Two years after the battle at the Northern Fort…
Inside the Broken Horn Tavern, the air was thick with warmth and noise. Wooden beams creaked softly overhead as laughter, clinking mugs, and the aroma of grilled meat filled the room. Smoke drifted lazily toward the chimney, caught in the soft golden light of oil lamps. It was a familiar environment—miners fresh from the pits, hunters still carrying the scent of the wild, merchants boasting about their trades, and a few off-duty soldiers slouched over ale with weary eyes.
In the middle of it all, a boy moved with practiced ease—balancing trays, dodging wandering hands, greeting regulars with a grin. Sixteen, maybe younger at first glance, with tousled dark hair and an energy that never seemed to fade.
"Oi! Rowan!" a man called from the corner table. It was Garret, a miner with a soot-smudged face and calloused hands. "You remember what you told me last week? About Amy?"
Rowan turned, already smiling. "What, that you should stop staring at her like a lost puppy and say something?"
Garret grinned. "I did. I actually asked her out."
Rowan raised his eyebrows. "And? She throw a mug at your head?"
"She said yes!"
A few patrons nearby clapped or laughed in surprise. Rowan winked. "Well then, you'd better leave a generous tip. That advice? It wasn't cheap, you know."
The laughter spread, warming the room. That was Rowan—always laughing, always moving. He wasn't just a waiter. He was part of the tavern's rhythm.
Near the fireplace, a group of soldiers sat speaking in hushed tones. Their voices were low, but sharp enough to be overheard in snatches.
"The situation at the border's worse than they say," one muttered, sipping from a dented mug. "Ever since the general of the Northern Fort died, we've been losing ground."
"Didn't he have a disciple?" another asked. "That young one—the Shadow Blade?"
"He's dead," the first replied, though his tone lacked certainty.
A third leaned forward. "Or hiding."
"Hiding?" the first scoffed. "You've heard the stories. If he was alive, he'd have taken half the enemy's heads by now."
"Shhh!" the second warned, eyes flicking around the room. "Don't say that name so loud. If spies are lurking, they'll think we're part of something."
At that moment, Mirena, the tavern owner's wife, emerged from the back, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Rowan!" she called across the room. "Come help me move the kegs. The way people drink, we'll run dry before sunset."
"Coming, ma'am!" Rowan called back, grabbing a towel and tossing it over his shoulder.
Mirena watched him approach with quiet fondness. She didn't say much as they worked side by side, rolling barrels into place. But every now and then, she glanced at him—the way a mother might look at her child. Ever since he came here, their fortunes had slowly turned. They didn't have much, but it was better than before. And truthfully, he'd filled a space in their lives neither she nor Gordon had realized was empty.
As they rolled the last keg into place, the tavern door creaked open.
Six figures stepped inside, each marked by the road—dust on their cloaks, weariness in their eyes. But they moved with the quiet confidence of fighters. Weapons hung from their backs or hips. Some eyes turned their way, but the tavern returned to its usual din soon after. Hunters were no rare sight here; the guild hall was just down the street.
Rowan was already at their side before they could find a seat.
"Welcome to the Broken Horn," he said with a bright grin. "Food, drink, and a seat by the fire, if you're lucky."
The tallest among them, a broad man with two axes strapped to his back, chuckled. "We'll take whatever's hot. And a round of ale."
"You got it," Rowan said, giving them a nod. "Name's Rowan, by the way. Shout if you need anything."
As he walked off toward the kitchen, the group took their seats at a corner table. They sat in silence for a moment before Noah—the man with the axes— leaned back, stretching his sore shoulders as the heat of the fire soaked into his travel-worn bones.
"Damn, this place actually feels like civilization."
"That stew better be as good as it smells,"
Jasmine muttered, pulling off her gloves.
Then, as mugs were passed around, the tone shifted—quieter, heavier.
"So… do we really want to take this job?"
"It's not just a job," said Robert, the man in the crimson cloak. "It's a dungeon. And not just any dungeon—an old one. Deep forest. No maps. No return parties."
"Two groups already went," added Jasmine, the healer. Her voice was soft, but steady. "Neither came back."
"All dungeons are dangerous," Ron muttered, resting his sword against the table. "That's why they pay us."
"We're not just treasure hunting," said Alice, the archer with a carved wooden bow. "If we leave it alone, monsters might start creeping out. Villagers could get hurt."
Lucius, the tank, spoke up. "We need a guide. And someone who can carry gear. Someone local. This forest isn't on any of our maps."
Robert nodded. "We'll ask the tavern owner. He'll know who's brave—or foolish—enough to take the job."
Just then, Rowan returned with steaming plates and full mugs. He served with ease, placing each dish without spilling a drop.
"Here you go! Roast boar, stew, bread, and cider. Anything else?"
Noah looked at him thoughtfully. "Actually, could you call your boss? We'd like to ask him something."
"Of course," Rowan said, and disappeared behind the curtain.
Inside, Mirena turned from the counter. "Something wrong?"
Rowan shook his head. "That new group wants to speak to the boss."
She raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "I'll get Gordon."
Moments later, Gordon—a thickset man with tired eyes and a weathered apron—stepped out to meet the group.
Rowan pointed him toward the corner table where Noah's group was seated.
Gordon marched over in unhurried steps and offered a curt nod. "My guests, how can I be of help?"
"We're heading into the deep forest," Noah said plainly. "There's a dungeon. We need a guide—someone local. Someone willing to carry gear and show us the way."
Gordon folded his arms. "There are folks who know the paths. But none who'll take the risk. Not after what happened to the last two groups."
"We're willing to pay," Robert added. "And we're not just doing this for gold. Clearing the dungeon helps your town too."
Gordon gave a slow exhale. "It's not about gold. I've buried enough folks chasing coin through those trees. I won't send another one."
Then came a quiet voice from behind.
"I'll go."
They turned. Rowan stood just beyond the table, straight-backed, eyes steady.
"You?" Alice asked, almost startled. "You're… a kid."
"I know the forest," Rowan said. "I've gone deeper than most hunters before the dungeon appeared three months ago. I can carry your gear, and I won't slow you down."
Behind him, Mirena froze in place. Her hands clenched the edge of her apron, knuckles white.
"Rowan, no," she said, her voice trembling. "Don't… don't do this."
He turned to her and offered a small smile—gentle, quiet. "We need the money, ma'am. The tavern's still behind on rent, right? Let me help."
She took a step forward, as if to grab his arm, then stopped herself. Her mouth opened, but no words came. Her eyes shimmered.
Gordon's jaw tightened. He looked at Rowan, and something passed over his face—conflict, old and deep.
"You're not some errand boy we hired last year," he said quietly. "You live here. We care about you. I'm not handing you over to a death sentence."
Rowan held his gaze. "I've handled worse."
Gordon studied him. Slowly, his brows furrowed—not in anger, but in realization. That line, the tone, the stillness—it didn't sound like a boast. It sounded like confidence.
Noah scratched his beard. "He's confident. We could use that."
Alice hesitated. "But he's just—"
"He's local," Lucius cut in. "Knows the forest. That's half the battle."
Robert glanced between Rowan and the tavern owners. "We'll take him. But listen, boy—this won't be easy. We can't protect you if you fall behind."
Rowan nodded. "I understand. I'm not afraid."
Mirena moved to him then, slowly. She reached out and laid a trembling hand on his arm.
"Just… come back safe," she whispered.
Rowan didn't speak. He only nodded, his expression unreadable.