"Welcome, traveler! Aren't you a cute one?"

  Karl stared blankly at the woman behind the counter. She leaned forward, resting her chin on a palm, inspecting him with unabashed curiosity.

  "You look pretty... uhmmm, good," she decided, her eyes twinkling. "Dirty, but good. Hehe."

  Karl didn't respond immediately. A strange realization washed over him—he understood her perfectly. The words spoken on the street earlier, and now hers, translated instantly in his mind, bypassing the barrier of foreign tongues entirely.

  "Let me introduce myself first," the woman continued brightly, ignoring his silence. "My name’s Lovia Northern. I’m the receptionist, the bartender, and the heart of this Guild." She paused to shout over her shoulder toward the kitchen, "And shout out to Chef Rowly in the back! If you want to die of food poisoning, order the stew!"

  A muffled, angry shout returned from the kitchen, which she ignored with a grin. She turned back to Karl, her gaze raking over his attire.

  "So... I’ve never seen you before. And those clothes... hmm. Are you from down south? No?" She drummed her fingers on the wood. "Okay. for a cute little thing, you don’t speak much, do you?"

  Karl finally looked at her properly. Up close, Lovia was striking. She wore a tight tank top that left little to the imagination regarding her strength; her arms were sculpted, boasting hard-earned muscle that rippled as she moved. He had never seen a woman quite like her in his old world—beautiful, yes, but possessing a physical power that demanded respect.

  Wait, he thought, the delay in his brain finally catching up. Did she just call me cute? Me?

  The indignation was momentary. Karl pushed the thought aside, his throat parched. He spoke, his voice rough from disuse. "You have drinks, right?"

  Lovia’s face lit up. "Yes! Finally, he speaks!" She reached beneath the counter. "What do you want, cute stuff?"

  "Whatever you have," Karl answered, drumming his fingers on the wood. "But make it strong. Very strong."

  Lovia raised an eyebrow, a challenge sparking in her eyes. "Wow. Trying to impress me? I’m not easy, you know."

  Karl’s face darkened slightly. He considered a witty retort but swallowed it. Don't attract eyes. Stay low.

  Seeing his expression, Lovia let out a laugh. "Dude, chill! I’m just messing with you. Don't cry on me now." She pulled a heavy cask onto the counter. "But can you actually handle this? It’s pretty volatile."

  "Damn sure," he replied.

  "Alright then, little one. This should put some hair on your chest."

  She pulled the lever. The liquid that poured out was thick with sediment and smelled like a violent marriage between liquid fire and rotting fruit. She slid the drink across the counter, her fingers deliberately brushing his as he reached for it.

  "That," she said with a playful wink, "is a high-quality glass. Reserved for V.I.P. customers and Rank A members. Made by Georen Preguese himself."

  Karl grabbed the mug. Ignoring the caustic fumes, he drained the entire pint in one long, desperate gulp. The burn was immediate and welcome.

  "Ahhhhhhh," he exhaled, slamming the mug down on the counter with a small, careless force.

  Ting.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  The sound was delicate, but the result was not. The "high-quality" glass shattered instantly in his grip, shards cascading onto the wood.

  "What the—! Oh my god!" Lovia screamed, staring wide-eyed at the ruins of the mug. "I just told you that was made by Georen Preguese! Thefamous lampworker! Do you know how much that cost, man?!"

  "I... uh..." Karl stammered, genuinely surprised. He looked at his hand, then at the glass. "It... the beer was just good and..I put it down normally. The mug was weak as hell, it’s not my fault."

  He patted his coat, recalling the merchant’s pouch he had liberated earlier. "Another drink. Normal mug this time. And don't worry, I’ll pay for the broken one too."

  Lovia’s shock melted instantly into a warm, amused smile. "Don't worry, cute stuff. It's all good. I hated that mug anyway—too fancy for this place. Consider it my treat to welcome a new patron."

  From a nearby table, one of the local guild members slammed his hand down. "What about us, Lovia? You never treated us!"

  Lovia shot them a look that could have curdled milk. "Huhhhh? Like I’d treat you ugly fuckers. Pipe down."

  She turned her attention back to Karl, her expression softening into concern. "Let me see your hand, though. Those shards might have impaled you."

  She reached out to peel back his glove to inspect the damage.

  "No!"

  Karl snapped his hand away, the movement sharp and violent. The sudden aggression betrayed his carefully guarded composure.

  Lovia recoiled, visibly surprised by the intensity of his reaction. Karl realized his mistake instantly. He forced his shoulders to drop, softening his voice.

  "It's okay," he said, rubbing his gloved palm. "I don't think I got pierced. The glove is thick."

  "Right..." Lovia eyed him for a second longer, then shrugged, pouring him another drink in a wooden tankard. "Suit yourself."

  Karl accepted the offer with a nod. "Thanks."

  He drank deeply, the alcohol quickly warming his blood and dulling the accumulated chill of the last month. The evening deepened. Around the tavern, the atmosphere grew rowdier. Mercenaries threw dice in the corner, their laughter rough and careless. Near the hearth, an old man with deep wrinkles and an eyepatch weaved through the room, refilling tankards with practiced ease.

  Karl leaned against the bar, watching the firelight dance. The drink had done its work, loosening the tightness in his shoulders.

  Then, a shadow loomed over him, cutting off the light from the hearth.

  Earlier that Evening

  At the edge of Bear Path, near the simple, elevated wooden platform of the train station, the Guild Master stood waiting. He was a massive man with a trimmed beard speckled with white hair, his breath puffing in the freezing air.

  The steam train was due shortly, ready to ferry the Dragonbloods and their substantial reward back to the secondary city, Euneim.

  A short distance away on the platform, Ella stood apart from her crew. A deep frown was etched onto her face, and her knuckles were white where she clutched her share of the gold.

  "Is something wrong, my dear?" the Guild Master asked, stepping closer.

  "Nothing," she lied quickly. "I'm just thinking, that's all." She paused, unable to suppress the question. "Did... anyone odd arrive in town before us? Or maybe after us?"

  "Odd?" The Guild Master stroked his beard. "No, I don't think so. Why? Are you expecting someone?"

  "No. It's just... never mind."

  Ella turned away. She kept the unsettling thought to herself—the suspicion that lingered like a bad taste. She knew they hadn't killed the Ravmor. They had found the beast already dead, its body carved up by something—or someone—else. Yet, here they were, taking the gold.

  "Are you sure?" the Guild Master pressed, eyeing her curiously. "For the past ten days, you've been distant. You aren't happy, even though you're the hero who brought down the Day King..."

  The conversation was severed by the mournful, piercing whistle of the approaching train.

  The Dragonbloods exchanged final, brief goodbyes with their host, then climbed aboard the designated carriage. The Guild Master gave a final wave as they were seated, then turned his carriage back toward the town.

  Inside the train, Ella took a window seat, staring out at the receding platform and the snowy fields beyond. Her expression remained fixed in a scowl. Her crewmates showed no such shame; they were already laughing, recounting the party and the free booze, their voices loud and grating.

  Ella pressed her forehead against the cold glass, watching the lights of Bear Path fade into the darkness.

  Smith's Blood Tavern

  Karl looked up to confront the owner of the looming shadow.

  He was mid-sip from his wooden tankard, relaxing for the first time in weeks. But as his eyes focused on the figure standing next to him, the relaxation shattered.

  PFFFT!

  Karl spat everything—beer, foam, and saliva—directly into the man's face.

  Karl, a man who rarely lost his composure even in the face of death, was paralyzed. The figure wiping beer from his face had the features of a man, but atop his head sat two twitching, triangular dog ears. His eyes were amber, featuring the distinctive vertical slits of a canine.

  And, perhaps most shocking of all, something was wagging happily at his waist.

  A tail!!?.