Adorned in white robes, his hood pulled low, the elderly man stepped into the drink house with the slow, deliberate gait of a man accustomed to survival. He did not belong here—not in a place like this, where secrets were traded like coin and trust was a commodity rarer than gold.
Yet, he moved with purpose, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling on his target.
A young man, seated alone at the creaky wooden counter, fingers idly swirling his drink as though lost in thought. His brown hair fell messily over his forehead, his tan complexion marked by exhaustion, but not weakness. He was watching his ale, but he was listening—to the quiet murmurs, the weight of unspoken words in the air, the movements of the tavern's other patrons.
He was not relaxed, despite his stillness.
Good, Kaelith thought. The boy is perceptive.
He strode forward, not toward the empty tables or the unclaimed seats at the bar, but directly beside him.
The young man did not react immediately, but Kaelith saw the slight shift—the way his shoulders tensed, the flicker of awareness in his eyes as he darted the quickest glance toward him.
Of course, he would notice.
The drink house was quiet, a small, dimly lit establishment tucked within the veins of Ravenscroft's merchant district, a place where words could slip between cracks like water, unaccounted for, unnoticed.
There were plenty of empty seats.
Yet, Kaelith sat here.
The young man's grip tightened slightly around his tankard, but he said nothing.
Kaelith leaned against the counter, raising a gnarled hand to summon the bartender.
"Ale."
His voice was rough with age, yet steady—a voice that had once carried laughter, sharp wit, and the weight of forgotten truths.
The bartender did not hesitate. A tankard was filled and slid across the counter, foam spilling slightly over the rim.
Kaelith reached into the depths of his cloak, pulling out a handful of worn copper coins, letting them clatter onto the wood. Their dull gleam caught the flickering candlelight, their sound sharp in the silence.
He took his drink with the ease of a man who had spent a lifetime in taverns, yet his presence was still wrong here—too deliberate, too knowing.
The air inside was thick with the scent of spiced liquor and damp wood, a strangely comforting aroma that clung to the walls. The soft murmur of conversation drifted between patrons, voices low and measured, speaking of business, debts, secrets best left unsaid.
A handful of women sat in the corners, their presence subtle but aware, watching the room as if measuring opportunity.
Near the hearth, a bard plucked at a lute, his melody threading through the air like smoke from a dying fire.
His voice wove tales of lost heroes, of oceans both merciless and kind, of monsters beneath the waves and men who had dared to challenge them. But it was his last ballad that caught the ear of the patrons, drawing a moment of silence.
The tale of Bloody Harriet, the ruthless captain who had betrayed her own crew and met her end aboard her cursed ship.
Yet, legend whispered that the vessel sailed itself into harbor, untouched by human hands, guided only by the ghosts who had sworn vengeance upon her.
A fine tale, Kaelith thought. A useful one.
Because sometimes, the dead returned not as whispers, but as forces that reshaped the living.
A truth Oliver van Devaan was only beginning to understand.
Kaelith took a long sip of his drink, then set the tankard down with a quiet, satisfied sigh.
Then, without turning to face the young man, he spoke.
"Don't worry—I'm not here to steal your drink. I'm far more interested in the trouble you've been swirling around in that glass."
His tone was so casual, so unconcerned, it was as if he weren't speaking to him at all.
Yet, the young man's grip on his drink did not loosen.
Instead, he finally turned, not fully, but just enough to meet Kaelith's gaze—a single, careful glance.
His expression was unreadable. Pride? Arrogance? Or something else entirely?
"And who might you be?" His voice was steady.
Kaelith smirked, but there was no warmth in it—only amusement.
"Just an old man. A well-informed one, however."
The words were meant to sting, and they did.
Oliver's fingers twitched slightly against his coat, and Kaelith did not miss the way his hand shifted downward, brushing against something beneath his heavy cloak.
A weapon, no doubt.
Oliver's voice dropped, sharp and precise, slicing through the veil of pleasantries like a well-honed blade.
"Your name? And what business do you have here?"
Kaelith's grin widened, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.
"I go by Kaelith the Sage, and I mean no harm."
His piercing gaze settled on the young man—on Oliver.
"But you're not fooling anyone, lad. You can release that dagger you've got hidden."
A flicker of something dangerous crossed Oliver's face.
He did not let go of the hilt.
"I don't have time for your games, old man. I'll be taking my leave."
He took another slow sip of his ale, downing what little remained in a single gulp. Then, as he set the empty tankard back down, he spoke.
Kaelith chuckled, the sound low and knowing.
"Ah, but I have time to entertain you, my boy. Especially about those letters you carry."
Oliver froze.
His expression did not change—not immediately.
But Kaelith saw it.
The way his throat tightened ever so slightly. The way his fingers tensed against his coat, the way his shoulders stiffened, just enough to betray the truth.
The mention of the letters had landed like a hammer to the ribs.
When Oliver finally moved, it was abrupt. He coughed, almost choking, his body betraying him before his mind could react.
His eyes darkened, suspicion turning to something far sharper.
"How do you know about the letters? I demand answers—"
His hand moved, reaching for his dagger—not to attack, but to warn.
But the blade refused to budge.
His fingers trembled slightly as he tugged, realizing—with growing unease—that it would not unsheathe.
Kaelith leaned in slightly, his voice laced with amusement.
"I am a sage… I possess knowledge beyond your reckoning—and a wealth of power greater still. If I meant you harm, Oliver van Devaan, you'd have known it by now. But worry not—I am on your side."
The words were never spoken aloud, yet they echoed in Oliver's mind as if carved into stone.
His breath hitched, a cold shiver creeping down his spine.
Kaelith, seemingly unbothered, slid a hand beneath his cloak and retrieved a small bottle.
With a whispered incantation, the ale from his empty mug lifted into the air, swirling effortlessly before pouring itself into the bottle's narrow neck.
He corked it with a satisfied smirk.
"Quite handy," he mused, as if even he were impressed by his own trick.
Oliver remained silent, his mind racing.
Kaelith stood, pulling back his hood.
"Shall we take a walk?"