The Oak Grove Tavern was the kind of place where reputations came to die.
Old enough to decay. Loud enough to hide it. Mercenaries drank here. Students pretended to be men here. Women laughed too easily, and men believed them.
Ruger fit perfectly.
Three months buried in Firth's laboratory had worn him down in ways he didn't like to admit. Magic wasn't difficult—it was tedious. Precision. Repetition. Discipline.
All the things he lacked patience for.
So tonight, he stopped trying.
He drank. He laughed. He let the edges of the world soften just enough to become tolerable.
Eit was already drunk when Ruger arrived. Kate sat beside him, back straight out of habit more than necessity, like posture alone could keep control from slipping. Franco leaned into his chair as if the room owed him something. Lens was gone—probably chasing trouble or creating it.
"Ruger!" Eit called out. "Thought you died."
"Not yet."
Ruger took the seat, took the drink, and didn't ask questions.
The noise settled into something almost predictable.
Then he noticed them.
Not because they stood out. Because they didn't.
Six people in the corner. Four men. Two women. Armed, but relaxed in the way only experienced fighters could afford to be. They weren't drinking much. They weren't talking loudly.
They were watching.
Ruger's attention drifted, then stopped.
The woman with the greatsword.
Tall. Balanced. Too still. Leather and steel layered over her body, practical more than decorative. A strap at her thigh held three knives, worn from use rather than display.
Her face was striking. Not soft. Not inviting. Sharp in a way that suggested consequences.
She noticed him.
Their eyes met. Hers narrowed slightly.
Ruger didn't look away. He didn't need to.
Beside her sat a younger girl—fifteen, maybe sixteen. Clean clothes. Expensive materials. Jewelry that didn't belong anywhere near a place like this.
Wrong environment. Wrong company.
Ruger dismissed it. Not his concern.
Lens came back.
Drunk. Grinning. Already making bad decisions.
"That one," he said, loud enough for half the room to hear, gesturing with his cup. "I'd climb that."
Eit laughed. Ruger did too.
The woman didn't.
Her hand moved—not quickly, not sharply. Just enough to settle on the hilt of her weapon. That alone was enough to shift the room.
She stood. No rush. No wasted motion. Which somehow made it worse.
The noise in the tavern dropped without anyone deciding it should.
"Say it again," she said. Not loud. Not angry. Just clear.
Lens opened his mouth.
Eit moved first.
Too drunk to think, but sober enough to react. He grabbed a blade from the table and swung. The woman didn't even turn fully toward him. Steel met steel. The blade snapped clean in half.
Eit stared at what was left in his hand, like the result didn't make sense.
Then everything moved at once.
It looked like chaos. It wasn't.
The mercenaries fought like people who had done this too many times to waste energy. Every step had purpose. Every movement closed space or created it.
Kate was forced back immediately. Franco lost control of his distance. Lens hit the ground and stayed there.
Ruger watched.
He should have left. That would have been the smarter choice.
But instead—he saw it.
Not the fight itself. The pattern beneath it.
One of the mercenaries—a man with a scar across his throat—shifted his weight slightly too far forward. Not enough for most people to notice.
Enough.
Ruger moved.
Magic Missile. Weak. Basic. Predictable. Unless you changed how it was used.
He didn't push more power into it. He adjusted it. The projectiles curved—not dramatically, not visibly. Just enough that their path stopped being obvious. They hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Then struck from the wrong direction.
The man dropped.
One.
Another turned toward Ruger immediately.
Fast. Controlled. Closing distance the way trained fighters did. Too fast for a mage to follow.
Ruger didn't follow. He already knew where the movement would fail.
The man stepped. Wine on the floor. Thin. Easy to miss.
Ruger didn't try to stop him. He made the floor matter. A slight shift. A change in friction. Nothing visible.
The man's foot slipped just enough.
That was all it took.
Ruger stepped forward. A table drove into the man's chest. The impact broke his rhythm completely. He hit the ground hard and didn't get back up.
Two.
Ruger didn't hesitate. Not because he was fearless. Because he had already decided—none of them mattered.
The balance shifted.
Kate stabilized. Franco adapted quickly. Eit stopped trying to win and focused on not losing.
Then—she looked at him.
The woman. No anger in her face. That was the problem.
She moved.
The greatsword came down in a clean line, precise enough that it didn't need speed to be lethal. It wasn't a swing—it was a decision already made.
Ruger saw the path. The end of it.
He moved before the blade finished falling. A cup. A plate. A chair. He threw them in her direction—not to hit, but to interrupt.
It worked. Barely. Half a second.
Enough.
Eit came in from the side. Kate pressed forward. The formation cracked.
Ruger saw where it would break before it did.
The mage in the back hesitated. Too cautious. Too late.
Ruger reached.
The staff tore free from the man's hand. The spell died before it finished forming.
Ruger tilted his head slightly. "You waited too long."
Hoofbeats outside. City guard. Fast. Closer than expected.
Ruger didn't stay to confirm. He grabbed the staff. Grabbed Lens by the collar and dragged him upright.
They moved.
Behind them, the tavern erupted—voices, crashes, the sound of something spiraling out of control.
They were already gone.
They didn't stop until they reached the alley behind the chapel.
Lens slid down the wall, clutching his face. "They broke my nose…"
"You deserved worse," Franco said.
Lens winced. "That woman—"
"She wasn't playing," Kate said quietly. "You just didn't notice."
Silence followed.
Ruger leaned back against the wall. Breathing steady. Pulse steady. Everything where it should be.
He looked down at the staff. Good material. Solid construction. The core pulsed faintly—expensive.
He could sell it. That had been the plan. Still was. Probably.
But for a moment—that wasn't the part that interested him.
He turned the staff slightly in his hand, feeling the balance, the structure, the way the energy moved through it.
Understanding. That was new.
Because something had changed. Not the fight. Not the odds.
Him.
Above the tavern, behind a half-open window—a man watched.
Golden hair caught the dim light. His armor reflected just enough to remind anyone looking that he did not belong to this place.
He hadn't moved once during the fight.
"That one," he said.
Elesis stood beside him, her presence quieter but no less absolute.
"The fat one?" she asked.
"Yes."
"He got lucky."
"No." The answer came without hesitation. "He made choices."
Elesis' eyes shifted slightly.
"That's not second-tier magic."
"No," he agreed.
A brief pause.
Then, a faint smile.
"Which makes him interesting."
He turned away from the window.
"Find him."
END OF CHAPTER 3