Denizens of the Labyrinth

The city was a sprawling labyrinth of narrow streets and looming stone facades, their weathered surfaces streaked dark with the relentless rain. The sky above was a churning slate-grey, punctuated by flashes of distant lightning that briefly illuminated the crooked angles of rooftops and the deep shadows of alleyways. Water poured from overflowing gutters, cascading down walls, and pooling in uneven cobblestones, creating a symphony of splashes as hurried footsteps dashed through shallow streams.

The crowds pressed tightly together, hoods and cloaks pulled low as they surged toward shelter, their faces obscured by the misty veil of rain. Merchants frantically pulled tarps over their stalls, cursing the weather and the wasted day, while children clung to their parents, their laughter drowned out by the heavy patter of water. The air was thick with the mingling scents of wet earth, damp fabric, and the faint tang of smoke from distant chimneys struggling to stay alight.

Jazmel moved like a shadow among them, the soaked fabric of his cowl clinging to his form as he passed unnoticed through the throng. The city's name escaped him, but its oppressive atmosphere was familiar a place of too many people and too little warmth. Around him, the chaos of the storm mirrored the turbulence within, yet he walked with steady purpose, his boots splashing through puddles as the world churned and shivered in the downpour.

Jazmel pushed open the heavy wooden door, its hinges groaning in protest, and stepped into the dimly lit tavern. The air inside was thick with warmth and the mingling scents of damp wool, spilled ale, and roasted meat. A fire crackled in the stone hearth at the far end of the room, its flickering light casting dancing shadows across walls lined with uneven wooden planks. The smell of charred wood mixed with a faint, sour tang of stale beer soaked into the floorboards, a testament to years of revelry and neglect.

The bar itself was a sturdy slab of dark oak, polished smooth by countless elbows and sticky from fresh spills. Behind it, rows of mismatched bottles stood in uneven ranks, their contents gleaming amber, ruby, and gold in the firelight. The bartender, a burly man with a bald head and an apron stained with grease and ale, cleaned a glass absently while watching the room with a practiced, wary eye.

The patrons were a motley crowd some sat hunched over their mugs, speaking in low murmurs, or nursing their drinks in brooding silence. A group of seekers crowded a corner table, their laughter loud and coarse, their faces flushed from a day's work and more than a few pints. By the bar, a wiry man with a patchy beard sat alone, tracing the rim of his tankard with a calloused finger, his gaze shifting to every new arrival with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.

The air hummed with the subdued clatter of mugs and the murmur of voices, a steady rhythm that spoke of routine comfort in the face of the storm outside. Jazmel shook the rain from his cowl and moved toward a vacant stool at the far end of the bar, the warmth and noise enveloping him like a blanket against the chill of the downpour he had left behind.

Jazmel eased into the lone empty table near the creaking stairs, its scarred surface etched with the careless marks of knives and tankards. He pulled back his soaked cowl, letting droplets fall freely onto the worn wooden floor. The tavern's warmth barely reached him, but he preferred it that way. He let his eyes roam the room, sharp and deliberate, until a movement at the edge of his vision drew his attention.

The waitress approached with practiced grace, balancing a tray on one hand as she weaved through the crowded room. She was a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, with auburn hair pulled into a loose braid that hung over one shoulder. Her apron was faded and patched in places, though her simple tunic was clean and neatly kept. A faint smile touched her lips as she stopped by Jazmel's table, though it didn't quite reach her tired hazel eyes.

Jazmel's gaze narrowed slightly, his heightened senses instinctively brushing against her presence. Her mana was barely a flicker, a minuscule, threadbare strand that seemed more instinctual than intentional. It was the kind possessed by those entirely unaware of its existence a dormant ember rather than a flame. For a moment, he studied her, the slight tremor in her fingers, the way she shifted her weight to favour one leg. Ordinary, unremarkable yet carrying the quiet resilience of someone who had endured far more than their fair share.

"Welcome, handsome," she said softly, her voice warm but worn, like a well-used blanket. "You look like the storm's given you a rough time. Can I get you anything to eat? We've stew on the fire, or bread and cheese if that's more to your liking."

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes meeting his briefly before flitting away, as though unsure if she should linger.

Jazmel shifted slightly in his seat, leaning back as his hand reached for the plain silver band on his finger. With a subtle gesture, he twisted the ring, and a faint shimmer rippled across its surface. A handful of coins materialized in his palm gold, tarnished only by the light's glint and the weight of memory. He placed them on the table with a deliberate clink, letting the sound cut through the background murmur of the tavern.

"Bring the best," he said, his voice low and steady.

The waitress blinked, quickly recovering herself as she reached for the coins. "Of course, sir," she replied, her voice steadier now but still carrying a note of surprise. "I'll see that it's worth your coin." She offered a polite smile, though it didn't conceal her curiosity, before turning and making her way toward the kitchen, the weight of the transaction seemingly spurring her steps.

Jazmel watched her retreat, the ring on his finger gleaming faintly as he settled his hand back on the table. The tavern's noise enveloped him again, but his focus was elsewhere, his mind turning over the faint flicker of mana he'd felt in her presence. It was no more than a spark, but even the smallest embers could ignite under the right conditions. He brushed the thought aside for now, closing his eyes briefly and letting the dull warmth of the fire at his back draw him further into the moment.

Jazmel leaned back in his chair, the warmth of the fire finally seeping through his damp clothes and easing the chill that had clung to him since the downpour. His hood rested loosely on his shoulders, and his sharp eyes roamed the room, observing the ebb and flow of life within the tavern.

To his left, a pair of burly men, likely sailors, argued over a card game. Their voices were low and gruff, but their gestures grew sharper with each play, the tension rising like the tide. One had a jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw, his fingers twitching as he considered his next move. Jazmel noted the faint mark of soot on their hands labourers, no doubt, though their intensity suggested they might not mind using those hands for something far rougher.

At the bar, a trio of merchants hunched over their drinks, their muted discussion punctuated by occasional glances toward the window as though fretting over the storm's impact on their trade. Their fine but practical clothes marked them as men of means, though their hunched posture betrayed the strain of their work. One of them, a wiry figure with greying hair, clutched a leather ledger as if it were a talisman, his lips moving soundlessly as he calculated profits or losses.

In a shadowed corner, a figure cloaked in a patchwork of dark fabric sat alone, nursing a mug of ale. They exuded a practiced stillness, the kind that spoke of someone accustomed to being overlooked. Yet, their eyes Jazmel caught the glint of them beneath their hood swept the room with methodical precision, lingering just a fraction too long on exits and potential threats. A sell sword? Or perhaps someone with darker motives.

Near the fire, a cluster of young travellers laughed loudly, their joy untampered by the rain outside. They raised their mugs in frequent toasts, their accents betraying a mix of regions. One, a woman with auburn hair tied in a loose bun, seemed to hold the group's attention, her animated storytelling drawing chuckles and wide-eyed reactions from her companions.

Jazmel took it all in the tension, the mirth, the quiet plotting as if piecing together a living mosaic. Every voice, every movement painted a story, and he let himself be drawn into the subtle details, waiting for the meal and for the evening to unfold further.

This place smells Paldane says, which makes Jazmel chuckle aloud.

"Can you bring me some more meat?" he asked, as the waitress shot past him. She winked to show she got it and zoomed past as she went to deal with someone else.

She brought it by soon and when she placed it beside his stew. Paldane clambered from his collar and leapt onto the table. Tearing into the meat quickly.

"Whoa, is that a dragon?" she asked, a little too loud. Drawing the attention of others in the room.

"Yes, he is my companion." Jazmel said, noticeably and doing his best to not look bothered by the continued eyes on him.

"I have never seen a dragon. I heard they are deeper and lower in the labyrinth." she said, amazed.

"I have seen a few." He said, not giving away his past. She stared at Paldane for a while, before winking at Jazmel again and moving off to complete her tasks.

The low murmur of conversation in the tavern shifted an undercurrent of anticipation rippling through the room. Jazmel's attention flickered to the stairs as the soft creak of wood underfoot signalled the arrival of new figures. Three strangers descended, their boots heavy on the steps, the flickering firelight catching their sleek, well-tailored clothing. They looked out of place in the worn, rustic tavern draped in fine silks and cloaks that shimmered with the subtle sheen of wealth and power, their faces marked with an air of entitlement.

They paused at the bottom of the stairs, their gazes immediately locking on Jazmel, and more pointedly, the ornate ring on his finger the ring that had made a faint shimmer in the flickering firelight when he'd made his payment. The tallest of the three, a man with sharp features and dark eyes that gleamed with barely concealed greed, took a step forward, his gaze never leaving Jazmel's hand.

"Quite the collection of coins you've got there, traveller," he said, his voice smooth and cultured, with just the faintest trace of a sneer. His companions, a woman with an intricate braid of silver-streaked hair and a wiry man whose eyes were too keen, exchanged glances. They, too, were drawn to the ring, their expressions almost predatory, as if they had already decided it was theirs by right.

Jazmel's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing at first. He could feel the weight of their gaze, the undercurrent of danger that came with it. There was something more to these strangers something beyond mere interest in his coin or the fleeting display of wealth. It was the way they moved, coordinated and purposeful, and the way their eyes darted over him, calculating.

The man who had spoken took another step closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You wouldn't happen to be in need of a little... company, would you? A man like you, with such rare taste in jewellery, surely must be looking for something more than just a meal."

Jazmel's fingers flexed slightly, the edge of his mana flaring as he considered his next move. The strangers' eyes glinted with the certainty that they could take what they wanted, but they underestimated him underestimated the man who had worn far deadlier rings in his past.

Jazmel's calm smile was like a ripple across still water subtle, yet full of quiet menace. He met the man's gaze with an unblinking intensity, his voice low and steady, the weight of his words sinking into the space between them. "Whatever you think you can gain from here, you will not," he said, his fingers brushing lightly over the hilt of his sword, the blackened steel glinting faintly in the firelight. "I am sure I can kill most of you before you get to me... and my dragon he is his own being too."

The strangers paused, their eyes flicking to the hilt of the sword, then to the faint aura of danger surrounding Jazmel. The tallest one, the leader, smirked as though the mention of a dragon was some trivial boast. But the glint in his eyes shifted, just for a moment, as the weight of the threat sank in. Dragons were not something spoken of lightly, especially in a tavern like this.

The woman with the silver-streaked braid took a slow step back, her fingers brushing the edge of her dagger hidden beneath her cloak. The wiry man looked around the room, his posture tense, calculating the distance to the nearest exit. They had misjudged him, thought him just another wandering traveller with coin to take but now, there was doubt in their eyes.

Jazmel let his smile widen, just enough to reveal the subtle amusement in his voice as he continued, "You may leave with your pride intact, or you may test my patience. But know this: neither of those will earn you anything more than a slow death."

The leader's bravado faltered for the briefest moment, his hand twitching toward his side, though he didn't draw a weapon. Instead, he flicked his gaze over to his companions. A silent exchange passed between them, a decision forming in the air, like the storm just outside.

"Don't mistake me," the leader said, his voice a little less confident, though his smirk remained. "We're not here to fight. We're here to talk. But if you prefer to keep it... simple, we can arrange that too." His tone shifted, then leaning toward the dangerous edge of negotiation.

Jazmel's eyes never left him, the smile still in place. He was no stranger to intimidation. "Talk. Then speak quickly, before my patience wears thin."

"How much for the dragon?" the first asked, his eyes riddled with greed.

"No price, no sale. Now leave us." Jazmel whispered and Paldane snarled in tandem.

"You haven't even heard an offer." One of the others said and Jazmel looked at him, his eyes flaring with Mana.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

One of the other men spoke again. but Jazmel waved the words away before he had begun.

"I am not selling. I don't care." Jazmel said and the group grew tense.

Jazmel's gaze flickered upward at the sudden voice, his senses sharpening as he recognized the familiar tone. A grin tugged at his lips as he locked eyes with the man who had spoken Gideon.

The shock of blood-red hair was unmistakable, even now, drenched by the rain that still seemed to haunt the tavern's threshold. Gideon was a sight, his wild hair clinging to his face in damp strands, but it was his eyes that immediately caught Jazmel's attention. Those fierce, fiery eyes were filled with the kind of raw energy that could only come from someone eager for battle, eager to prove something, or perhaps eager to relive the thrill of it. It was a look Jazmel hadn't seen in a long time since the Trials of the Seeker, a period that felt like both a lifetime ago and just yesterday.

Gideon stood tall, his broad shoulders rising above the group of strangers like a mountain ready to crash into a storm. His stance was relaxed, but the excitement in his expression made it clear he was itching for a fight, his hands twitching near his weapons, though his focus remained fixed on the strangers.

"You heard the man!" Gideon repeated, his voice ringing with a mocking playfulness that only made the tension in the room thicker. His grin was wide, full of confidence and the promise of violence. "Or maybe you didn't your ears must be filled with too much of your own arrogance to hear anything clearly."

The strangers looked between Jazmel and Gideon, their initial bravado faltering as they recognized the presence of a second potential threat. Gideon was no ordinary man he was a force, one that had seen battles in every corner of the world and survived more than his fair share of brutal encounters.

Jazmel's smile deepened, both amused and grateful. It wasn't often that someone like Gideon would show up out of the blue, but it seemed the universe had a strange way of connecting the dots. He leaned back, crossing his arms and letting the tension play out, knowing full well that Gideon's presence would make the strangers reconsider their next move.

"Well, well," Jazmel mused, glancing from the stunned strangers back to his old companion. "I had no idea I would be reunited with someone from the Trials today. Seems the storm's not the only thing bringing people together." His tone was light, but the underlying message was clear: with Gideon here, the odds had shifted.

When they saw Gideon they departed and Jazmel looked at him. smiling, it had been a long time since he had seen this man and yet here he was.

Gideon sat beside Jazmel and grinned, there was another man with him. a younger man he hadn't seen, but he was with Gideon, so he was fine.

"Jazmel!" he said and clapped Jazmel heartily on the back.

"Good to see you Gideon." Jazmel said and he meant it.

Gideon grinned, a mischievous spark in his eye as he made his way to the table, his footsteps heavy but confident. With a casual flick of his wrist, he swept the chair out from under the table, sat down, and leaned back, shaking the rain from his drenched hair. The fiery strands clung to his face, but he didn't seem to mind. His eyes locked onto Jazmel, a familiar glint of excitement still in them.

"Well, well, Jazmel," Gideon began, his tone lighter than it had been a moment ago. "Didn't think I'd find you here, of all places. A city I've forgotten the name of, caught in this storm. It's almost as if the gods have a sense of humour." His smile was infectious, the kind of grin that spoke of old, shared battles and the bond of surviving far more than anyone had expected.

Jazmel chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine as he let his gaze drift over his old companion. "It's been far too long, Gideon," he said, his voice tinged with a rare softness. "I almost thought you were lost to the winds after the Trials. I've been wandering for a while myself, you know. Strange how we end up in the same place at the same time. Not much of a coincidence, I'm starting to think."

Gideon leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his grin growing. "I wouldn't call it coincidence, my friend. Luck? Fate? Or perhaps just the inevitability of the world, always pushing us back together when things get interesting. As for me... well, since the Trials, I've been keeping busy. Made my way through a few new lands, got tangled in more than one battle that nearly killed me though I'm sure you'd be disappointed if I didn't live through it."

Jazmel raised an eyebrow, his lips curling slightly. "Of course. Wouldn't be the same without your reckless adventures, would it? And what of the dragons you were so interested in? Any closer to mastering that magic, or are you still figuring out how to make them obey?"

Gideon's expression shifted briefly, his eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and exasperation. "I've made progress, though it's never as simple as I'd like. The dragons are wild, Jazmel. Too wild. And me... well, I'm not sure if I'm the one meant to control them. But there's something about that magic, that raw, untameable power. It calls to me, you know?"

Jazmel nodded, understanding the pull of such a dangerous thing. "I know the feeling. I've been on a few journeys myself, though... I'm starting to question if the price is worth the cost. Lost a few people along the way and learned more than I'd have liked about the world's darker corners."

Gideon's grin softened; his usual excitement dampened for a moment as he studied his old companion. "I've been there, Jazmel. Seen it all, heard it all. But we're still standing, aren't we? That's what matters. We keep going. Even when the odds are stacked against us."

Jazmel leaned back in his chair, his hands folding neatly in front of him. "And here we are, at this table. You and me. Still standing. Maybe that's the greatest victory of all." He paused, his expression turning slightly more serious. "But tell me, Gideon what brings you here? To this city, this tavern, in this storm? Don't tell me it's just fate or luck again."

Gideon chuckled, though there was something more calculating in his eyes now, a hint of something deeper lurking just beneath the surface. "Maybe it is fate. Or maybe... it's something I've been tracking. A lead on something bigger than us both. You know how it is. Once you step into the world of power and dragons, there's no going back. But enough about me. What about you, Jazmel? You've been quiet since the Trials. What's been keeping you busy?"

Jazmel's eyes darkened slightly, a shadow passing over his expression as the memories of his recent battles and choices lingered. But he quickly masked it with a cool smile, one that didn't betray his thoughts. "Oh, you know... just some unfinished business. A few kings to topple, a few alliances to break. Same old, same old." He paused; his gaze meeting Gideon's with an almost teasing glint. "You'll hear about it in time. But for now, I'm just here, sharing a drink with an old friend, and enjoying the quiet before things get loud again."

The two men shared a knowing look, the bond between them palpable. It wasn't just the shared battles and trials that had forged their friendship it was the understanding that no matter how far apart they might drift, no matter how much the world changed, there would always be moments like this. Moments where, for a brief time, they could sit, talk, and reminisce about the road they had walked together.

But they both knew the quiet wouldn't last long. It never did.

Jazmel leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes drift to the man beside Gideon, who had been quietly listening to their exchange. The newcomer sat with a calm demeanour, his posture relaxed yet alert, an air of quiet confidence radiating from him. Gideon, ever the charismatic figure, broke the silence with a chuckle, tapping the young man on the shoulder.

"I forgot my manners," he said, his tone light but sincere. "This sharp young man is Bolen. My second in command and the vice guild leader. Especially after you stole Mary." Gideon's grin grew wider, a teasing edge in his voice as he gave a playful glance toward Jazmel. "Still, I'm sure Bolen will be happy to meet you. A man of your... calibre."

Jazmel's gaze shifted from Gideon to Bolen, his eyes studying the young man with the careful, perceptive scrutiny that had come from years of experience. Bolen met his gaze, a grin spreading across his face friendly, but there was an underlying confidence, perhaps even a challenge in it. He wasn't intimidated by Jazmel, and that told him a lot. The look in his eyes half brown, half gold was striking, something unusual. The gold eye, lacking an iris, caught the light in a way that made it almost hypnotic, a feature Jazmel had only seen a few times before, and never in a normal person.

His skin was a warm tawny brown, his features sharp and symmetrical, like the face of someone who had seen their fair share of struggle but was unbothered by it. The smile on Bolen's lips was one of someone who knew exactly who they were, and how they measured up against the world.

But it wasn't just his appearance that caught Jazmel's attention it was the feel of the mana swirling around him. There was an undeniable power to it, a vastness that told Jazmel all he needed to know. This man wasn't just a warrior; he was a master-tier, like Jazmel himself. Bolen's mana hummed with an intensity that made him nearly as strong as Jazmel, maybe more. It wasn't arrogance in his presence, but a quiet assertion of power, one that was earned and not given.

Jazmel couldn't help but smile as he regarded the younger man. A worthy opponent, perhaps. He was pleased, but he also couldn't help but wonder how this would play out, whether he would find himself in a friendly rivalry with Bolen or something more.

"Master-tier, huh?" Jazmel said, his tone easy but his eyes sharp. "Looks like I'll have to keep my wits about me with you around, Bolen." He gave a short nod of respect, his voice laced with a touch of amusement. "I don't know about Mary, but I can certainly appreciate someone who knows their worth." His smile grew, a glimmer of challenge in his eyes now.

Bolen's grin widened, his gold eye glinting in the light. "I don't mind a little competition," he said, his voice steady, but Jazmel could hear the undertone of excitement there. "I've heard stories of your battles. I'm curious to see how you handle yourself." His eyes flicked to Gideon for a moment, then back to Jazmel. "Though it's not every day we get a chance to meet someone with a reputation as strong as yours."

Jazmel chuckled softly, the tension in the air fading slightly. "We'll see about that, Bolen. But for now, let's enjoy the quiet. There's no need to test our strength just yet."

Gideon looked between the two of them with an amused twinkle in his eyes. "Now, now, no need to fight over me. We've got time, and I'm sure we'll all have our chances soon enough. But for now how about that drink, Jazmel?" He grinned, raising his hand to signal the waitress.

Jazmel exchanged another glance with Bolen, then nodded, a knowing look passing between them. There was respect here, though it was still wrapped in the unspoken challenge of two powerful individuals sizing each other up. For now, the conversation turned back to the food and drink, but the spark of competition was there just waiting for the right moment to ignite.

Jazmel took a slow sip from his mug, savouring the warmth as Gideon's voice broke the comfortable lull in their conversation.

"Did you join a group yet?" Gideon asked, his voice curious, though his eyes gleamed with the kind of light that suggested he had an inkling of what the answer might be.

Jazmel shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "No. I made my own." The words hung in the air for a moment, thick with the weight of them.

Both Gideon and Bolen blinked in surprise, their expressions momentarily stunned. It wasn't every day someone created their own faction. It was a bold move, and one that spoke of ambition, power, and a deep drive for something more.

"You made your own?" Bolen repeated, raising an eyebrow, his voice tinged with disbelief. "No way! What do you call yourselves?"

Jazmel leaned back in his chair, the smile now more pronounced, a glimmer of pride shining through. "The Black Wing Faction."

The words seemed to hang in the air like a challenge. For a moment, the tavern fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire, as Gideon and Bolen took in the name.

Bolen's eyes widened, his mouth falling open. "No way! You're the faction leader?" he shouted, his voice a mixture of awe and surprise. He shot a glance at Gideon, then back to Jazmel, clearly not expecting this answer at all.

Gideon's reaction was a burst of laughter, loud and full of genuine amusement. He slapped Jazmel on the back with enough force to rattle his ribs, his laugh ringing through the tavern like a burst of sunlight. "Hah! I should've known! Leave it to you, Jazmel, to create a whole faction of your own. Black Wing Faction... I like the sound of it. Sounds like a storm's brewing." He chuckled, a light hearted tone in his voice as he glanced at Bolen, who still looked incredulous.

Bolen shook his head, grinning widely. "I've heard of powerful groups, but a new one led by you? That's something else." He raised his mug in a half-toast toward Jazmel. "I've got to hand it to you, Jazmel, you don't do things by half measures."

Jazmel's smile deepened, a flash of pride and a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Wouldn't be much fun if I did, now, would it?"

Gideon leaned back, clearly impressed. "I'll say this much when you go big, you go all the way. So, what's the plan? What's the goal of this... Black Wing Faction?" His voice was light, but there was an unmistakable curiosity there. Whatever Jazmel had been doing, it was clear it was something big, something worthy of attention.

Jazmel's eyes flicked toward Bolen, then back to Gideon, his expression growing more serious. "We're still in the early stages. Building something from the ground up... But we have our eyes set on bigger things. Power, influence, freedom for those who need it. And, of course, we'll be taking on a few challenges along the way."

Bolen raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Taking on challenges? Sounds like my kind of mission. What's the first move?"

Jazmel shrugged casually, his fingers tapping against the edge of his mug. "I've already made a few... acquaintances. We'll see who's interested. The Black Wing Faction isn't just about power it's about creating something that lasts, something that stands on its own."

Gideon looked at him, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sounds like a mighty ambitious goal. But then again, I've always known you were the ambitious type." He grinned. "I'll keep an ear to the ground. Let me know if you need help. I wouldn't mind seeing how far you'll take this."

Bolen nodded in agreement; his tone playful. "Count me in too, if you need another set of strong hands. I like what I'm hearing."

Jazmel's smile grew, a spark of excitement lighting up his eyes. "I'll keep that in mind. For now, let's just enjoy the company. There's more to come."

And with that, the three of them settled back, the conversation flowing easily, the weight of the new faction settling into the air around them, a quiet promise of things to come.

The table was soon laden with hearty meals befitting men who'd travelled long and hard. Gideon tore into a roasted leg of lamb, its skin crisp and glistening with drippings, the scent of rosemary and garlic wafting through the air. Bolen enjoyed a plate of spiced pork belly, caramelized at the edges, served alongside roasted vegetables glistening with butter. Jazmel himself had a platter of venison stew, the thick broth rich with herbs and chunks of root vegetables that melted on the tongue. The meals were paired with crusty loaves of bread and flagons of ale, mead, and a curious spiced wine that left a sweet burn on the throat. The flavours mingled with the warmth of the tavern, creating an atmosphere of camaraderie and ease as the three men laughed, talked, and toasted to old and new adventures.

As the evening wore on and the drinks flowed, Jazmel leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with genuine interest as he quizzed Gideon and Bolen about the intricacies of managing their guild. Gideon spoke with his usual gusto, weaving tales of triumphs and missteps, while Bolen's responses were sharp and pragmatic, hinting at the balance they struck as leaders. Jazmel listened intently, his mind working over the logistics of leadership.

He couldn't help but reflect on his own path. A vice leader... The thought lingered, swirling in his mind like the spiced wine in his cup. The idea had merit: someone to help shoulder the burden of decisions, a counterbalance to his own vision. A strong, reliable second could stabilize the faction, provide perspective, and help build trust among its members. But there were risks too choosing the wrong person could fracture the group or undermine his authority. Trust would be paramount, and trust, Jazmel knew, was not given lightly. Still... He thought, tapping a finger against his mug. If Gideon trusts Bolen enough to share leadership, perhaps I need to consider the same for the Black Wing Faction.

The realization settled in as he glanced at Gideon, who was midway through an animated story about a skirmish in the northern territories. Jazmel chuckled, warmth spreading through him not just from the drink but from the genuine joy of reconnecting with an old friend. It was rare for him to feel so at ease, and for a moment, the weight of his responsibilities seemed lighter.

Then, a sharp, metallic blare cut through the cozy din of the tavern. The sound was unmistakable a klaxon, loud and urgent, echoing through the system. Conversations stilled, chairs scraped against the floor, and heads turned toward the entrance. The air grew taut with tension, and Jazmel instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword, his senses sharpening as the warmth of camaraderie gave way to cold vigilance. Gideon and Bolen exchanged glances; their relaxed demeanour instantly replaced by readiness. Whatever the klaxon heralded, it wasn't good.

"Only a sure man can hold up the skies above." Gideon said as they listened to the blaring klaxon. Those words stuck with Jazmel.