The Supreme Elf's Glowing Mischief Opeka woke up like a grumpy old Drulox, the sun barely bothering to spill light over its sagging rooftops.
The Black Stone Tavern, the village's heart—or maybe its slightly hungover liver—hunkered at the edge of the cobbled square, its creaky sign groaning in the morning breeze. Inside, the air was thick with stale ale, charred bread, and the unmistakable tang of chaos, courtesy of Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's reigning troublemaker.
Perched on a wobbly stool behind the counter, Killy juggled three dented tankards, his olive skin catching the dim light, his long blond hair—gold-tipped and tied in a gloriously sloppy braid—swaying with each toss. His black eyes, flecked with gold like stars in a dark pool, gleamed with mischief that could set a barn ablaze—literally.
"Killyaen, you scrawny disaster!" Goran's voice boomed from the storeroom, deep as a war drum.
"Stop flingin' my tankards before you break 'em!" The tavern keeper, a mountain of a man with a beard that could smuggle a badger, poked his head out, his one good eye glaring at his adopted son.
"Break them?" Killy caught the tankards mid-air, stacking them into a teetering tower with a flourish.
"Goran, these mugs are so battered they're begging for a hero's funeral. I'm just giving 'em a moment of glory!"
He flashed a cheeky grin, shrugging off the invisible thirty-kilogram weight pressing on his shoulders, his legs, his everything. That was the curse he'd chosen years ago, when he was a cocky kid who thought "training" sounded like a grand adventure.
Goran, seven-time champion of the Arena of Immortals, had called in his old war buddy, Shaman N'Nazmuz—a one-time Arena champ with a knack for creepy chants and creepier tattoos—to toughen up "the little idiot."
N'Nazmuz's curse was a brutal mentor: it crushed Killy's body like he was hauling an invisible anvil, but it stitched up his scrapes overnight and refilled his stamina faster than a drunk guzzling ale.
It made Killy stronger and tougher than most, even big lugs like Janko, but it wasn't exactly a picnic.
Goran muttered about "elven nonsense" and vanished back into the storeroom, leaving Killy to plot his next move.
Killy didn't know much about elves, just scraps from Goran's tattered books—tales of star-dancing, pointy-eared folk who probably didn't scrub floors. But "Supreme Elf" had a ring to it, especially after last night's double act of genius.
While Opeka slept, Killy had crept to Farmer Janko's barn with a pot of glow-in-the-dark paint he'd nicked from a traveling merchant's cart. Under the moonlight, he'd slathered "SUPREME ELF RULES" across the barn in letters taller than a horse.
The paint shimmered like a cursed lantern, turning the barn into Opeka's newest spectacle. But Killy wasn't done.
Later that evening, with Janko snoring off a barrel of ale in his shed, Killy had snuck in, armed with a jar of black paint that laughed at soap. With a steady hand and barely contained giggles, he'd painted delicate cat whiskers across Janko's face, the kind that stuck like a bad nickname.
The curse's weight had slowed his escape, but Killy had danced home, cackling under the stars.
The tavern door creaked open, and Bera stormed in, her apron dusted with flour and her dark curls waging war against her scarf. "Killyaen, you walking catastrophe," she snapped, brandishing a wooden spoon like a knight's blade.
"If you've touched my rolling pin again, I'll bake you into a pie and feed you to the pigs!"
"Me? Touch your sacred rolling pin?" Killy pressed a hand to his chest, feigning horror. "Bera, my heart, I'd sooner steal the moon than ruin your bread magic." He leaned against the counter, his grin pure trouble.
"Though, have you seen Janko's barn lately? I hear it glows with artistic genius."
Bera's scowl cracked, a smirk sneaking through. "You painted that oaf's barn to glow in the dark? Killy, you're begging for a thrashing." She swatted at him, but Killy ducked, spinning to grab a broom and kicking up dust clouds like tiny tempests. The curse made sweeping a workout—his arms burned, but they'd be fine by noon, thanks to N'Nazmuz's strange magic.
"Thrashing? Nah, Janko'll thank me for the free lighthouse," Killy said, striking a pose with the broom like it was a royal scepter.
"Behold, Killyaen, Supreme Elf of Opeka, artist of barns and breaker of boredom!" He twirled the broom, nearly toppling a stack of plates, and caught it with a sheepish grin.
Bera snorted, stomping off to the kitchen, muttering about "boys with too much hair and no brains."
Killy chuckled, sweeping with half-hearted enthusiasm.
He loved these mornings—the banter, the bustle, the chance to keep Opeka on its toes. The village was a speck in Aeneria, all cobbled squares and creaky windmills, ruled by gossiping grandmothers who could sniff out trouble faster than a bloodhound. But to Killy, it was a stage, and last night's pranks had been a performance for the ages.
Fame had a price, though, and Killy knew it. He was stronger than Janko, tougher too, thanks to the curse and Goran's relentless training. But every prank, every taunt, came with a bill, and Killy was ready to pay it—bruises and all.
The tavern door slammed open with a bang that rattled the windows, and Janko stormed in, his face a thundercloud with black paint whiskers curling across his cheeks like a cat who'd lost a fight with a paintbrush.
The early patrons froze, tankards halfway to their lips, as Janko's bellow shook the rafters. "KILLYAEN!" he roared, charging across the tavern like a bull. "First my barn's glowing like a cursed beacon, now this?" He jabbed at his face, the black whiskers stark against his red, scrubbed-raw skin, as stubborn as his temper.
Killy leaned on his broom, his grin wider than the village square.
"Janko, my friend, I don't know what you're meowing about. Whiskers? Glowing barns? Sounds like you've got a secret admirer with a paintbrush."
He could've fought back—Killy knew he was stronger, his muscles honed by the curse and Goran's Storm Technique. But fame demanded a toll, and Killy chose to pay it.
When Janko lunged, grabbing his collar and landing a meaty fist on his jaw, Killy stumbled back, the curse's weight making the blow feel like a sledgehammer.
He didn't dodge, didn't block, just laughed through the pain, his gold-flecked eyes glinting. "Nice swing, kitty cat!" he taunted, taking another hit to the shoulder as Janko chased him through the tavern, toppling chairs.
"Bet those whiskers make you the prettiest cat in Opeka!"Patrons scattered, some cheering, some gasping, as Killy danced around tables, his braid swinging, his taunts relentless despite the bruises blooming on his skin.
"Careful, Janko! You'll ruin your new look!" Another punch clipped his cheek, but Killy kept grinning, knowing the curse would heal him by nightfall. Goran burst from the storeroom, bellowing,
"Enough!" He grabbed Janko's arm with a grip that could crush stone, hauling him back like a misbehaving dog.
"Janko, sit your arse down before you break my tavern. Killy, stop goading him, you idiot!"
Janko glared, panting, but slumped into a chair, the wood groaning under his bulk, his whiskers still screaming defiance.
Killy rubbed his jaw, his grin undimmed despite the throbbing pain.
From the corner of the tavern, Marko, a wiry blacksmith, leaned back in his chair, tankard in hand.
"Well, Janko," he drawled, "looks like you're the Cursed Cat of Opeka from now on!"
The tavern erupted in laughter, patrons slapping tables, ale sloshing, as Janko's face turned a deeper shade of red.
Bera peeked from the kitchen, stifling a cackle, and even Goran's scowl twitched with amusement.
Killy winked at Marko, knowing that nickname would stick to Janko like the paint on his face. He sauntered to the bar, whistling a strange, lilting tune—eerie, like wind through forgotten ruins.
It slipped out when he was distracted, like the split-leaf amulet around his neck, cool against his bruised skin. Goran said it was with him when they found him at Devil's Crag, a squalling babe in a tattered cloak. Killy didn't think much of it—just a shiny trinket, probably worthless. But it gleamed like it had secrets, catching the light in ways that made him pause.
As he poured Janko an ale, sliding it across the counter with a smirk, Killy caught a glimpse of his amulet glinting in the morning light.
Another day in Opeka, another price paid for being the Supreme Elf. Life was good—dusty, chaotic, and painted with possibilities. If there was a bigger world out there, some grand adventure tied to Goran's Arena glory or N'Nazmuz's cryptic chants, Killy wasn't in a rush to find it. Not when there were barns to light up, whiskers to draw, and a new nickname echoing through the tavern.