The tavern smelled of smoke, spilled ale, and the faint odor of bodies packed too close together. Lanterns swung on iron hooks, casting restless shadows across the warped planks of the floor. In one corner, raised half a foot above the rest of the room by a crate someone had shoved under a leg, sat a man with a grin too wide for his face.
D'rail Eurt tapped his goblet against the table to get attention. He was pale, wiry, and wore clothes that once might have belonged to nobility. Now, they had more patches than original fabric. Still, he puffed himself up as if dressed in silk and jewels.
"You're looking at him," he announced, his voice cutting through the low chatter. "The long-lost son of Lord Eurtan of Greyspire, banished as an infant to hide me from assassins, raised in shadows, now returned."
A murmur spread through the tavern. The farmhands at the next table glanced up, smirks appearing on their lips. A gray-bearded, sharp-eyed peddler leaned back in his chair, polishing an apple with his sleeve.
The innkeeper, a barrel of a man with flour on his arms from baking bread, grunted. "Greyspire's been ashes for twenty years. No lord, no heirs."
D'rail clicked his tongue. "Ashes to the world, perhaps. But I—" He leaned forward, lowering his voice for effect. "I was spirited away by loyal retainers. Hidden until the time was right. Do you think assassins stop just because stone walls burn?"
The farmhands chuckled. One muttered, "Time was right, huh? Then why are you drinking watered ale in a hole like this?"
D'rail's grin didn't falter. If anything, it grew wider. "Incognito, my good man. Do you show your harvest before it ripens? Of course not. You wait and let the grain grow tall, golden, irresistible. That's me."
The peddler snorted, finally speaking. "And what proof do you have of this noble blood? Got a ring? A seal? Anything besides your mouth?"
D'rail's eyes sparkled. "Proof? You want proof?" He rose unsteadily, slamming his palm onto the table. "When Lord Eurtan's enemies came for me, I was just a babe. My mother—a sainted woman—tore off her necklace and pressed it into my swaddling clothes. Silver, with the crest of Greyspire. I still keep that necklace."
"Oh?" the innkeeper drawled, folding his thick arms. "Then show us."
D'rail froze for a moment too long. His hand darted to his chest, patting beneath his patched shirt as if searching. Then he sighed, shaking his head mournfully. "Alas, the necklace was stolen. By thieves. Cowards who thought to profit from the bloodline of Greyspire. But I—" He jabbed a finger skyward. "I will reclaim it. And when I do, the world will kneel."
The tavern erupted with laughter. Mugs slammed against tables. Someone shouted, "And I'm the lost prince of the Moon!"
D'rail smirked, raising his goblet high. "Ah, you jest now. But soon you will see. When banners rise, when castles fall, when the blood of Greyspire sings once more—then you'll regret laughing."
He drank deeply, though his cup was nearly empty. His eyes scanned the room, looking for those who seemed convinced and those ready to turn on him.
At the door, the hinges creaked. A figure in plain official's clothing stepped in, brushing dust from his sleeves. His cold gaze swept the room and paused on D'rail. The tavern fell quiet.
The official said flatly, "This liar again?"
The silence thickened like smoke. The man in plain clothes moved forward, boots thudding on the floorboards. His hair was cropped short, and his belt weighed down with scrolls and a dagger—the badge of a bailiff, one of those petty enforcers who served the crown by collecting taxes and finding troublemakers.
D'rail's grin wavered, but he quickly plastered it back on. "Ah, an old acquaintance, no doubt. Here to pay respects to the lost heir of Greyspire, are we?"
The bailiff narrowed his eyes. "Lost heir? Last week in Southcross, you claimed you were a wandering knight of the Holy Order. Before that, a merchant prince from the coast. And now"—he jabbed a finger at D'rail—"you spout this Greyspire nonsense?"
A ripple of laughter rose from the crowd. The farmhands leaned closer, elbows on the table, eager for blood.
"Exaggerations, good sir!" D'rail exclaimed, raising both hands as if warding off blows. "A man of many talents cannot be labeled in one way. My noble blood required me to disguise myself, to survive the endless assassins—"
The bailiff cut him off with a loud laugh. "Assassins? Don't flatter yourself. Greyspire's line ended before your mother was born. I've seen the records myself. No hidden heirs, no noble blood—just liars drunk on their own breath."
The innkeeper smirked, leaning on the counter. "Sounds about right."
D'rail's jaw worked angrily. He pointed at the bailiff, trying to puff himself larger than life. "And who records the records? Men like you! Paid to hide truths inconvenient to those who fear me. Of course, you would say the line was gone. That's exactly what you'd write in your little ledgers!"
The crowd roared with laughter. Even the peddler, who had been watching, doubled over, slapping his thigh.
"Do you hear him?" a farmer called out. "The crown's covering up his greatness! Next, he'll say he's the Emperor's brother!"
D'rail's face turned red. "Cousin, actually," he blurted out before he could stop himself.
That did it. The tavern erupted in loud laughter. A mug of ale flew through the air, splashing across his patched coat. Someone yelled, "Cousin! Bow to His Highness, lads!" A half-dozen drunken farmers mockingly dipped their heads, almost collapsing with laughter.
The bailiff sneered. "Pathetic. You're no heir, no cousin, no knight. Just a rat who feeds on people's goodwill until they chase you out. I'll make sure it happens again."
He stepped forward, hand on his dagger. "Get out of this tavern before I drag you by the scruff and toss you in the stocks."
D'rail's mind raced. He forced a shaky laugh. "Stocks? You wouldn't dare. My retainers are—"
"—imaginary," the bailiff snapped, reaching for D'rail's arm.
The liar stumbled back, knocking over his chair. "Unhand me, cur! You lay one finger on me and… and…" His voice faltered. The tavern waited, eager for his next words.
"…and you'll regret it," he finished weakly.
Laughter returned like thunder. A boot kicked him in the backside, and someone threw a crust of bread. Suddenly, he found himself stumbling toward the door under a hail of jeers. The bailiff gave him a final shove, and D'rail spilled out into the night, his heart racing.
Behind him, the roar of the tavern swelled with mocking cheers.
Outside, the cold air bit into his face. He pressed his back against the door, taking shallow breaths. "Fools," he muttered, brushing crumbs from his coat. "All fools. Can't recognize greatness if it pisses on their boots."
Down the road, he heard a faint clang of steel and shouting, and the flicker of firelight against the trees.
D'rail froze, tilting his head like a fox smelling danger. "Well, maybe fortune isn't done with me yet."
He slipped off the road, curiosity pulling him toward the glow.