The friends were sitting in a tavern in one of the poorest districts of the capital. The ‘Bent coin’ was well known, albeit in rather narrow circles. Its fame was mostly tied to the contingent of customers who regularly visited the low, two-story building.
On the first, most spacious, floor was a bar, a door leading to the kitchen, heavy oak tables nailed to the floor, and rotten stools. No paintings, no animal heads, and no weapons could be found on the walls. The furniture was rather modest.
This was because mercenaries, soldiers, and bandits mostly visited the tavern, as well as girls of easy virtue, ready to brighten someone’s night for a ‘bent’ coin. Everyone here sold themselves or their skills for money.
“We’re celebrating my wedding!” Nero shouted.
The Prince raised his bowl over his head and shouted “Ehegai!” Almost a hundred voices immediately echoed his cry.
“Hey, barkeep, give everyone some drinks!” Nero shouted over the din.
After he spoke, the noise in the tavern increased several times. The people, overjoyed by free drinks, shouted and stamped their feet. The owner and his sons (his daughters didn’t dare work here) poured everyone a drink from the barrels fitted into the walls (for obvious reasons).
“They’re shipping out tomorrow,” Hadjar finished the verse.
“That’s a good song, by the way,” Nero threw his bowl on the floor, took the jug, and started drinking directly from it. Too much ordinary booze was required for a practitioner to get even a little drunk. “You’ve never told me where it’s from…”
“From my native village,” Hadjar smiled and raised another jug. “To you and Serra, buddy. May your union last forever!”
“Let the Gods hear your words,” Nero nodded.
They hit their jugs together so that the foam from one spilled into the other — an old military tradition that demonstrated the fact they trusted each other and that neither of them was trying to poison the other.
The friends drained their jugs, which elicited genuine respect and surprise in those around them. Then, wiping their mouths clean with the sleeves of their shirts, they threw their jugs on the floor, smiling widely. The other visitors shouted with joy. The owner just shook his head wearily.
One of the rules at the ‘Bent coin’ was that a guest had to hand over enough money to cover the cost of three sets of dishes as they came in. At the end of the week, when there were many fights, this amount could double, or even triple.
Hadjar glanced around and saw simple, cheerful people. Some of them grabbed girls by the breast. Other girls sat on the knees of half-naked mercenaries flaunting their tattoos. In the corner, there was a fight going on between a female mercenary who’d grabbed a stool and a gang member who had confused the girl with a whore. Behind them, a comrade of the mercenary had lifted another bandit above his head and was about to throw him somewhere. However, most of the visitors were looking at the girl in translucent clothes dancing on a table.
Hadjar was among them. He hadn’t been with a woman for a long time, and nature was quite insistent.
“You’ll burn her with your gaze!” Nero laughed, grabbing another jug.
“Not everyone is as lucky as you, Your Highness,” Hadjar looked down sadly. “Not everyone can find a good life partner.”
“You’re right, General,” Nero nodded and raised his jug again. “To beautiful women.”
“And to their no less beautiful, but younger daughters!” Hadjar added with a laugh.
The visitors cheered loudly. The friends drank some more, ate a fragrant, hard steak, and continued to talk. Hadjar truly believed that Nero was very lucky to have found the desert witch. Practitioners lived a long time, and true cultivators had even longer lives. They often went from person to person. Few people chose to bind their fate to just one partner. The stronger a person became, the less likely they were to find a suitable match for themselves. Hence the myths about only virgins becoming immortals, after hiding themselves away in caves for thousands of years. Supposedly, that was the only way they could withstand the temptations of the world and devote themselves fully to cultivation. Nero and Hadjar didn’t believe those stories — what was the point of attaining immortality if your sword ended up being your only companion at night?
“So…” Hadjar broke another jug without any remorse. They’d paid so much that they could probably burn the whole tavern down without the owner complaining. “Are you sure that they’ll come today?”
“Yep,” Nero nodded.
The spark of fun in his friends’ eyes diminished slightly. The excitement of the hunt replaced it, the sort of fire that usually appeared when a hunter was certain that their prey would very soon be falling into the trap they’d set for it.
As if Fate was confirming the Prince’s words, Hadjar’s sense of danger sounded like an alarm bell. Hadjar grabbed a knife from the table and deflected a metal crossbow bolt. At the same time, the neighboring table was tossed aside and several figures in black cloaks appeared in front of the friends. Hadjar recognized them immediately — they’d been standing behind Boreas on the day of their return.
“What are you-”
The man didn’t get to finish asking his question. He reached for his face, but was unable to touch it. A scarlet line spread straight across his nose, chin, neck, and torso. The two halves of the once whole body fell to the floor. The bowl which the mercenary had been holding ended up in his insides. An oppressive silence settled over the tavern. Everyone froze.
The figures in black unleashed their energy and the people around them turned pale. There was no one here who
