Opeka buzzed like a beehive someone had poked with a stick, and Killyaen, the Supreme Elf of this dusty corner of Aeneria, was the one holding the stick.
The Black Stone Tavern, hummed with the aftermath of Janko's "Cursed Cat" nickname, born from Killy's glow-in-the-dark barn prank and those stubborn black whiskers.
Killy leaned against a tavern table, polishing tankards with a rag and a grin that could charm a viperyx .
His olive skin bore no trace of yesterday's bruises, thanks to N'Nazmuz's curse—the thirty-kilogram weight he'd chosen for training, which crushed his body but healed his scrapes overnight and kept his stamina sharper than a blacksmith's blade.
Stronger than Janko, tougher too, Killy had taken the big man's punches without fighting back, knowing fame demanded a toll. But today, his gold-flecked eyes sparkled with the promise of more trouble.
"Oi, Killy, don't get cocky just 'cause the village is laughing at Janko," Bera called from the kitchen, her voice cutting through the clatter of pots. Her dark curls, barely contained by her scarf, bobbed as she poked her head out, wooden spoon in hand.
"You keep poking that bear, and he'll do more than bruise your pretty face."
"Pretty? Bera, you're too kind," Killy said, striking a dramatic pose with the rag, his braid swinging.
"But Janko's the Cursed Cat now, not a bear. And I'm the Supreme Elf, untouchable!" He winked, dodging her half-hearted swat, the curse's weight making his sidestep a touch slower but no less cheeky.
The tavern door creaked, and Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith, sauntered in, his apron smudged with soot. "Heard the kids chanting 'Cursed Cat' at Janko's barn this morning," he said, grinning as he slid onto a stool. "Whole village is talking.
Old Lady Mirna swears it's a sign of dark magic, says only a spiritual stone could fix Janko's face now." He chuckled, sipping an ale Killy slid his way.
Spiritual stones—rare, glowing gems hoarded by Opeka's elite like Goran or the headwoman—were the stuff of village legend, and Killy had never seen one, though he'd heard they hummed with power.
"Dark magic? Nah, just my artistic genius," Killy said, polishing a tankard with a flourish. "Janko's lucky I didn't paint his whole face like a festival mask." The village's gossip, fueled by grandmothers like Mirna and kids giggling in the square, only made Killy's legend grow. But he knew Janko wouldn't take it lying down.
The big man was probably plotting something, and Killy's sharp mind was already three steps ahead.Sure enough, Janko had a plan. By mid-morning, word reached Killy—via a snickering tavern patron—that Janko was rigging a trap. The big man, still scrubbing at his whiskers, had "borrowed" a sack of flour from the mill and planned to dump it on Killy from the tavern's rafters while he worked.
A classic, if uninspired, revenge prank. Killy, however, was no ordinary target.
His mind, as cunning as a fox and twice as slippery, churned with ideas. Janko wanted a flour shower? Fine. The Supreme Elf would give him a show.Killy waited until Janko lumbered into the tavern, pretending to sweep the floor with exaggerated focus, the curse's weight making each stroke a workout.
He'd spotted Janko earlier, sneaking into the rafters with a sack and a scowl, the black whiskers still stark on his red face.
As Janko positioned himself overhead, Killy "accidentally" bumped a ladder against a beam, loosening a rope he'd rigged that morning. With a creak and a thud, the flour sack tipped—not on Killy, but straight onto Janko.
A white cloud exploded, coating the big man like a snow-dusted statue.
The tavern erupted in laughter, patrons choking on their ale as Janko sputtered, flour clinging to his whiskers, making him look like a very angry, very dusty cat.
"Cursed Cat strikes again!" Killy crowed, dodging a flour-caked fist as Janko slid down the ladder, roaring.
"Careful, Janko, you're shedding!" The patrons howled, and even Bera peeked out, snorting so hard she dropped her spoon.
Killy danced away, the curse slowing his steps but not his grin, knowing he'd turned Janko's prank into another village legend.
Goran, summoned by the chaos, stormed out of the storeroom. "Killyaen, you idiot!" he bellowed, grabbing Janko before he could tackle Killy. "And Janko, get out before you turn my tavern into a bakery!"
Janko stomped off, trailing flour, his new nickname echoing in the laughter behind him.With the tavern still buzzing, Goran dragged Killy to the field out back for training. "You're not prancing out of this one," Goran growled, tossing him a wooden practice sword.
"You're drilling Wind's Rebuke till you stop tripping over your own ego." The Storm Technique, tailored to Killy's curse, was about using the thirty-kilogram weight as an anchor for powerful strikes.
Killy, still buzzing from his prank victory, swung the sword with enthusiasm—too much enthusiasm. On his third pivot, he leaned too hard into the curse's pull, spun wildly, and crashed into Goran's practice dummy, sending it toppling into the grass with a sad thud.
"Supreme Elf, my arse," Goran muttered, hauling Killy to his feet.
"Again. Focus, or the curse'll bury you before Janko does." Killy, red-faced but grinning, tried again, his braid swinging as he moved. The curse's weight dragged at him, but its stamina boost kept him swinging.
By late afternoon, his strikes were sharper, the blade whistling as he pivoted with the curse's momentum.
"Better," Goran grunted, a rare nod of approval. "Keep at it, or you'll be scrubbing dummies next."
As the sun sank, painting the sky in shades of fire, Killy trudged back to the tavern, sore but smug. The village square was alive with chatter—kids chanting "Cursed Cat" as they ran past Janko's glowing barn, grandmothers like Old Lady Mirna spinning tales of Killy's pranks as if he were a demon with a paintbrush. Marko, polishing a horseshoe at his forge nearby, called out, "You're gonna need a bigger broom to clean up this mess, Supreme Elf!" Killy waved, his grin undimmed.