The friendly chatter in the lobby died instantly, replaced by a silence so profound it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Borin the blacksmith, who had been loudly critiquing the ironwork on the fireplace, froze with his hand half-raised. Anya the alchemist let out a small, frightened squeak, her face paling. They had sought refuge from guild politics and academic rivals; they had stumbled into a fortress on the brink of war.
Lyra's hand was already on her sword, her brief moment of peace in the baths forgotten. Her entire posture had shifted back into that of the wary, cornered knight Leo had first met. Only now, her defiance was aimed outward, a shield for the new, fragile community behind her.
"Give us the details, Silas," Leo said, his voice calm and steady. He was the landlord. He was the Master. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. He walked over to the large central table and sat down, gesturing for the others to join him. It was a simple act, but it was a clear message: We will face this together, and we will do it with order, not fear.
Reluctantly, the others gathered around the table. Elara, her face a serene but sad mask, took a seat opposite Leo.
Silas began his report, his voice low and professional, stripped of its usual playful cadence. "The Wyvern Hunters' Guild is not just a band of mercenaries. Think of them as a corporation. They have branches in every major kingdom, immense political influence, and a funding structure that rivals most national treasuries. They are efficient, ruthless, and utterly professional."
He paused, letting that sink in. "They are divided into companies based on threat level. Local militias deal with common beasts. Regional chapters handle things like griffins or manticores. But for S-Rank threats, for bounties that can shape the course of history, they dispatch their elite. They call them the Black Arrows."
"I've heard of them," Lyra said, her voice grim. "They say their arrows are fletched with the feathers of abyss-falcons, and that they can track a target through a blizzard by the fading heat of their footsteps. They say a Black Arrow has never returned from a contract empty-handed."
"That reputation is well-earned," Silas confirmed with a nod. "They are masters of stealth, sabotage, and psychological warfare. They won't attack the Inn head-on; they know they can't win a direct assault. They will surround us, study us, and wait for a single moment of weakness. Their patience is their greatest weapon."
"And their leader…" Silas's emerald eyes flickered towards Leo. "The one commanding this hunt is Captain Graves. He's not a warrior; he's a predator. Cold, pragmatic, and meticulous. He doesn't care about honor or glory. He fulfills contracts. That is all he does. And he has never, ever failed."
Anya was trembling, clutching her satchel of alchemical reagents as if it could protect her. Borin's face was grim, his earlier grumbling about shoddy ironwork forgotten. This was a threat beyond what good steel and a strong wall could handle.
Leo listened to it all, his mind processing the information, filing it away. He looked across the table at Elara, who had remained silent throughout the briefing.
"They're here for you," he stated, not as a question, but as a simple fact. "Lyra mentioned your family's crest. Silas's report confirms a legendary prize. You are that prize. The question is, why? What does their benefactor—because a group this expensive always has a benefactor—want with you?"
Elara closed her golden eyes for a moment, a wave of ancient weariness washing over her. When she opened them again, they held a profound, sorrowful weight.
"They do not want me," she said, her melodic voice quiet but clear. "They want what is inside me. What I am."
She looked at the faces around the table, seeing their fear and confusion. "I am a Dragon Lord of the Azure line. One of the last true dragons whose blood has not been diluted over the ages. To mortals, my physical form is a treasure. My scales can be forged into impenetrable armor, my bones into unbreakable weapons."
She paused, taking a slow breath. "But my heart… a Dragon Lord's heart is the ultimate prize. It is a living crucible of primal life energy. To an alchemist of sufficient skill and insufficient morality, it is the final, key ingredient in the Grand Rite of Immortality. It can grant eternal youth, power beyond reckoning, or fuel a weapon capable of leveling a continent."
Her gaze drifted towards the window, towards the mists where the hunters were waiting. "The Guild's benefactor is a dying king who wishes to live forever. He has paid them a king's ransom to bring him my heart, and Captain Graves is the man he sent to collect it."
The full, horrifying picture was now complete. This wasn't a bounty hunt. This was a harvest. They were facing an enemy with limitless resources and a singular, grisly purpose, an enemy that would never give up. They weren't just protecting a guest anymore. They were guarding the life of a living legend from those who would butcher her for their own selfish gains.
Leo looked around the table. He saw the grim determination on Lyra's face, the terrified but resolute set of Anya's jaw, Borin's hands clenched into stony fists, and Silas's sharp, calculating eyes already weighing new odds. He looked at Elara, who was facing her terrifying fate with a weary, heartbreaking dignity.
This was his Inn. This was his community. This was his problem.
The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach. But now, it was mixed with something else. A hard, defiant anger. A landlord's protective instinct.
"Alright," Leo said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Let them wait. Let them watch."
He stood up, his expression hardening into one of grim resolve. "Let's make sure the show they get is one they'll never forget."