The tavern was thick with the smell of ale, smoke, and damp wool. The air clung to the skin, heavy and sour, as though the walls themselves had absorbed centuries of spilt drink and unwashed bodies. Voices rose and fell around Kael in a constant tide—laughter that cracked like firewood, drunken arguments that flared and died in the same breath, the scraping of chairs dragged across warped wooden planks. Tankards slammed against tables, dice rattled in cups, and the occasional bark of a dog drifted in from the street outside.
None of it touched him.
He sat slouched in the farthest corner, half-hidden in shadow, a half-finished mug in front of him. The dark surface of the ale reflected the dim lanternlight, and Kael stared into it as though it might hold an answer, or at least a distraction. His clothes were stained from travel, the dust of the road ground into every seam. His knuckles were raw, scabbed over from wounds that hadn't healed properly, reminders of fights he hadn't wanted but hadn't avoided either.
The cursed sword leaned against his chair. Silent, yet impossibly heavy. Its presence pressed against him like a second heartbeat, steady and suffocating. Even when he tried not to look at it, he felt it—like a whisper at the edge of hearing, a weight in his chest that no drink could dull.
The barkeep gave him the occasional wary glance. A boy his age shouldn't have been in here. Certainly not with that look in his eyes—eyes too old, too hollow, as though something vital had been burned out of him. But the coin Kael dropped was real, and in a city like this, real coin spoke louder than questions. Nobody wanted trouble with someone who carried a blade like that.
For three days, Kael had drifted between this tavern, the narrow streets of the city, and the room upstairs where he pretended to sleep. For three days, the necklace at his chest had been the only warmth he carried. He hadn't spoken more than a word or two, and even those had felt like stones dragged from his throat.
He told himself he was resting. That he needed time before deciding what came next. But the truth was simpler, and darker: he had no idea what came next.
The woods still haunted him. The smell of blood, the silence after screams, the way the trees had seemed to close in as he stumbled away, clutching the sword that had cursed him with survival. He had run until his legs gave out, until the world blurred, until the only thing left was the locket pressed against his chest.
He touched it now, fingers brushing the cool metal through his shirt. The gesture was unconscious, a reflex. He didn't even open it anymore. He didn't need to. He knew what was inside. He knew the face etched there, the smile that would never return.
That night, as the crowd swelled with evening drinkers, the tavern door creaked open.
A figure stepped inside.
He was cloaked in worn travel clothes, the kind that had seen years of weather and dust. His boots were scuffed, his cloak patched in places, but there was nothing shabby about the way he carried himself. His hair, streaked with gray, was tied back loosely, and his presence was quiet—yet commanding enough that the tavern's noise seemed to falter as he crossed the room.
His eyes—clear, sharp, and blue as steel—scanned the tavern once, then landed on Kael.
Kael felt the weight of that gaze like a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, fingers tightening around the mug.
The man walked over.
"You're young to be drinking," he said, stopping at Kael's table. His voice was rough, not unkind, but edged with something that demanded attention.
Kael didn't look up. "And you're old to be bothering strangers."
The man studied him a moment. His silence was steady, unhurried, the kind that made Kael's skin prickle. Finally, he said, "You're grieving."
Kael's grip tightened on his mug. Slowly, he lifted his head, meeting the man's gaze. "You don't know me."
"I don't have to," the man replied. His eyes didn't waver. "Loss leaves a mark. I see it in the way you sit. In the way you drink without tasting. In the way your hand keeps straying to that locket at your chest."
Kael's jaw clenched. He shoved the mug aside, the ale sloshing. "Leave me alone."
The man didn't move. Instead, he pulled out the chair opposite Kael and sat down. The wood creaked under his weight, but his presence was steady, unshakable.
"I've seen boys like you before," he said. "Some of them drown themselves in ale. Some in blood. Either way, they don't last long."
"Good," Kael muttered. The word was bitter, but it cracked in his throat, weaker than he wanted it to be.
The man leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "But you're still here. Which means some part of you isn't ready to die yet."
Kael glared at him, but the words struck deeper than he wanted to admit. He hated the way they lodged in his chest, hated the way they echoed against the emptiness inside him.
The man's gaze shifted to the sword propped beside Kael. His brow furrowed, but he didn't reach for it. "That weapon… it's dangerous. And so are you, if you keep carrying yourself like this without direction."
Kael scoffed. "What are you, a priest? A philosopher?"
The man's lips curved faintly. "Neither. Just an old man who's seen too many graves."
For the first time, Kael faltered. There was no pity in the man's voice, no softness—just truth spoken like stone.
The silence stretched between them. Around them, the tavern roared with life—laughter, shouting, the clatter of mugs—but at their table, it was as though the world had narrowed to two people, a boy and a stranger, bound by something unspoken.
Kael wanted to tell him to leave again. To spit venom, to drive him away. But the words wouldn't come. His throat was tight, his chest aching.
The man stood, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "If you want to drink yourself into the ground, boy, that's your choice. But if you want something else… I'll be at the eastern gate at sunrise."
Kael stared at him. "Why would I follow you?"
The man paused at the door, turning his head just enough for Kael to catch the faintest glint of his sharp blue eyes.
"Because if you don't, that sword will devour you long before grief does."
And then he left, vanishing into the night.
Kael's thoughts churned long after the man's departure. He tried to drown them in ale, but the drink only made the edges sharper.
What does he know? Kael thought bitterly. He doesn't know her face. He doesn't know the sound of her laughter, the way it carried even in the darkest nights. He doesn't know what it's like to hold someone's hand and feel it go cold.
His hand tightened around the locket. He wanted to smash it against the table, to shatter it and be free of the weight it carried. But he couldn't. He never could.
The sword loomed beside him, its hilt catching the lanternlight. He hated it. He hated the way it seemed to hum when he touched it, the way it felt alive in his grip. He hated that it had chosen him, that it had bound itself to him in blood and fire.
And yet… he couldn't leave it behind.
The man's words echoed in his mind. That sword will devour you long before grief does.
Kael closed his eyes. He saw the woods again. The bodies. The blood. The way the sword had burned in his hand, whispering promises he hadn't wanted to hear.
He opened his eyes with a gasp, heart pounding. The tavern was still around him, loud and alive, but he felt apart from it, as though he were watching through glass.
Kael sat there for a long time, silent, staring into the dark wood of the table. His fingers brushed the locket again, trembling, then curled around it like a lifeline.
He didn't know if he wanted to live or if he wanted to follow that man.
But for the first time since the woods, a sliver of choice had cut through the haze of despair.
*****
A/N: Drinking at 15 is crazyyy, please guys don't drink while you are underaged.