"Even swords need therapy. Especially the talkative ones."
And the night swallowed them back.
Kael dragged his steps like he was pulling chains. Tharon rattled in his sheath, vibrating more from indignation than steel.
— "Never again," Kael spat, blunt as ever. "Group missions. Never again."
— "Oh, brilliant. What a plan," Tharon chimed. "You — the legend, the hero, the genius of decision-making... Who could've guessed it was a stupid idea from the start, huh?"
They veered off the main square. Cut through side streets, almost stealthy — like someone who owes but refuses to pay. Except this time, the debt was emotional.
A corner, a back alley... and there.
Again.
The dwarf.
Same position. Same barrel. Same miserable life, encapsulated in a wet, rhythmic snore. Arms crossed over the barrel like he was hugging his own ruin.
Kael gave him a quick glance. No surprise. No pity. No judgment. Just that short sigh — the kind you give when you've grown used to the natural cycle of absurd things.
Tharon, of course, didn't miss the chance:
— "And to think this guy's more successful than you in life." He buzzed, voice sharp enough to scratch itself.
They kept walking. Footsteps echoing between the stained walls of the city's underbelly.
They passed through a patch of weeds... A patch that honestly looked more like a poorly dug shallow grave.
There, where nothing used to be, now grew a pile of absolute nothing.
Torn bags. Boxes that had lost all structural dignity. Broken bottles with faded labels from times no one remembers.
Near what might've once been a tree — or just the sad idea of one — a rat was nibbling on time. Literally.
It sniffed around the rusted hands of a broken clock. The missing tick-tock felt more painful than anything else.
And above — two eyes. Yellow. Fixed.
The kind of stare only an owl could hold without looking criminal. Intense. Silent. A spectator of the urban decay unfolding below.
And the city breathed in that muffled way — half dying, half refusing to die.
Meanwhile, Kael and Tharon kept arguing like two old men who hated everything — including themselves.
— "I told you," Tharon snapped. "I told you. But no. Let's trust the ray of sunshine. Let's trust the prince of photosynthesis."
— "I'm not discussing this," Kael muttered, rubbing his face. "I don't have the energy."
The ground creaked. The wall cracked. The city coughed dust.
The smell hadn't changed. Neither had the humidity. And there it was.
The façade of the Serpent's Eye Tavern.
They weren't sure if they felt relieved or just too exhausted to feel anything at all.
They pushed the door open. Yellowish light. The scent of grease, dust, and stale cigars.
Kael dropped onto the bench — more crooked than hope itself. Tharon rattled in his sheath, vibrating, grinding.
— "Beer…" Kael took a deep breath. "And… something to eat."
Thalga shifted the cigar to the corner of her mouth, squinted, exhaled smoke and a dry cof cof mid-puff.
— "Food?" She adjusted her apron, clicked her tongue. — "Cof… You think this is a banquet, kid?" She spat, fixing her crooked glasses that were barely hanging onto her nose. — "Only got old beer. Got it last night from some cheat behind the bar…" She took another drag — cof — "Looks like dirt, tastes like sand crumbs. You want it or wanna cry?"
Kael breathed in. Thought about saying no. Gave up.
— "…Bring it."
She spun on her heels, dragging her tail across the floor with that rough sound of someone who's got no time for patience.
Tharon rattled, vibrating more than usual.
— "Of course. Because drinking dissolved cement is exactly your vibe, kid."
Thalga returned. Slammed the mug on the counter like tossing a debt onto the table.
The liquid… was a sad brown. Brown that looked scraped from the bottom of a well that shouldn't even exist.
Kael stared. Sighed. Drank. It went down like sandpaper — throat grinding from the inside out.
Thalga adjusted her cigar, letting smoke slip from the corner of her mouth.
— "So then… cof cof what was it this time? What mess did you get into?" She looked down at him — that gorgon stare that could petrify your morals. — "Saw you walk in with… cof that group of walking floodlights."
Kael dropped his head onto his arm, forehead sinking into the counter.
— "Sunbeam." He mumbled. "That's what they call themselves."
Tharon trembled, clinking.
— "Fitting name… blinds anyone. With shame."
Thalga puffed, cof cof cof, adjusted the cigar again.
— "Tsk…" She shook her head. — "And you went, huh? You went. You're getting soft, kid. Losing more than money… you're losing your mind."
Tharon didn't let it slide:
— "Mind? In a place where the daily special is wolf liver with onions that cry while roasting? Oh yes. Prime example of sanity."
She blew smoke straight into the sword's face.
— "And you… cof cof still talking, you talking piece of metal? Don't you ever shut up?"
— "Can't touch. No arms. But I can cut. That work?" He clinked, vibrating like he was about to leap from the sheath.
— "Uh-huh… cut… cut your own tongue, that'd be a favor." She replied, adjusting the cigar.
And in the middle of all that—
— "MORE BEER OVER HERE, DAMMIT!" — a deep, hoarse, half-drunk shout echoed.
They looked toward the back of the tavern.
An orc. One arm missing. Big belly. Bald. A scar slashing across his face. And more alcohol in his blood than actual blood.
The orc's punch on the table made the mugs jump and the wood tremble. He opened his mouth, ready to shout again—
PSSHHH!
The smell of burnt flesh rose instantly. Thalga had put out her cigar… on the orc's hand.
— "Hrk…" — the brute's eyes widened. He stood up, half crooked, spitting half a curse, half foam—
PRAFFT!
The punch landed dry. Right on the jaw. Dry. Precise.
The orc collapsed face-first, snout buried in his own table.
The whole tavern fell into an uncomfortable silence. Only the sound of the cigar ember reigniting as Thalga took another drag, tail swishing behind her.
She returned to the counter. Calm. Like she'd just checked if the trash was still in place.
— "So then… cof cof where were we?" She puffed again, blowing smoke upward.
Tharon vibrated, nearly falling apart from laughter.
— "That. That was worth every second."
Kael looked at his mug. At the sad brown liquid. At the reflection of his defeated face in the dull foam.
— "I think…" he breathed. "I think I need to rethink my definition of rock bottom."
— "Tsk." She took another drag. — "Don't rethink too much… cof cof sometimes there's a trapdoor down there."
Kael placed the mug on the counter, pushing it forward like dropping a stone he'd carried all day.
— "Is there…" he sighed, voice dragging, "...any room available?"
Thalga shifted the cigar to the corner of her mouth, took a long drag, exhaled smoke and cof cof cof.
— "Cof There is." The snakes in her hair moved, half bored. — "The front one… cof the one you used last time. Door still opens, I think."
Kael reached into his pouch, pulled out a few coins, and dropped them on the counter with that dry, metallic sound of someone who just wants the conversation to end.
— "Alright…" he pushed them toward her, barely looking.
Thalga picked up the coins, counted them by tapping the wood, then kicked them into a drawer.
— "Tsk… cof cof If you don't break anything this time…" She glanced sideways at Tharon. — "No scratching walls, no biting tables… got it?"
Tharon clinked in his sheath, sharpening his tone:
— "Tables? Please… I only bite things with more intellect than that."
She puffed her cigar, narrowed her eyes, blowing smoke.
— "Cof cof cof! And to think I've melted swords more charming than you."
Kael didn't respond. Or pretended not to. He simply turned his back, steps heavy, drained.
He climbed the stairs, which creaked like they resented their own existence. Each step seemed to whisper: give up… give up… give up…
Short hallway. Low ceiling. A crooked door, scratched and cracked like a map of some forgotten land.
He pushed. The door gave in, groaning.
The room was… what could barely be called a room. Four walls. A bed that looked more like a trap. A window that didn't close properly. And a smell — that smell of something that was never new.
Kael dropped his pouch to the floor. Untied his boots. Removed his belt.
Tharon clinked, vibrating:
— "You know…" — tone sharper than ever — "I still think the old lady loves me. She just doesn't know how to show it."
Kael tossed the sheath with Tharon against the wall.
— "Please…" — voice more worn than it should be for someone his age — "...just… just let me sleep."
Silence.
Only the sound of wind tapping the poorly shut window.
Kael collapsed onto the bed. The mattress gave way with the sound of straw being crushed — along with whatever dignity his body had left.
He stared at the ceiling. And the ceiling stared back — cracked, crooked, judging.
— "Enough…" he whispered.
The world went dark.