They made their way down the street to the tavern. Somehow it had escaped the worst of the attack and looked mostly untouched. Around them, the neighborhood was already coming back to life—people moving about with cautious steps, talking in low voices, but the usual rhythm was returning. Soldiers were more visible now, patrolling the streets with steady steps, their armor clinking softly.
Arden pushed the tavern door open. The creak of the hinges sounded familiar. Inside, the air smelled of smoke, roasting meat, and spilled ale. A low murmur of conversation filled the room. It wasn't loud, but there was a kind of restless energy, like people trying to forget what had just happened.
He went straight to an empty table near the back, Sora following close behind.
A tavern maid came over, wiping her hands on her apron, ready to take their order.
"What'll you have?" she asked.
Arden glanced up slowly, voice calm and casual. "Meat stew. Just meat. None of those root things." He added, "And some water."
Sora's eyes flicked to him, then back to the maid. "Same," she said softly.
Arden settled back in his chair, staring at the rough wooden surface of the table. His mind wasn't focused on anything in particular. He just sat quietly, waiting.
The water arrived first, poured into a plain clay mug. He lifted it and took a slow sip before setting it down.
Then the tavern door opened again.
Several heads turned toward the entrance, some people whispering quietly.
A woman stepped inside. She had long, pure white hair that flowed down her back, catching the dim light. Her eyes were a dull, foggy grey—calm, almost distant. Her face was beautiful in a quiet way, but there was something about her that made her seem a little out of place, like she didn't quite belong.
She wore a dark green cloak over a simple dress. She moved with a steady, calm grace, not demanding attention but drawing it anyway.
Arden didn't react right away. He kept his eyes on his empty mug, tracing the rim with a finger.
Sora's eyes flicked toward the woman, a hint of surprise in her expression.
Arden glanced up to follow her gaze, then looked back down, unimpressed.
Just another woman, he thought. Pretty enough, nothing more.
The woman's eyes scanned the room briefly before locking onto Arden. With a quiet, deliberate step, she crossed the tavern floor and stopped at their table. Her voice was soft, almost melodic as she spoke.
"May I sit with you?"
Arden blinked once, silently wondering why she couldn't find any other seat, but didn't want to be rude. He gave a small nod.
She settled down across from him, smooth and graceful. Sora shifted beside Arden, her eyes narrowing slightly. Part of her was wary—there was something unfamiliar about this woman. Another part felt an uneasy tug in her chest. The woman's quiet beauty only made Sora more self-conscious, a feeling she tried not to show.
From around the room, a few patrons glanced their way. Some looked curious, others a little envious—maybe because Arden was known, or maybe because of the new woman sitting so close to him. A couple of rougher men exchanged low murmurs, throwing subtle glances that said, "Who does she think she is?" But no one made a scene.
A barmaid passed by and took the woman's order without question. The woman then turned her attention back to Arden.
"I couldn't help but wonder..." she began, voice casual but laced with genuine interest, "Are you truly Arden? The Platinum Class Adventurer?"
Arden gave a single nod, accompanied by a soft hum.
Unfazed by his brief reply and lack of enthusiasm, the woman smiled faintly and continued trying to keep the conversation going.
Sora shifted closer to Arden, her body tense and eyes darting between them, uncomfortable with the easy way this stranger was moving into their space.
The woman leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table as if settling in for a long chat.
"I've heard stories about you," she said, voice soft but steady. "About what you've done, the people you've helped. Not many get to walk the path you have."
Arden's gaze stayed on the table, fingers lightly tapping the wood. He didn't say much, just a quiet hum again.
Sora cleared her throat, shifting nervously. "It's... true. Arden's done a lot, but he doesn't like to brag."
The woman glanced at Sora and smiled, like she understood the protective edge in the girl's voice.
"I'm sure he wouldn't want to," she said. "But stories have a way of growing on their own." Her eyes flicked back to Arden. "Do you find it tiring? Being known for things you didn't choose?"
Arden finally looked up, meeting her gaze for a brief moment before looking away. "Sometimes."
The woman nodded, as if that was the answer she expected.
Sora's eyes narrowed slightly. She wasn't sure what this woman wanted, but the way she moved—so calm, so sure—felt like she was testing them, pushing boundaries.
"So," the woman continued, "what brings you here? Not many people wander into this part of town unless they have a reason."
Arden's lips twitched into the closest thing to a smile he allowed himself. "I was hungry."
Sora snorted softly, the tension breaking just a little.
The woman chuckled, a light sound that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Simple enough."
There was a pause as the three of them sat, the tavern's usual hum of voices and footsteps wrapping around their small circle.
The woman's gaze settled on Arden again. "I want to get to know you better. Understand you, if you're willing."
Arden didn't say a word. Instead, he just tilted his head slightly, like a small sign of agreement.
Sora shifted beside him, still uneasy, but she didn't say anything to stop it.
The woman gave a small, polite smile. "I'm sorry. It's rude of me not to introduce myself first. My name is Alma Farshadow."
Arden nodded once. "Arden Falkner," he said quietly, almost out of habit.
Sora added softly, "I'm Sora."
Just then, the food they had ordered arrived—a simple stew of roasted meat and barley bread. Arden's attention shifted immediately to the meal. He picked up his spoon and began eating without another word, leaving Alma and Sora to their quiet moments beside him.
The woman smiled softly, fingers brushing a strand of white hair behind her ear.
"How rude of me," she said, her voice still gentle, lilting. "I should've introduced myself first. My name is Alma Farshadow."
Arden, without looking up from the surface of his mug, gave a small nod. "Arden Falkner," he said, the name coming out on reflex, like a breath too practiced to catch.
Sora sat a little straighter, giving a polite, if somewhat hesitant smile. "Sora," she said simply, the name clipped, like she didn't feel the need to offer more.
Just then, the barmaid returned with their orders, placing two simple wooden plates on the table—thick slices of crusted bread soaked in a light broth, a piece of roasted meat still steaming, and a scoop of mashed tubers on the side that Arden eyed with quiet disappointment. He started eating without a word, ignoring the vegetables entirely.
The conversation, or whatever passed for it, might have ended there. But Alma wasn't so easily brushed off.
She reached across the table, slowly, her delicate fingers extending toward his hand.
"I hope this isn't too forward," she said, smiling still, "but I really did want to—"
Her sentence ended in a soundless gasp. The moment her fingertips brushed his skin, a sharp crack echoed through the tavern.
Her hand dropped to the table.
Or rather, half of it did—cleanly severed at the wrist, white blood splashing across the worn wood in a thin arc. The room froze. A gasp rose from one corner. Sora flinched, though not in fear—more like she'd braced for it, like someone recognizing the ticking of a trap just before it snaps shut.
Alma stared at the stump, not crying out. No pain. Just wide-eyed surprise, as if the moment wasn't quite real to her yet.
Then Arden moved.
In a single breath, his palm sliced through the air again—no blade in sight, no chant, no hesitation—and Alma's head separated from her shoulders.
Her body slumped forward in silence, bloodless and slow, as if the strings had been carefully snipped one by one. The head rolled against the floorboards, silver hair catching the lamplight like snow, before it too began to crumble.
The tavern exploded into noise.
Screams. Chairs scraping. People stumbling over each other to get out the door. Distant shouts for guards. The scent of panic rising like smoke.
Arden didn't move from his seat. He simply exhaled and raised a hand, pointing toward the corpse that was already beginning to collapse inward, its skin wrinkling like rotting fruit.
"She wasn't a person," he said flatly, as if that explained anything at all. "Some kind of monster. Not human."
The stump where Alma's neck had been was leaking something thick and pitch black now, pooling across the floor in slow motion. Her skin had turned grey and waxy, crumbling at the edges. The hand she'd lost first had already turned brittle, like dried clay.
Arden then stood up.
Sora stood too, biting her lip. She didn't scream, didn't ask questions. She just watched him move—not calmly, not exactly, but with the uneasy acceptance of someone who had seen stranger things and learned to let them slide off the edge of her mind before they sank in too deep.
Arden stepped over to the corpse.
His hand extended again, this time not to strike but to shield. A shimmer of magic bloomed in the air, forming a pale dome of light around the body just in time for it to rupture.
A wet explosion shook the floorboards, black liquid slamming against the barrier with a sick slap. It hissed like acid as it slid down the dome's surface, slowly eating into the wood beneath—but none of it touched the room, or the patrons, or the people frozen in fear behind tables.
Arden lowered his arm, the light fading away.
What was left behind inside the shield no longer resembled a body.
He turned back to his seat.
"…Anyway," he said, tearing a piece of bread and setting aside the mashed tubers with a mild frown. "I'm not eating the vegetables. You can have them."
Sora blinked once. Then she sighed.
"R-right... thanks."
Her voice was steady. Only a little strained.
Like this was just another day.