“Sir,” Fariborz interjected quickly, his voice a touch more pleading, “A table will be ready momentarily.” His eyes flicked toward the waiter with the barest hint of a nod, but the waiter returned his glance sheepishly. No one was ready to leave just yet, and the snickers around the room only grew.

Mal Tiberius stalked toward the sleeping knight, his large hand, crossed by ill-healed scars, reaching for the rear of the knight’s blood-red cloak. He tried to strong-arm what appeared to be an old man, frail within his ill-fitting armor. With his gauntleted fists and greaves on his forearms, Vaskos seemed more like an undernourished child than someone to be afraid of.

Yet, no matter how hard Mal Tiberius pulled, the knight remained unmoved.

His hand fell instinctively to the hilt of his cutlass, Blood-drinker, as if violence were his native tongue. The pommel shard lit up beneath his fingers, its baleful light casting flickering shadows across the table.

A quiet voice broke the tension, audible only to the three men—and maybe Fariborz, who had been watching nervously from the bar.

“What cruelty is this,” came the old man’s voice, soft but resonant, carrying more weight than his frail form suggested. “That an old man cannot rest against the vicissitudes of life in his favorite establishments? I was in the sweetest of dreams, free of my burdens and traveling no more. Do I know you, sirs?”

The knight sat up slowly as the shard began to spill its baleful light over Mal Tiberius. Behind him, the Twins grinned, their lips parting to reveal shards embedded in their front teeth. The sickly purple light flickered like a shared secret between them, their grins growing wider as the knight slowly rose and wiped the beer from his beard.

A young kitchen scullion, no more than eight or nine, darted between the Champion and his new opponents, offering a towel with trembling hands. Sir Vaskos took it, wiping his beard clean with a nod of thanks.

“Thank you, child,” he said, his tone gentle. “A man should meet his enemies in a proper state.” He smiled down at the boy, who beamed before scampering back toward the kitchen.

The Twins moved as one, their Void shards pulsing with arcane power as they fell upon the old man like wolves upon a hart in the woods.

No one saw Vaskos move. With a single slap, both men flew across the room—one into a stack of chairs next to the bar, about twenty feet from Vaskos’ table. The other slid under a table in the dining area. The patrons calmly lifted their bowls of leaping beast stew and their sweet rolls as the table shook momentarily, before setting them down again and resuming their meals. They knew those two men were done.

Mal Tiberius’ cutlass appeared with a swiftness belying his size, poised to strike. His face flashed through several emotions—fear, amazement, anger—before finally settling on cold resolve.

Sir Vaskos raised his closed hand and gestured to Mal Tiberius, as if to offer him something. Tiberius, still holding his raised cutlass, extended his other hand. Two shards fell into it from Vaskos’ gloved fist.

“I bid thee peace, Mal Tiberius,” Vaskos said calmly. “I told you I would have your shards soon enough, and I meant that. Take your men and your shards, puny though they are, and leave this place. Your behavior is upsetting the patrons.”

The patrons, of course, had barely noticed.

Mal Tiberius stared at the shards, anger and shame warring within him. He could not take them. His pride would not allow it. He had been beaten, and worse, shown generosity. He could wait. There would come a time when his power would surpass even this man. He could wait.

With a snarl, he flung the shards to the floor at Vaskos’ feet.

“Keep them,” he spat. “I’ll take something more valuable from you next time.”

He turned sharply, his heavy boots echoing across the stone floor. He gestured for the Twins to follow, but one limped from the stack of chairs, while the other crawled out from under a table, both looking worse for wear. Mal Tiberius’ eye flicked toward them with barely contained disgust, their failure only adding to his shame.

Without another word, he strode toward the door, the Twins hobbling after him. As the tavern door closed behind them, the faint hum of tension dissipated, and the room slowly returned to its rhythm.

The patrons smiled, knowing they had just witnessed something remarkable. Mistress Arastu, ever the calm presence, approached Sir Vaskos with a fresh bowl of leaping beast stew, her legendary sweet rolls, and a quiet chuckle.

“Thank you, Sir Vaskos,” she said, her tone both warm and respectful. “I appreciate you not breaking up any furniture—or anyone’s dinner.”

Sir Vaskos smiled as he tucked into the meal. “It was my pleasure to serve, Mistress.” The patrons, still grinning, returned to their meals with renewed enthusiasm, their conversations louder than ever, filled with the clink of mugs and bowls. For the Champion, peace had returned to the Two Titans, and the savory warmth of the stew was a fitting reward.