♪ "Hark, and know the Seven Stars—
Warriors etched by fate and scars.
Named for lights in midnight skies,
Steel-bound oaths and fire-forged ties..." ♪
The bard's voice curled through the tavern, winding between the crackling hearth and the clatter of tankards. His lute hummed like distant thunder, its worn wood whispering of roads long traveled. Around him, men and women leaned in—not just for the song, but for the ghosts it carried.
Some mouthed the words. Others tapped calloused fingers against oak. All knew it. From Hailspire's frozen cliffs to Lowenreach's drowned docks, the tale of the Seven was sung in cradle and battlefield alike.
Thud.
A pause. A hush.
Boots on timber—not the stumble of a drunk, nor the shuffle of the starving. This was something else. Measured. Heavy, as if each step bore more than just a man.
Thud.
The door groaned shut behind him, sealing out the wind's moan and a breath of winter. Warmth wrapped around the stranger, thick with smoke, sour ale, and the musk of too many lives pressed into one creaking shell.
At the bar, Mira wiped down the counter with a rag older than half her patrons. She glanced up, said nothing.
The traveler didn't announce himself. His cloak hung loose, road-worn and dusted with frost. No sigils. No colors. But the firelight bent around him, stretching shadows just a little too far.
He sat.
"Ale."
The word fell like a stone in still water.
Mira poured. He drank in silence—slow, deliberate. The kind of drinking that sought no oblivion, only a moment's stillness. His eyes stayed fixed on the flames. Or perhaps something beyond them.
The bard played on, though his fingers faltered once, gaze darting toward the stranger as if caught between verse and warning.
Then—
"Another round!"
Rogan. Barrel-chested, thick as a bull, and twice as stupid. A gutter-born brute who thought noise was strength. His fist hit the bar hard enough to rattle mugs.
"You've had enough, Rogan,"Mira said, not unkindly, but with finality.
He sneered. "Since when do you tell me when I'm done?"
His eyes raked the room, hunting for someone weaker, slower—
Then they landed on the stranger. Hooded. Still. Silent.
"Well now," Rogan drawled, voice slick with mead and malice.
Rogan's knuckles whitened around his tankard. "Only two kinds of men hide their faces - criminals and cowards." He leaned in, breath reeking of stale ale. "You look like the kind who's been both."
The traveler said nothing.
"What's this?" Rogan's grin showed yellowed teeth. "Too grand to speak? Or just deaf and dumb like the old gods?"
No answer. The stranger merely set his tankard down with a quiet clink.
Rogan's grin widened. "Deaf, eh? Or just too high-born to waste words on the likes of us?"
Still nothing. Then—
The stranger shifted slightly. Firelight caught the hilt at his hip.
Copper gleamed. So did steel.
A whisper slithered through the room—not from the drunks, but from the grizzled hunter in the corner, his tankard frozen halfway to his lips. The bard's next chord trembled.
Rogan squinted. "What? Some lordling's toothpick?" He jabbed a finger. "That supposed to scare me?"
Mira's voice cut like a whetstone. "Sit. Down."
Something in her tone turned the air to ice. Rogan's jaw worked, but he dropped onto his stool like a gutted fish.
It wasn't the stranger's face that silenced them—though that spoke of battles long past, with hollow cheeks and a pale scar cutting across his jaw.
No. It was the weapon.
Half-hidden, yet unmistakable—a plain hilt, unadorned but for the sunburst etched into its pommel. Not new. Not gilded. But storied.
The Sunbrand.
Mira eyed the copper left behind—no more, no less.
The stranger stood. His cloak shifted, the hilt catching one last glimmer of firelight.
He didn't look at Rogan. Didn't look at anyone.
He walked out.
No one stopped him.
The bard exhaled, fingers hovering over the strings. When he resumed, his voice was softer, slower—as if afraid to wake whatever walked in the stranger's shadow.
♪ "Seven walked, their blades held high—
Through storm and war, they did not die...
Bound by starlight, oath, and flame,
Though lost, none dare forget their name." ♪
The door creaked shut. The cold rushed back in.
And the tavern held its breath.
Three heartbeats passed before the tavern exhaled—tankards clattered, stools scraped, and the bard's next verse came out ragged.
Rogan waited until the door was fully closed before puffing up. "Fucking coward," he spat, though his fingers shook around his mug. "I'd have knocked his teeth through his skull."
The hunter in the corner snorted. "Aye. And we'd have mopped you off the floor after."
Rogan's bravado wilted. "The hell was that?"
Mira didn't look up. "A man who'll still be breathing when you're bones in a ditch."
She leaned in, voice low. "Count yourself lucky he didn't take offense. Might be time to learn some respect."
A flick of her rag dismissed him. Rogan stared into his ale, the fight drained out of him.
In the far corner, the girl watched.
While the others sagged into uneasy murmurs, she stayed still—eyes fixed on the empty stool. No fear in her face.
She moved to the bar, light on her feet. Mira caught her approach but didn't seem surprised.
"Who was that?" the girl asked.
Mira's rag stilled. "You're new here. Best forget what you saw."
The girl's eyes darted between the frozen hunter, the trembling bard, and Mira's too-casual grip on her rag. "I've heard every ballad about the Seven, even the dark verses sung under breath. But I've never seen grown men go quiet like that over just... a man."
A pause. Mira's gaze flicked to the door. "Songs are pretty. The truth isn't." She tossed the rag aside. "You want answers? Buy a drink. And don't say I didn't warn you."
A copper slid across the wood. Mira sighed.
"Most folk don't know the Sunbrand. Those who do? They don't speak of it." Her voice dropped. "Three confirmed bearers and nothing apart from that. Guild archives lock those records behind Warden-rank seals."
The girl frowned. "He didn't look dangerous. Just tired. Like he wanted to disappear."
"And that's what should worry you," Mira said, voice softer now. "Men chasing glory can be bargained with. But men who've lost everything? They don't draw steel unless they mean to end something."
Silence settled between them.
The girl's fingers traced the rim of her mug. "He wasn't boasting."
"No," Mira replied. "The ones with real blood on their hands never do."
"Real blood, what's that supposed to mean we all have killed at some point", the girl added.
Mira replied."A swordsman kills to grow stronger. A thief kills for coin. Some strike for revenge and some for justice. But some men... they kill for nothing at all. For them, the killing is the purpose — not a path to something, but the destination itself."
The girl turned toward the door, where the wind howled like a thing alive. The cold seemed sharper now, as if the stranger had taken the warmth with him.
"So," she said at last, "what exactly is the Sunbrand?"
Mira didn't respond immediately. She stood behind the counter, cloth slack in one hand, a half-polished pewter mug in the other. After a moment, she set the mug down with deliberate care.
Mira's hands stilled. "A warning. A scar, I don't know. All I know is….." She met the girl's gaze. "If you ever see one again—look away."
The girl smirked. "Or?"
"Or pray you're ready for the answer. If you ever find yourself in a Warden-level party, ask them. They'll know more. They might even tell you—if they think you're ready to hear it.""
A beat. Then the girl stood, tossing back the last of her ale.
Mira arched a brow. "Off already?"
The girl was halfway to the door when Mira called after her. "Wait. What's your name?"
A pause. A glance over the shoulder.
"Velra Thornevale."
And with that, she stepped into the night—where the wind carried whispers of old oaths, and the shadows stretched just a little too long.
End of Chapter.