The rain had stopped.

  Only drops clung to the edges of the rooftops, and small puddles scattered across the street reflected the yellow glow of the lanterns like broken mirrors. The air still smelled of wet stone and old smoke, but now it was mixed with something warmer: grease, bread, roasted meat.

  The tavern's outdoor seating was small: four uneven wooden tables, a few warped chairs, and a worn canopy that did little when it rained. Now, it only held the lingering moisture that dripped slowly from its edges.

  They sat in one of the corners.

  The boy and the girl barely waited for the food to arrive. When the innkeeper placed the plates down, they fell on them as if afraid someone might take them away. Thick bread, still warm. A simple stew, heavy with beans and scraps of meat. A small bowl of hard cheese.

  Nothing special.

  To them, it was everything.

  They ate quickly, without ceremony, dirtying their fingers, lips, and clothes. The girl barely breathed between spoonfuls. The boy swallowed pieces that were too big, choked, drank water, and returned to his plate as if racing against time.

  The man watched in silence.

  In front of him was only a mug of dark beer, thick and bitter. He took a small sip, then another, unhurried, as if every movement had to be considered. He didn't touch the food.

  For a while, only the sound of cutlery, creaking wood, and muffled voices from inside the tavern could be heard.

  The girl spoke first.

  "Sorry..." she said, her mouth still half full. She swallowed quickly. "We were really hungry."

  The man nodded.

  "I noticed."

  The boy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "Thank you," he said. "Really."

  "It was nothing."

  There was a brief silence.

  "I'm Taren," the boy continued. "And she's Lira."

  The girl nodded.

  "Lira. Taren," the man repeated, committing the names to memory.

  Lira wiped her hands on her skirt before speaking.

  "Thank you very much for the food, sir..."

  She hesitated.

  Taren looked up.

  "Wanderer."

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  She repeated it, uncertain.

  "Wanderer."

  The man simply inclined his head.

  They ate a little more before he spoke again.

  "We... we came from the south."

  Lira looked up.

  "You don't have to—"

  "It's fine," he replied. "He helped us."

  She nodded.

  "Our village was burned last winter," Taren said.

  He didn't dramatize it. He said it the way one talks about rain.

  "First the soldiers came. Then the others. When it was over, there was nothing left."

  Lira pressed her lips together.

  "We walked for weeks," she added. "We slept wherever we could. Sometimes... we didn't sleep."

  "We were only supposed to stay here a few days," Taren said. "But... it's been almost a year now."

  The man listened without interrupting.

  Lira looked down, tracing the edge of her plate.

  "I just... wanted to say we're really grateful. For the food. For everything. You have no idea how much you helped us."

  He looked away briefly, finished his beer, and set the mug down.

  "It was nothing. Just food."

  He paused.

  "But... you did well to eat."

  They both nodded.

  Night moved slowly forward. The lanterns flickered in the light wind, and the street grew quieter.

  Taren spoke again.

  "Wanderer..."

  "Hm?"

  "How long... have you been like this?"

  "A long time."

  "Like... how many years? Five? Ten?"

  He thought for a moment.

  "I lost count."

  Taren's eyes widened.

  Lira tilted her head.

  "So you've seen a lot of places."

  "Some."

  "Which ones?" she asked quickly.

  He reflected for a moment.

  "Tharos, in the south. By the sea. The houses are all bright, almost too white. When the sun hits them, everything shines."

  "That must be beautiful..."

  "It is. But it hurts your eyes. And the wind carries salt. It gets into your clothes, your hair... everything."

  He ran his fingers along his sword's sheath.

  "Once I left my blade out overnight. By morning, it was full of stains."

  Lira laughed.

  "That's awful."

  "It always smells like fish and spices," he continued. "Even far from the harbor. And at night, no one goes to sleep early. People talk, sing, argue in the streets."

  "Sounds fun..."

  "Sometimes."

  Taren leaned forward.

  "And the north? Have you ever been there?"

  "Norcrest?" he said with a faint sideways smile. "Cold. Even when the sun's out, it doesn't warm you. The wind cuts your face."

  Lira frowned.

  "Don't you freeze?"

  "I do. But they build stone houses with heavy doors. The cold barely gets in... and the heat doesn't escape."

  He thought for a moment.

  "Inside, it's dark, but comfortable. And despite the cold... they might be the best people I've met. Straightforward. Honorable. I respect them."

  Taren considered that.

  "What about big cities? The crowded ones—have you seen any?"

  He was silent for a moment.

  "Big cities... I think the largest were in Velkar. Everything's wide there. Streets, squares, bridges. Soldiers everywhere."

  "To protect people?"

  "To control them."

  A brief silence followed.

  "Did you like it?" Lira asked.

  "Depends on the day. In Velkar, you're never alone... but you're never at peace either."

  She looked at him.

  For a moment, she hesitated.

  "One day... I'd like to travel like you."

  The man fell silent. He blinked, surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

  "I'm not—"

  He was about to answer.

  Something simple.

  But before he could, a scream cut through the air.

  It came from far away. Echoed through the streets. Then another, closer. The dry crack of breaking wood followed.

  The man straightened. The conversation vanished from his mind as his hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his sword.

  "What was that?" Taren whispered.

  The smell came next.

  Smoke.

  Rising through the streets.

  More voices. Rushing footsteps.

  And then, in the distance, bells began to ring.

  An alarm.

  The man stood.

  "Stay here."

  But it was already too late.

  From a side street, a group of soldiers appeared—dark armor, closed helmets, spears and swords in hand. They chased fleeing civilians.

  A torch was thrown at a house.

  Fire rose instantly.

  A man stumbled.

  Fell.

  Did not get back up.

  Further ahead, a woman was grabbed by the hair and dragged across the stones.

  "No..." Lira whispered.

  Taren stood frozen.

  The man stepped forward.

  His hand tightened around his sword.

  In the street, the city began to burn.

  And the night turned into war.