The morning air in Opeka carried the sharp tang of woodsmoke and fresh bread, a quiet hum of life stirring in the village's narrow lanes. The Black Stone Tavern stood as its weathered anchor, its stone walls soaking up the dawn's first light.
Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's undisputed king of chaos, was already inside, scrubbing tables with a rag and a grin that could spark a fire. His latest antics—painting Janko's barn to glow like a lighthouse and marking him with black whiskers—had earned Janko the village's favorite nickname, and Killy's legend grew with every whispered tale, though he knew the big man was itching for payback.
As Killy swept the floor, the tavern door creaked open, and Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith, stepped in, carrying a bundle of iron hinges fresh from his forge.
"Killy, you're still alive?" he said, dropping the hinges on a table with a clank.
"Thought Janko'd have tied you to his barn by now, what with the whole village calling him names."
His grin was sharp, his soot-streaked face lit with amusement."Me? Tied up?"
Killy leaned on his broom, striking a dramatic pose. "Marko, I'm the Supreme Elf, far too slippery for Janko's clumsy paws. He's probably plotting something dumber than his last try." He winked, knowing Janko's latest scheme—a barrel of soured milk rigged to douse him—was already doomed.
The tavern gleamed by noon, and Killy, humming to himself, slipped out to the field behind the tavern for training with Goran.The old warrior, a seven-time champion of the Arena of Immortals, tossed Killy a wooden practice sword.
"Wind's Rebuke, again," Goran growled, his beard bristling like a hedgehog. "Get it right, or I'll have you scrubbing Janko's boots next." Killy, still sore from yesterday's squirrel fiasco, gripped the sword, leaning into the curse's weight to anchor his strikes. His pivots were smoother now, the blade whistling as he spun, but a moment of overconfidence sent him stumbling into a patch of mud, his braid plastered with dirt.
"Supreme Elf, my arse," Goran muttered, hauling him up. "Focus, or you'll be fighting mud puddles, not foes."
Killy, grinning despite the muck, kept at it, landing a clean strike by afternoon that earned a grudging nod from Goran.
Back at the tavern, Killy buried himself in his new books—tattered tomes of heroes and far-off lands—stealing moments between chores to dream of adventures beyond Opeka's dusty borders.
By evening, he was serving ale to a rowdy crowd, dodging drunken elbows and tossing quips like daggers. Marko, back for a late ale, had warned him Janko was up to something big, and Killy's sharp mind was already sniffing out the plan.
Janko's scheme was a barrel of soured milk rigged to tip over the tavern's back door when Killy hauled out the trash—a stinky, messy revenge.
It was ambitious but sloppy, and Killy, sharp as a blade and twice as sneaky, was ready to flip the script.
While Janko fumbled with his barrel in the alley, Killy swapped the soured milk with a barrel of watered-down ale, then loosened a plank on Janko's cart nearby, tying a string to a crate. When Janko tugged his rope to spring the trap, the string pulled, and the cart's plank collapsed, rolling a wave of old cabbages—Janko's own stash—right into him.
The big man flailed, buried under a reeking pile, as Killy popped out from behind the tavern door, crowing, "Cursed Cat's gone veggie!"
The few patrons nearby roared with laughter, Marko nearly choking on his ale as Janko, cabbage leaves stuck to his hair, roared curses that could curdle milk.
"Cursed Cat, you're a walking garden now!" Killy taunted, dodging Janko's lunge, his agility honed by years of training making the move easy despite the prank's chaos splashing his boots with ale.
The prank wasn't a total bust—Killy's trousers were damp with ale—but Janko's veggie-soaked defeat was the tavern's new favorite tale.
Goran, drawn by the commotion, stormed out, his one good eye blazing. "Killyaen, you idiot!" he bellowed, then paused, eyeing Janko's cabbage-covered state.
"Wait—Janko, you set this up?" The big man's sheepish scowl gave him away, and Goran's patience snapped.
"Enough! You two are burying the hatchet, now." He dragged both to the tavern's center, where patrons hushed, sensing a show. "Killy, apologize. In front of everyone."
Killy, his braid flecked with ale, stepped forward, his grin pure mischief. "Alright, Janko, my dearest Cursed Cat," he said, bowing low with a flourish. "I'm sorry your face is such a fine canvas for my art, and sorrier still your pranks flop like a drunk drulox. May your whiskers fade before your ego does." The tavern erupted in laughter, patrons slapping tables, Marko choking on his ale again.
Janko's face turned beet-red, but Goran's glare kept him from swinging.
"Enough, you vulgar little elf," Goran growled, though his mouth twitched. "Janko, you're not blameless. Shake hands and be done." Janko, muttering, extended a cabbage-stained hand, and Killy shook it, winking as he wiped the gunk on his rag.
The patrons cheered, the "Cursed Cat" chant echoing anew.To cool the village's fever, Goran issued his verdict the next morning. "Killy, you're cleaning Janko's barn today," he said, tossing him a broom. "A real apology, not your tavern nonsense."
Killy groaned, but his training-honed stamina saw him through as he swept straw, the glowing "Supreme Elf Rules" mocking him from the barn walls. Kids outside chanted "Cursed Cat," and Mirna whispered to her cronies about spiritual stones curing "Killy's curses."
Marko, passing by with a new horseshoe, called out, "Make it shine, Supreme Elf! Maybe Janko'll hire you next!"