A heavy haze of pipe smoke and sour ale pressed low in the cramped taproom, draping itself over shoulders and voices with acrid insistence. At a battered card table by the hearth, two broad-shouldered men hunched over their game, their shouts of accusation rattling through the hum of conversation. At the bar, an elven woman leaned against the polished oak, her gaze flicking to the men's unraveling hands. As she shifted her weight, her tankard wobbled, sloshing ale across the table to stain a shirt already beyond repair. "Watch it, knife-eared!" one gambler roared, springing up just as his companion's fist slammed the wood, sending a spray of cards skittering across the stone floor.
The room's usual chatter dimmed as the Elf turned those cool eyes on the pair. Their snarled insults echoed under the low beams, punctuated by shuffling feet and the clink of mugs as nearby patrons tensed. She studied them with detached interest: yellowed bruises, ragged knuckles—proof of too many brawls and too little patience. A faint smile flickered at her lips.
Quiet. Unbothered. Peaceful. She let those words drift through her mind, a momentary escape from the looming storm. She pictured herself far from this tavern's roar, in a place where no one knew her face or cared about her pointed ears—a sanctuary where rowdy voices were no more than a distant rumor. But fantasy snapped away in the tavern's grinding reality.
Reluctantly, she returned to the racket: threats clipped with halfhearted apologies, tension crackling like static. The two men seethed in silence now, faces flushed, bodies rigid—pride and fear warring in their grips.
Above them, the swinging sign creaked, and the floorboards groaned underfoot. Dozens of conversations—local legends, grievances about the bitter draught—wove into the soundtrack of clinking mugs. The ale-stained brute clenched his fists, knuckles whitening as he fought the urge to charge.
"Sorry," the Elf drawled, stretching the word thin with irony as her bright eyes danced. "Did I break up something important?" She swept a lazy look over the scattered cards, noting how few had remained in sweaty hands. Small-town toughs, too proud to admit when luck simply runs out.
The red-faced brawler thumped his chest with bulging arm, voice thick with rancid ale. "Think you're clever, do you? Flash those elven tricks on us?"
His companion sneered, brushing greasy strands from his forehead. "She's probably using magic the whole room." His eyes glinted with malicious anticipation, craving an excuse to vent.
The Elf sighed, almost theatrically, lifting a hand to tuck a loose auburn curl behind her ear—exposing the slender point they so despised. "You've caught me," she whispered, tone conspiratorial. "I used my vast powers to charm absolutely no one."
Laughter burst from the nearest tables, a welcome breeze in the stifling smoke. The two men stiffened, the crowd's focus closing in like a vise. They exchanged wary glances: pride vs. pragmatism.
"You think you're funny?" the ale-soaked giant growled, palm slamming on the table, breath foul enough to curdle rum. "What if we don't like the joke?"
Her eyes glinted with mischief and defiance, expression practiced boredom. "Then try a different game," she suggested, shrugging with casual ease. The man jabbed a finger at her. "No wonder we've been losing all night—you're helping them win."
A ripple of tension surged through the room. Gamblers at neighboring tables stiffened, eyes flicking between the Elf and their dwindling piles of coins. Murmurs rose into shouts: "She ruined us!", "Elf's cheating for sure!" One gaunt fellow hurled a mug; another, older and gray-haired, slumped in defeat: "Can't win against elven magic."
The Elf watched the chaos with a smirk that trembled between amusement and unease. This dance was all too familiar—fear and hatred spinning her once more into the eye of the storm.
She set her mug down with enough force to make the dregs leap, annoyance welding itself to every line in her posture. "If you lot pulled your heads from your asses, you'd notice I'm not even playing the fucking game." She delivered it half-slurred, half-enunciated to skewer, savoring the shudder it sent up their spines. This was always the way—guiltless until proven elven, and then guiltier by association than anyone else in the room.
One of them advanced anyway, mass thickening as he squared up. "Doesn't take much, does it? Just a whisper of your kind and a sharp tongue to ruin the rest." The stink of his sweat hit her first—onion, sour, wet wool—as he closed the distance. Maybe five feet away. Too close for comfort, too close for pride.
She kept her arms at her sides, fingers loose, fighting down the twitch. If he wanted a show, fine. She could oblige. All around, the crowd pressed in, greedy for the heat to boil over, desperate to witness a proper spectacle before the barkeep doused the lot.
"Last chance to walk away," sneered the greasy-haired thug, bravado cracking under doubt. He drummed his fingers on the table's edge, each tap a countdown.
Adrenaline flared in her veins, sharpening her senses. A slow grin curved her lips. "Thanks, but I think I'll stay." Her fingers twitched—a silent promise that she welcomed what came next.
With a roar, the ale-stained man leaped up, chair crashing to the floor. In that heartbeat, the tavern froze before panic rippled outward—stools scraped, mugs rattled, patrons backed away. The Elf stepped forward, heart pounding like a war drum, braced for the tempest she had never truly escaped.
Tension pulsed through the tavern like a spreading shockwave, the patrons closing in on the Elf and her two would-be assailants as if they were sharks circling wounded prey. The burly men leaned in, their bulk crowding her, faces taut with fury and eager malice. With a single, fluid gesture she thrust her hand skyward, releasing an unseen force that exploded outward in silent thunder. A surge of raw power coursed through her veins, her senses burning with fiery intensity. For a heartbeat, her eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, a silent testament to the toll such magic demanded. The two men flew back, arms and legs flailing, crashing into the floorboards as cards scattered like fallen leaves. Tables overturned, mugs spilled golden foam, and the tavern erupted into chaos.
Over the din, the barkeep's voice cut through like a whip. "Out—now!" he bellowed, his words snapping the crowd to attention. Bodies collided in mad retreat, sawdust kicked up in swirling clouds, and the bitter tang of spilled ale hung heavy in the air. At the very center stood the Elf, calm and amused, as the tumult spun around her.
"Did you see that?" someone shouted, disbelief and awe tangled in their voice. "She sent 'em flying!"
"Witchcraft! Nothing but dirty sorcery!" another screeched, his accusation slicing through the uproar. Some patrons jeered in agreement, riding the wave of outrage, while others grumbled in dissent, excitement crackling between them. "Cheater!" one brave heckler shrieked, earning a chorus of angry nods. The crowd swelled, hungry for the spectacle, eager to shame the stranger who dared to break their peace. Yet the Elf remained unmoved, her expression serene as stormy emotions swirled around her.
The two men on the floor groaned and tried to push themselves upright, faces flushed with humiliation and the sting of public disgrace. The larger one, his shirt streaked with ale, clawed at the cards as though they were fragments of his pride.
This restless throng of voices and movement seemed almost alive, laughing at the fallen, glaring at their conqueror. Her elven features—so like the whispers of old tales—only deepened their suspicion, marking her as an outsider.
She surveyed the bedlam with unhurried ease, finding a quiet center amid the frenzy. Her gaze drifted to the barkeep, a broad-shouldered man whose mustache bristled as he barked fresh orders, trying to marshal his unruly patrons.
"Didn't you hear me?" he roared again, eyes blazing. "I said out!"
She met his glare with a bright, unapologetic smile. In small villages like this, her presence was always a disruption—an unwelcome flash of color against their dull routines. She knew the barkeep well enough: years of running this tavern had steeled him against fights, arguments, and every kind of trouble—including her. He'd snarled at her before, demanded she be gone, only to grumble and sweep up when the dust settled.
A glint of amusement danced in her mind as adrenaline's heartbeat thudded in her veins. She barely had time for a sip of ale before she'd upended two quarrelsome drunks. Her lips curved into a private smile.
"Some people," she murmured, voice low enough that only she could savor the words.
Behind her, the two men staggered back to their feet, rage simmering beneath bruised egos. They lurched forward, but their steps faltered, haunted by the memory of her invisible strike.
"This ain't over, witch!" the ale-stained brute spat, his bravado wobbling on uncertain legs.
She lifted a single brow, the gesture so cool it bordered on disdain. "Next time, you might try playing with a Phoenix Talon in your hand," she suggested, her tone as cutting as any blade.
They flared with indignation, a storm gathering in their eyes—but before they could make another move, she pivoted on her heel. Her crimson cloak fanned out in a dramatic sweep as she headed for the door.
The crowd parted, curiosity and contempt etched on every face, their murmurs trailing behind her like restless spirits. Her boots echoed on the stone floor, each step a declaration that she would not be cowed. When the door finally swung open, a rush of cold night air greeted her—and one last bark from the barkeep.
"And don't come back!"
The Elf let out a breathless giggle, the sound slipping into the darkness as she crossed the threshold, unsteady but defiantly triumphant.
The door slammed behind her, its heavy echo cutting through the night like a final exclamation. Moonlight spilled over her lithe form, tracing the curve of her limbs and the delicate angles of her face. Her auburn hair caught the pale glow as it fanned out behind her, vivid against her dusky skin. Those yellow eyes—her birthright emblazoned in iris—flicked down the empty street with mischievous defiance. The chill nipped at her skin, a welcome counterpoint to the adrenaline still thrumming through her veins. She tightened her red cloak until freckles on her nose and cheeks—like a faint, scattered constellation—grew dim beneath the rising hood.
Night cloaked her in cool anonymity as her boots struck a steady rhythm on the cobblestones. The tavern's uproar faded behind her, leaving only the pounding in her ears and the faint void that came when chaos had no one beside her to share it. A soft sigh slipped free, vanishing into the silence she'd chosen over the jeers and potshots of the drunken crowd.
A timid shuffle brought her back to herself. She nearly collided with a small figure pressed against the doorway—a boy no older than thirteen, eyes wide and lips parted in breathless awe. In his white-knuckled grip was a chipped wooden trinket, held as reverently as any heirloom. He watched her move with the stunned admiration of someone witnessing something impossible.
"Was that magic?" His voice trembled, excitement and disbelief echoing down the street. "How did you make them fall like that?"
She drew in a breath of frosty air, peering past him as the tavern's warmth dwindled behind her world. "Practice," she said lightly, though an edge deeper than annoyance undercut her tone. He stood so close she'd nearly swept him off his feet on her way out—a curious thing she'd seen before, but something about this kid nagged at her focus.
She pressed on down the narrow lane, cloak swirling like an untamed shadow. In the hush of shuttered windows and empty doorways she sensed tiny footsteps trailing her, a quiet counterpoint to her own confident stride. Curiosity or foolishness—she wasn't sure which—pulled at her to glance back.
There he was: a solitary shape bathed in moonlight, dark hair tossed in disorder, slender limbs already hinting at coming strength. From here she could make out his deep brown eyes, bright with wonder and a stubborn spark of resolve that belied his youth.
He lingered by the tavern's entrance as though bound by invisible chains, memorizing the way she moved, the force she wielded so effortlessly. In his hand, the wooden keepsake shifted—a pair of soldiers carved back to back, their details worn smooth with time. To him it was more than a plaything: a remnant of all he'd lost and all he still hoped to find.
He looked like something left behind by the harvest, forgotten and frost-nipped. Mud caked the knees and shins of his trousers—trousers stitched and re-stitched so many times the fabric had become more patch than thread. His shirt, once perhaps white—a collage of stains and careful mending, the collar frayed, the buttons mismatched and dangling by literal threads. Boots? One, badly tooled, the other replaced by a foot wrapped in rags, the strips wound so tight they pressed lines into the skin above his ankle. His hair fell in greasy curtains that shielded his eyes from the cold, though not well enough to hide the bruising at the temple—purple and green, like a rotting plum. She'd bet her last copper he hadn't lost that in a pillow fight.
She moved a step away, flicking her gaze over the boy with clinical thoroughness. He didn't shrink from it.
He swallowed hard, clutching it tighter. Somewhere behind him, the tavern's uproar replayed in his mind—the overturned table, the roaring laughter and anger that had filled the air. His parents would have scolded him for loitering at the threshold of trouble, but he couldn't turn away. The Elf's defiance called to him too strongly.
One cautious step. Then another. His heart thundered in his chest as he followed the path she left, anticipation and determination curdling into a single resolve: to see where her journey would take him.
Up ahead, she paused at the edge of the village, alert to every breath of wind and distant footfall. The soft scuffle reached her ears, stirring equal parts irritation and grudging respect. She considered wheeling back, snuffing out the boy's foolish will with a harsh word or two—but the night breeze tugged her cloak onward, and she let him chase her shadow.
She quickened her pace toward the open road, a comet streaking through darkness, unconcerned by the starlit tail that followed her.
Still, a seed of wonder took root: how far would he go before reality cooled his zeal? Would he break under the weight of his own ideals—or surprise her yet?
Behind her, the boy paused at the tavern's threshold one last time. He pressed his palm to the rough wood of his trinket, feeling its promise in his grip. With a final glance at the flickering lanterns of the known world, he stepped forward into the unknown.