted in Luken’s gut. The sight. The proportions. The scales. The voice. It all reminded him of him. Of Zarkhural. Of the shadow that lived deep inside him like a wound that would never heal. Instinctively, he wanted to keep walking—away from the silhouette that pulled too many old ghosts from the dark.

  But the voice followed him.

  “Please!”

  He stopped. Reluctantly. Tense. Jaw clenched, fingers still tight around the hilt.

  The dragonborn woman seemed to notice his posture and lowered her hands—to show she meant no harm. She wasn’t particularly tall, perhaps half a head shorter than Luken. Her leather armor was stiff from the cold, and some seams looked like they’d been stitched together with wire. She gave a small bow.

  “My name is Narla, you holy knight of the Eagle Order,” she said firmly, though her gaze dipped briefly toward the ground.

  Luken did not return the bow. He simply looked at her. Serious. Cautious. A tight knot of duty and discomfort in his chest.

  Of course, he couldn’t ignore her. Not when she used his title. Not when she looked so desperate. Not with people watching.

  So he stood there. And listened.

  "As you probably know, my kind has been despised ever since the Dragon Wars," Narla began in a calm voice, though the pain behind it was unmistakable. Then something happened that made Luken instantly uncomfortable: she knelt before him—right there in the middle of the frosty street, in front of dozens of eyes, in the dirt and snow.

  He didn’t flinch, but everything inside him recoiled. Maira raised an eyebrow slightly, Vin had to suppress a laugh—at least she kept it to a smirk, which Luken caught from the corner of his eye.

  "I, Narla, proud daughter of the dragonkin, humbly ask for your help," she said, head bowed, hands clasped like in prayer. "I saw how you helped the half-giant."

  “Shit,” Luken thought. Apparently, someone had been watching. He cursed his own kindness—or rather: the role he had to play. But Narla continued, unshaken, honest and vulnerable.

  "My outcast family and I… we need help too." She raised her head. Her golden eyes met his directly. A single tear slipped down her red-scaled cheek, caught on a horn at her chin, and fell to the ground. "We’re scorned, harassed, and can’t find work. We have no one."

  Her voice now trembled noticeably. This wasn’t a ploy. No trick. Just a plea—simple, and heavy.

  "What I ask of you is to speak with the mayor. And to tell him… that we are the same as everyone else."

  Luken didn’t reply right away. For a moment, silence settled between them, while the street life around them simply went on—as if nothing had happened. Then he stepped closer, gently placing a gauntleted hand on her shoulder. His eyes under the helmet closed briefly.

  A faint, nearly invisible glow wrapped around his fingers as he cast a simple calming spell—no show, no grand gestures, just a quiet impulse that gave Narla renewed strength.

  "I will speak with the mayor," he said at last. His voice was calm, steady, without drama. "I swear it."

  The dragonborn woman rose slowly, wordlessly wiped away the tear, and lowered her gaze in gratitude. A quiet "thank you" passed her lips before she turned and disappeared into a small house, its door closing silently behind her.

  They all walked on for a while without saying anything. The wind whistled around the corners, carrying flurries through the alleys.

  "Will you keep your promise?" Vin asked softly as they continued on.

  Luken didn’t meet her eyes. He just sighed, raised his chin slightly, and said quietly, without hesitation:

  "I will. I may not be a true paladin… but I’m still Luken."