The tavern section of the Drunken Hammer was buzzing with quiet tension. A round wooden table in the corner hosted five players — four cloaked strangers with beads of sweat on their brows, and one grinning dwarf casually swirling a silver mug of spiced ale.
Balthor.
Noel leaned against a polished stone pillar near the entrance, arms crossed, watching the game unfold. The flicker of magical sigils danced in the air between the players, illuminating a floating set of runic cards. The game was the same as last time, magical poker.
One of the strangers cursed as his mana slipped and his cards collapsed into ash. Another slammed the table and growled. Balthor, meanwhile, laughed heartily.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," the dwarf said, collecting a small pile of glowing gold chips. "You play like farmers who just touched mana for the first time."
Noel raised an eyebrow and walked toward the table. "You should be nicer to newbies. You're going to scare off half your customers like this."
