The narrow path back to Mount Eternity felt longer under the cover of night. Karl walked slowly, his mind still lingering on the warmth of Aris's fireplace and the quiet dinner they'd shared.
Suddenly, he stopped.
A faint aura—like a whisper on the wind—brushed past the back of his neck. Subtle, yet unmistakable.Someone was pointing a weapon at him from behind.
Karl sighed.
"If you're going to sneak up on me, at least try masking your aura better."
A sharp whistle echoed through the trees.
"Whoa, you caught me that fast? Guess immortals really do live up to the hype."
Molvar stepped out from behind a tree, still holding his sword… the tip of which was skewering a steaming roasted sweet potato.
"Hungry? I made extras."
Karl stared at him.
"You ambushed me… with a potato?"
Molvar shrugged, grinning wide.
"I was hungry. Besides, I just wanted to test your reflexes. Arin talked a lot about you—I was curious."
Karl looked around warily, then back at him.
"You do realize it's the middle of the night, and I could crush you in a heartbeat?"
"I do. But hey, not a bad way to go—taken out by an immortal legend!"Molvar laughed and held out the sweet potato again.
Karl shook his head slightly, then—took it.
"Since when do royal guards sneak around in the dark offering baked vegetables?"
Molvar took a final bite of his own potato and gave a lopsided grin.
"Since I met you. I get the feeling things are going to be a lot more interesting from now on."
Karl chuckled softly.Despite his ridiculous approach, Karl sensed something genuine beneath Molvar's act.A sharp blade, sheathed in mischief.
Molvar clapped Karl on the shoulder with a grin.
"Come on, there's a little tavern down at the base of the mountain. I bet you've never tried Madam Lora's plum wine. Absolute masterpiece!"
Karl shook his head.
"I don't drink. And I'm not fond of noisy places."
"That's exactly why you should go! Don't worry—when I say 'tavern,' I mean a quiet hut where a few villagers tell old stories and complain about weather. Perfect for a brooder like you."
"I'm fine without it."
"Karl, how long have you lived? A century? Two? You must know by now that refusing doesn't really get you anywhere."
Before Karl could protest again, Molvar had already slung an arm around his shoulder and started dragging him down the path.
Karl sighed, allowing himself to be pulled along.
"I've lived long enough to know trouble usually starts with an invitation like this," he muttered.
"And I've lived long enough to know… those are the best kinds."
The tavern was modest—a wooden hut with warm yellow light glowing from a small window. As Karl and Molvar stepped inside, the scent of plum wine mixed with roasted meat wafted through the air, prompting Karl's stomach to grumble.
Inside, a few villagers sat around tables, sipping drinks and sharing jokes. One burly man with a thick beard spotted Molvar and shouted:
"Look who's back—the man who annihilated three barrels of wine in one night!"
Molvar bowed with theatrical grace, utterly unashamed.
"Apologies for draining your sacred stock. But tonight, I bring a legendary figure—the Man Who Doesn't Drink."
Karl frowned.
"That's a title I never asked for."
An older woman—presumably the owner—handed Molvar a drink and turned to Karl.
"And you, stranger? Sweet plum or sour?"
Karl eyed the amber liquid and replied softly:
"Water."
The whole tavern erupted in laughter. Molvar slammed the table playfully.
"Karl! If you take one sip tonight, I'll tell you Arin's greatest secret."
Karl raised an eyebrow.
"She tells you that much?"
Molvar shrugged.
"No. But I'm a master at making things up."
The laughter in the tavern gradually faded, replaced by the gentle notes of a wooden lute playing in the corner. Firelight danced in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on Karl's calm face as he took a sip of water.
Molvar leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"Hey, I didn't drag you here just to force some wine down your throat. I've got something to say."
Karl turned, his eyes sharpening with focus.
"I'm listening."
Molvar propped his leg up on the empty chair and rested his chin on his hand.
"I know you're not from around here. And I've heard whispers—odd stories. You carry an aura no one else does, like someone who's walked through a hundred battles and still kept his spine straight. Am I right?"
Karl remained silent for a moment, then gave a slight nod.
"I'm guessing I'm not the only one who senses your aura. Some folks in the village talk about you with wary eyes. Not out of hate—but because they know you didn't come here just to rest."
Molvar pulled a small knife from his belt and spun it between his fingers until the firelight gleamed on its blade.
"I used to be a guard for a noble. After what happened at Mount Everhold, I quit for good. But when I met you… I knew—if a fight is coming, I want to be on your side."
Karl glanced at him, visibly surprised.
"You trust me that much?"
Molvar grinned.
"Not exactly trust. I just think you'd make one hell of a leader. And to be honest… I'm tired of the quiet life."
Karl didn't answer right away. He stared at his glass of water, his eyes as still and deep as a twilight lake. Perhaps he was still calculating — every face, every dream, every prophecy.
Molvar glanced at him, then burst out laughing.
"What's this, my friend? I just gave you a heartfelt speech! Don't ignore me like a street vendor trying to sell overpriced trinkets!"
Karl smirked slightly but said nothing.
Molvar leaned over and poured more wine into Karl's cup, though it remained untouched.
"If you don't say anything, I'll take that as a yes. Tavern rules — silence equals agreement."
He laughed, downed his own drink, and gave Karl a hearty pat on the shoulder.
"Come on, at least one sip. Don't let your new friend drink alone. I'll even tell you the story of the time I was chased for ten miles by a three-headed wolf. You might realize I'm not as useless as I look."
Karl sighed lightly, finally lifting his glass and clinking it gently against Molvar's.
"Maybe I should hear that story."
"That's more like it!" Molvar laughed. "If I can't make you laugh tonight, I'll drink that entire barrel by myself, just to prove a point!"
The night had settled gently over the village. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting a silvery glow on the cobbled path. Karl and Molvar staggered out of the tavern, both completely drunk.
"Hey Karl… I swear… that wine barrel… it talked to me…" Molvar slurred, waving his hand as if trying to catch an imaginary butterfly.
"Yeah, and I saw a singing cat… it told me I should start a band," Karl replied, squinting and chuckling to himself like it made perfect sense.
They walked along, mumbling nonsense, until Molvar suddenly climbed onto a roadside rock and shouted:
"I am the king of Wine World! Kneel before me, my loyal subjects!"
He nearly tumbled off the rock if Karl hadn't caught him in time. Both burst into hysterical laughter — until a familiar voice cut through the night.
"What on earth are you two doing?"
Standing under the moonlight, arms crossed, was Arin. Her expression was half curious, half annoyed. Karl quickly straightened his cloak and tried to look dignified.
"I… was just… escorting him back…"
Molvar, utterly shameless, waved at her enthusiastically:
"Arin! Come have another drink! I told Karl the story about the three-headed wolf! You have to hear it too!"
Arin sighed.
"I'm not sure if I should be worried… or just walk away right now."
Karl gave a soft laugh and muttered under his breath:
"At this point… I might need a psychiatrist more than a field medic…"
Arin arms crossed, her eyes narrowed as if she had predicted exactly what would happen.
— "Done yet? Or would you like to test if vomiting on deck gets you punished?"
Molvar nearly tripped, while Karl just nodded with a faint smile. No one said anything more.
The three of them walked side by side beneath the dim glow of lanterns, heading toward the ship anchored silently at the harbor. That night, there were no battles, no schemes — just three individuals, each bearing their own burden, quietly returning to the place where tomorrow, a new journey would begin.