The scent of leaping beast stew wafted through the sweltering air of Mirbariq, drawing hungry travelers toward the Two Titans, a tavern nestled between the merchants’ quarter and the shadowy streets of N’el. It was a place where the city’s affluent rogues mingled with the upper crust of the underworld. Despite the rough surroundings, the tavern’s reputation—and its sweet rolls made with fine imported flour—had made it an institution. Twice a day, at least, the heavens seemed to visit when Mistress Arastu worked her culinary magic.
The Two Titans was a venerable establishment, named in honor of the legendary heroes who had founded this region centuries ago. Though not as old as the town itself, the tavern was considered a historic landmark, having survived fires, raids by desert nomads, and the shifting tides of fortune over the decades. Recently refurbished, the tavern now boasted finely crafted chairs and tables, the handiwork of local artisans. Each piece was masterfully jointed, made without nails, and imbued with the subtle artistry of those who had the time to turn every piece into something more than just furniture.
The walls were adorned not with sconces for torches but with crystals—shard fragments too weak to do anything but provide light. These soft, glowing fragments bathed the room in a bright, warm light, a rarity in most taverns. The brightness revealed every inch of the place, showcasing the scrupulous cleanliness that could only belong to a proud tavern owner and his family.
Fariborz, the tavern’s broad-waisted owner, stood behind the bar, his girth a testament to the prosperity his wife’s extraordinary cuisine had brought. Visitors traveled from distant lands to sample her famed leaping beast stew, a dish they hailed as a gift from the gods. Coupled with her soft wheat rolls and tangy leafy greens, it ensured that the Two Titans was a favorite among locals and travelers alike—and that trouble rarely darkened its doors.
That changed one late afternoon when three unknown young men strode into the tavern, smelling of hard travel, cheap spirits, and youthful arrogance. They were strong and lean, the look of shard-hunters about them. These were the sort who had found a shard or two on their journeys and believed it gave them the right to enter the regional tournament. Here, they’d wager their shards, battle fiercely, and, in their minds, claim the champion’s place.
They had left their horses with the stable boys, though they didn’t seem the type to tip for any extra care. The boys would do their best nonetheless, but Fariborz would make sure their bar tab reflected their oversight. He spoke with a forced cordiality, despite his irritation. “How can I help you gentlemen this evening?”
Of the three, two could have been twins—brothers, surely—of equal build and dressed like mirror images of each other. Bandoliers of small knives crossed their torsos over light linens, none too clean, but of decent make. Their gear, well-crafted leather, marked them as professionals in their trade. Fariborz continued his silent appraisal, gauging just how much he should charge them.
Their boots were worn but solid. The way they moved, with a subtle sway, reminded him of sailors—men who spent too much time pirating along the coast. Their sabers, curved and darkened by sweat and frequent use, seemed to be extensions of their bodies. Dust clung to them in shades of brown and red, a telltale sign they’d recently arrived from the docks. Fariborz’s regulars squinted in their direction, sensing potential trouble but content to let it slide for the sake of the leaping beast stew.
Their leader—there was no mistaking it—was the third man, and they deferred to him through subtle gestures. He stood with a natural authority. His cutlass, larger and more menacing, gleamed in the evening light, reflecting its edge across the room. A shard glittered on the hilt, exuding a quiet menace, contrasting with his imposing size. His clothing, of finer linen and embroidered with symbols of distant Orobo, suggested wealth, recently gained. His hair, long and pulled back, was the opposite of his bald companions.
His single eye, however, was the most striking feature. Dark and calculating, it absorbed everything in the tavern without appearing to focus. There was a glint of madness in that eye—just enough to make anyone who met his gaze look away involuntarily, as if they’d been caught in a trap. He radiated a quiet danger, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. Even the local women, emboldened by curiosity, adjusted their dresses, though they dared not approach him.
“I hear this is the place to eat on this side of town. We need a table, Keeper.”
“Yes, sir. A table will be opening soon. Would you like to sit at the bar until one is available? The regionals have kept us quite full. We can get you one of our local ales, sure to knock the sea salt and dust right off your tongue.” The tavern hummed with conversation and clinking mugs, but Fariborz moved quickly, grabbing three steins and filling them with a thick, dark ale. The earthy scent of hops rose as the three men approached the bar, the tension palpable in the air.
“You may call me Fariborz, my good sirs. May I know your names?”
The one-eyed man turned his gaze to Fariborz, unimpressed by the pleasantries. “I am Mal Tiberius. These are the Twins, Dunoq and Cirnoq, from a town so far from here you couldn’t possibly know it.”
“Then we have time to get to know each other this evening, share the currency of the road—our travels, histories, and adventures.”
But Mal Tiberius wasn’t listening. His single eye had fallen on a table in the far corner of the tavern. Only one man sat there, slumped forward, his head resting on the table, snoring softly. What little hair he had ringed his head like a crown, and a luxurious beard and mustache soaked up the ale spilling from an overturned stein. A tattered red cloak draped over his shoulders, trailing to the floor. He snored rhythmically, his cloak rising and falling with each breath, a quiet contrast to the din of the tavern.
“That table seems available, Keeper. Or does my eye deceive me?” Mal Tiberius’s voice was low and dangerous, each word carrying weight.
The tavern owner blanched but stood his ground. “I’m so sorry, but that table is reserved.”
“Reserved for what? A sick and drunken old man, down in his cups?” Mal Tiberius turned to Dunoq. “Get that man from our table. I’m hot and tired. He can sleep it off in the street.”
Fariborz swiped the coins offered by Mal Tiberius off the counter, hastily grateful he was paid before the fighting started. He decided to offer a bit of friendly advice, though he was certain no one would take it. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”
Mistress Arastu walked out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of her legendary sweet bread. As she passed the table where Sir Vaskos was sleeping, she whispered softly, “Be gentle,” before moving into the tavern to pass out the fresh rolls, straight from the stone oven.
Dunoq stepped forward first, cracking his knuckles as he looked down at the old man sprawled across the table. The rhythmic rise and fall of the cloak, the soft snoring—he might as well have been part of the furniture.
Dunoq gave his brother a sideways glance and grinned. “How much do you think he weighs? A hundred stones?”
Cirnoq snorted. “With that beard? Maybe a hundred and fifty.”
The two shared a chuckle as Dunoq reached down, taking the old man by the shoulders. “Alright, old-timer,” he muttered. “Time to make room for the living.”
He pulled once, then again, with more force, but the man didn’t budge. The snoring continued unabated, as if Vaskos hadn’t noticed a thing.
Dunoq frowned, putting a hand to his back and cracking it. “Must’ve had too much stew. Cirnoq, help me with this.”
Cirnoq stepped in with a dramatic sigh. “This’ll take two of us?” He clamped a hand on Vaskos’ other shoulder, both brothers now pulling in unison.
Nothing. Not an inch.
Vaskos remained seated, completely immovable, the heavy thrum of his snoring rising above the murmurs of the tavern. Dunoq glanced at Cirnoq, who now had a bead of sweat rolling down his brow.
“Did you—did you tie him to the chair when I wasn’t looking?” Dunoq growled, teeth clenched.
Cirnoq shook his head, grunting as he tried again. “I’ve moved boulders smaller than this guy. What’s he made of?”
Vaskos’ snores took on an almost melodic rhythm, and somewhere in the distance, a couple of patrons stifled laughter.
By now, the Twins were sweating and straining, pulling with all their might. Cirnoq tried lifting the chair beneath Vaskos, but even the wood seemed rooted to the stone floor.
“What in the seven hells—” Cirnoq growled, taking a step back, hands on his hips. He shot Dunoq a look. “You try pulling again.”
Dunoq, now thoroughly irritated, gave it one last mighty tug, his muscles bulging. Vaskos remained completely still, his head resting on the table, snoring peacefully.
Dunoq stumbled back, glaring at his brother. “He’s stuck. Like… buried in the earth.”
Mal Tiberius, who had been calmly draining his stein, looked over with a sneer. “Step aside, weaklings…”