Night fell thick over the walls of Arkthar.
Rain ran down the alleys as if washing away the sins of the capital, though no one there believed in purification. Below the towers illuminated by crystals, hidden among narrow streets, and near a port district of the city, a tavern remained open. Its weathered sign displayed the image of a wolf howling at the moon: The Lupins. Inside, the air was warm and heavy with stories. There was the scent of damp wood, cheap wine, and old memories. Men from all corners—merchants, travelers, soldiers... they all crowded under the amber of that cozy light of the inn. It was a refuge of weary voices, where the past mingled with alcohol and no one dared speak too loudly, and above all else it was a place of reconnection and friendship.
Behind the bar, a man with long, golden hair silently polished a glass. His name was Richard, and anyone who saw him knew he was more than just the owner of this place. He was the kind of man who had faced the impossible and survived. The scars on his hands and his face indicated that he had seen more battles than he cared to remember, but those eyes of his were different from all the rest. They carried the weight of those who had loved war — and later repented it. But, alas His expression seemed lost, even anxious and disturbed.
And rightly so. This man awaited news but did not know whether it would be good or bad. Yet he remained steady; he had been through something similar before in his life and knew how to handle the emotions rising within him.
Hours passed. The tavern grew louder than usual — packed and restless, filled with low murmurs that blended into a deafening hum. The clinking of glasses and voices echoed like muffled thunder, and even the usual melody was swallowed by the crowd. Outside, the rain fell hard, and the cold seeped through the wooden cracks.
After a few brief minutes, a hooded figure entered the inn. He was soaked from the heavy rain and freezing from the cold. As soon as he arrived, he dried himself near the thermoregulatory crystals inside the tavern. Once warm, he approached as many people as possible and shouted for their attention.
—Everyone! Please! I beg a moment of your attention.
The tavern's patrons examined him with mixed reactions—some turned to look, others continued drinking, indifferent.
Richard, however, glanced at him, frowning.
"I bring news from the Star-Tower of Arkthar!" said the stranger, and the murmuring ceased completely. —The capital is in turmoil!
The name made the air heavy. Richard set down the glass he had unconsciously polished for the third time. That object was important to him, a symbol of a friendship he held dear in his heart, shared in spirit and born in blood.
The people around the bar almost knew about the subject that was about to be spoken, but they still were in doubt.
The mysterious man removed his hood. He was young—tired face, eyes as dark as night and as sincere as the certainty of emptiness, short and well-kept brown hair with a nearly full beard yet to be groomed.
Richard recognized him.
—Peter…—
he murmured, and then his deep, firm voice carried across the hall.
—How is he?
Peter hesitated. All eyes turned to him, and an uncomfortable silence spread through the tavern.
—I… brought the magical transmitter,— he finally said. — You can see with your own eyes.
From his bag, he pulled a small octahedral object covered in runes. Once activated, it levitated and projected a bluish light into the air, forming a sharp retangular image—a magical panel that trembled like liquid glass.
Then a elegant man appeared, dressed in shades of orange and black, pale and smooth-faced, with eyes as blue as the sea. His voice was clear and polished, yet cold as a decree:
"Good evening, citizens of Volkor. I am Isaac of Graka, and I bring urgent news. Our king, Aaron, has sealed an agreement with the kingdoms of Wuligath and the Daven Empire, marking the beginning of the construction of the Floating University Ícarus, a symbol of the new era of unity and progress."
Comments erupted in the tavern.
"King Aaron? The King of Aurora? Isaac of Graka… Graka is a city from there, right? How did news from there reach us? Was it a scandal this big?"
"Perhaps, we will receive even more impressive news. I heard Aurora has been assisting our capital for some time… Maybe today's news will be about him."
"Stop being fools! Obviously, this is a special announcement made by the nations in agreement with the Treaty of Convergence! They always change something about that damn contract."
The tavern's patrons reacted in various ways, but the prevailing emotion was anxiety with some bit of anticipation. They are waiting for someone else to appear.
"However, not all celebrate the dawn. The terrorist and war traitor Amulius Byzantine, responsible for attacks on farms and garrisons of the Mercantile Country of Arkt, was captured this morning by the garrison provided by Aurora. He will be judged by the sworn and dignified council of his own country and will be punished according to the crimes committed against his people."
Richard remained silent. This was the truth he had longed to hear for the past two months. Long ago, he had separated himself from what mattered most. He had gained a new name and lost the old one — the one known only to a certain figure, now captured.
For a moment, the sound of the rain seemed to stop to him. Images trembled in the innkeeper's mind—a wounded face, chained, kneeling before flames. Amulius.
Richard felt the ground vanish beneath his feet. Not because of the name, but because of the gaze of his brother held, who still sought him when they were younger, even in pain, even in silence—as if asking forgiveness for having trusted him too much and if that made everything go to hell.
The glass in his hand cracked.
And no one noticed but him. His eyes, surrounded by pain, sought in this place a chance to make things right, for it was here he had won awards for his battle merits and was able to escape this nation forevermore.
Outside, however, thunder echoed over the city walls once again.
And inside the tavern, The Lupins, a death was announced, and its execution was imminent. The owner held himself together, struggling to endure that someone he loved dearly... was about to die.