The tavern was quiet in the late hours, the kind of quiet that felt safe but still alive. A soft glow from the hearth lit the room, warming the wooden beams and the polished counter. The scent of woodsmoke and old ale lingered gently, nothing sharp or overwhelming. It reminded Xonya of late nights in Arnathe when most folk had gone to bed but the trouble-makers still moved in the alleys. Those hours had always kept her alert, trained her senses, and taught her to expect the unexpected.

  Tonight, though, there was no alley, no gang waiting in the corner, no desperate thieves watching travelers for coin. There was only the tavern, resting in the soft rhythm of evening, and Xonya stepping inside because she could not sleep.

  She made her way to the bar and slid onto a stool. Her shoulders relaxed a little, though her hands stayed close together on the counter. She tapped her fingers once, a habit she had picked up whenever she felt restless. It kept her focused.

  Behind the counter, rows of bottles and casks lined the shelves. Most looked average. A few looked suspicious. One was labeled in handwriting so messy she decided she would not drink it even if someone paid her. She allowed herself a small smile.

  A loud thump sounded behind the counter. Before Xonya could reach for a knife, a man popped up from behind a large barrel of sweet mead. He grinned so widely his missing teeth made themselves known before he said a word. He looked cheerful in the way only a man who had seen real sorrow could be. His hands were stained from years of working with ale, and his eyes held a mix of happiness and stubborn hope.

  “What will it be?” he asked.

  “Something that won’t turn my stomach inside out,” Xonya answered.

  He laughed loudly at that, enjoying the joke as though he heard it for the first time. He poured from a cask and slid the mug toward her. She caught it cleanly, though some of the drink splashed over her fingers.

  He nodded at her quick catch. “Nice reflexes.”

  “That is what I am known for,” she replied before taking a sip. The drink was rough, but not terrible. She had tasted worse in the Low Quarter. Much worse.

  The bartender leaned forward on his elbows and squinted. “You are from the Low Quarter,” he said. “I can hear it.”

  Xonya sat back slightly. Very few people beyond Arnathe ever recognized the speech of the Low Quarter. It carried clipped words, sharp edges, and a rhythm shaped by hardship. It was not something she felt ashamed of, but it was something rarely noticed.

  “You have a sharp ear,” she said finally.

  He puffed up with pride. “I ought to. My wife was from there. Met her years back when I was a traveling salesman, selling the finest ale in all of Three Corners.”

  Xonya raised an eyebrow. “How large is that corner of the market?”

  The man slapped the bar and laughed with real joy. “Not large at all, lass, not large at all. But she married me anyway. No dowry, no grand promise. Just her heart and a stubborn streak that rivaled my own.”

  Xonya set her mug down. “Where is she now?”

  The question hit him harder than he expected. His grin faded. He looked down at the rag he had been twisting between his fingers.

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  “She left,” he said quietly. “Could not stand my drinking. I was a fool back then. I spent more nights with barrels than with her.” His voice shook for a moment, then steadied. “But I changed. I stopped drinking like that. I stopped wasting my life.”

  He lifted his chin again. His smile returned, worn but sincere.

  “She lives across the street now, above the weaver’s shop. Every morning I bring her a cup of coffee. Every morning she refuses it.”

  Xonya felt something shift in her chest. She did not know if she admired him or pitied him.

  “She might accept it one day,” she said.

  “She will,” he replied without hesitation. “She will be mine again. A man has to believe in something.”

  His words hung between them. Xonya looked down at her hands. The skin across her knuckles was rough, marked by scars that overlapped like crooked lines. Each mark told a story. Nights spent fighting for scraps. Days defending herself. Hours training so she would never again be helpless.

  The bartender followed her gaze. “You know about fighting,” he said quietly. “Those scars are not from hard work alone. They are from battles. You have earned every one.”

  She did not answer right away. Her throat tightened. Few people ever spoke to her that plainly. Even fewer understood what it meant to grow up in the Low Quarter.

  “My hands look the way they do because nobody protected me,” she said at last. “I had to become someone who could protect herself.”

  The bartender nodded slowly. “And now you protect others.”

  “That is the idea,” she said, though a small voice inside her wondered if she always did enough.

  He leaned closer. “If you are fighting for something worth saving, then the scars are not a burden. They are proof.”

  Before she could respond, he slipped away again, disappearing behind the counter to adjust something. The man’s movements were quick, like he had too much energy and not enough places to put it. She heard him humming as he worked.

  The tavern door opened then, letting in a burst of cooler air. Xonya turned her head to see Maurzan stepping inside. His face was tired, but not worn down. His eyes searched the room until they landed on her.

  “I thought I might find you here,” he said as he walked toward her.

  “Could not sleep,” she replied.

  He pulled up a stool beside her. “Neither could I.”

  The bartender popped up again with another mug. “For your friend,” he said, sliding the drink toward Maruzan.

  He accepted it with a nod. “Thank you.”

  The bartender beamed. “Any friend of this one is welcome.” He jerked a thumb toward Xonya. “She is a fighter. I can tell.”

  Maruzan chuckled. “That she is.”

  As the bartender moved on, Marzuan leaned closer to Xonya. “Are you doing all right? You seem thoughtful tonight.”

  Xonya hesitated. She was not used to sharing what she felt. But she trusted him more than most.

  “I spoke with the bartender,” she said. “His wife left him. He is still trying to win her back.”

  Maruzan followed her gaze toward the man humming at his work. “That kind of stubborn hope takes strength.”

  “It made me think about our fight,” Xonya said. “The road ahead. The sorcerer. Everything waiting for us in the mountains and beyond. We do not know how strong he is. We do not know who we will lose.”

  Maruzan nodded slowly. “We will face whatever comes. Together.”

  Xonya traced her thumb across one of her scars. “I think I might earn a few more before this is done.”

  “Then I will be there when you do,” he said.

  The words warmed her more than the fire.

  After a few minutes of quiet, Maruzan finished his drink and stood. “I am heading back. You should rest soon.”

  “I will,” she said, though she was not sure if she meant it.

  He gave her a final look before leaving. Then she raised her mug in a small, private toast.

  “To fighting for what matters,” she whispered.

  The fire popped in the hearth, like it agreed.

  She finished her drink, set the mug down, and let the warmth settle in her chest before heading into the night.