The Bronze Tankard was warm, noisy, and smelled faintly of ale-soaked wood. Elrick leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the three adventurers beside him.
"So," he said, "if I'm getting this right—Tier One is, what? Peak human?"
Scar-face grinned. "Yeah. Someone who's trained their whole life—soldier, duelist, apprentice mage. Fast, strong, sharp. But still human."
Elrick nodded slowly. "So Tier Two is about twice that?"
The one with the thin mustache shrugged. "Pretty much. Twice the strength, twice the speed, magic hits harder, stamina lasts longer. Not exact, but close enough."
"And Tier Three is twice Tier Two," Elrick pressed.
"Exactly." Scar-face leaned forward. "Tier Four… that's where the world starts paying attention. The kingdoms keep lists on those people. Tier Five? Well… let's just say if you ever see one, don't stick around."
Beatriz tilted her head slightly. "Why?"
The mustached man lowered his voice. "Because Tier Five can kill you by accident. They don't even need to try. And each kingdom—" He glanced around as if checking for eavesdroppers. "—each kingdom has one. Secretly. Not official. But everyone knows."
Elrick leaned back, processing. "One per kingdom. And no one talks about it."
"Right," Scar-face said. "It's the balance of power. Like… if they admit it, the other kingdoms might get nervous. Nervous leads to preemptive wars."
Elrick took a slow sip of ale, then asked, "So… what's the highest recorded tier?"
The third man, broad-shouldered with a broken nose, answered, "Seven. But that's… not confirmed. More like a legend. They say Tier Sevens can destroy cities with one spell. Or tear down mountains barehanded."
Elrick gave a short laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement.
Still… it gave him a working scale. If Beatriz was stronger than Tier fives… then where did that put her?
He tapped the table lightly. "Okay, so… history lesson. You mentioned something about an old war?"
Scar-face's grin faded. He rested his forearms on the table. "You've heard of the Bleeding Waste?"
Elrick shook his head.
"It's the only land bridge to the west—connects Eryndor to the unknown continents. But it's a cursed desert. Endless sandstorms, creatures that don't exist anywhere else. No sane army could cross it."
"But someone did," Mustache said quietly. "More than a century ago. An army of five hundred Tier Fives."
Elrick blinked. "Five. Hundred."
"Yeah." Scar-face's voice dropped. "They came out of the dust one morning, marched straight into western Eryndor. Didn't slow down. Kingdom after kingdom fell. Even the strongest castles couldn't hold. It took all ten kingdoms uniting their armies to stop them. Millions died."
"How did they lose?" Elrick asked.
The broken-nosed man grunted. "Numbers. When every mage, knight, archer, and beastmaster in Eryndor stands together, even Tier Fives can't hold forever. But it was… ugly. The final battle wiped entire cities off the map. No one knows if any of those five hundred survived."
Elrick exhaled through his nose. That wasn't just a war story—it was a warning. "And the unknown continents?"
Mustache shrugged. "Still there. No one's gone far enough in to map them. After what happened, no one's eager to try."
Scar-face drained the last of his ale and set the mug down with a dull thump. "And now, with Virehall making moves in the east…"
"Virehall?" Elrick asked.
"Border kingdom," Scar-face explained. "Wants to expand. Always wanted to. Now they're building armies, pushing patrols closer to the border. It's only a matter of time before they test it. And this city—" He waved a hand around them. "—is close enough to that border to get hit first."
Mustache gave a dry chuckle. "So everyone's tense. Farmers are training with spears. Merchants keep their coin hidden. Even the thieves have gone quiet."
Elrick glanced at Beatriz. She met his eyes, silent, but he could read the thought behind her stillness. We're walking into a war zone.
He stood, leaving another silver on the table. "Thanks for the info, gentlemen."
Scar-face raised his mug in farewell. "Stay safe, stranger. And if the streets turn bloody, run away from the noise."
Elrick gave a crooked smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
---
The air outside was different now—tenser, like a taut rope about to snap. The sun was sinking, painting the narrow streets in amber light. Elrick adjusted his cloak and started toward the guild district.
That's when the first shout cut through the air.
Then came another, closer, followed by the metallic crash of steel on steel.
Elrick froze mid-step. "…That's not a tavern brawl."
From an alley to the left, a cluster of civilians surged into the main street, brandishing crude weapons—pitchforks, rusted swords, even hammers. Opposite them, a line of city guards braced shields and spears.
And then he saw them—hooded figures slipping through the chaos, some in patched cloaks, others in heavier garb. They moved differently from the farmers. Purposeful. Coordinated.
One guard went down with a cry, blood splashing the cobblestones.
Beatriz stopped beside Elrick, her cloak shifting slightly over the gold plates beneath.
They locked eyes.
"Go," Elrick said.
Her answer was to reach behind her back and grip the short spear she kept wrapped in cloth. In one smooth motion, the weapon telescoped outward with a metallic hiss, extending from a single foot to ten.
The moment it locked, she was already moving.
She didn't run—she launched herself forward. In the space of a heartbeat, she was a golden blur, cloak whipping back, spear thrusting into the fray with terrifying precision.
The first cloaked attacker didn't even register what had happened before Beatriz's strike sent him sprawling into a wall, unconscious. She pivoted, sweeping the shaft low to take the legs from another before spinning the spear into a defensive guard, intercepting a sword mid-swing.
Her movements were crisp, calculated, but there was no hesitation. Every strike was either disabling or disarming. In seconds, she had carved a path through the attackers, forcing the mob to recoil.
The guards, stunned for a moment, recovered quickly and pushed forward, rallying behind the sudden golden warrior in their midst.
Elrick stayed back, scanning the scene, eyes darting for any hidden threat. The hooded figures weren't just random troublemakers—they were probing, testing the guards' response. This wasn't the main fight.
Which meant something worse might be coming.
Beatriz drove the spear into the cobblestones with a sharp crack, using the rebound to spin and slam the butt-end into the chest of a charging attacker. The man hit the ground hard, gasping for air.
And from the far end of the street, more shouts were rising.