The Broken Pike tavern was older than most of the city's walls, or so its owner liked to claim. The beams sagged, the shutters rattled, and the hearth spat more smoke than flame, but it was always full, always alive with drink and chatter. That night, two days after the fountain ran red, the Pike seemed to hum with one name, carried on every tongue.
"Darian Duskbane."
Mugs slammed against scarred tables as the name spread in whispers and boasts alike. The story had already grown taller in two short days. Some swore he had flown from the rooftops like a winged demon, others that the fountain had bled by his sorcery. The truth mattered little — in Harta, tales grew quicker than weeds.
At a corner table near the fire, an apprentice cobbler leaned forward, eyes wide as he recounted what he'd seen.
"I was there, right by the square when it happened. One moment the Tirnovians were struttin' in with their fine silks, next the water turned red as a butcher's bucket. Nobles screaming, guards running about like headless hens — and then, out o' nowhere, the Outlaw Knight himself!"
"Bah," grunted an old farmer, his weather-beaten face creased like old leather. He sipped his ale before spitting a glob into the rushes on the floor. "You didn't see him, lad. No one ever sees him proper. He's a shadow. A whisper. By the time folk look twice, he's gone."
The barmaid, Mira, passed with a tray of mugs full of bitter ale and gave the farmer a sharp look. "You'd think shadows couldn't fight knights in broad daylight, wouldn't you, Garin? But Silas himself near had his head split, and half the square saw it. That's no whisper. That's Darian Duskbane."
A hush spread at the name, followed by muttering. Some said it with awe, some with fear, but none dared deny it carried weight.
From a bench against the wall, a toothless old soldier cleared his throat. His tunic was patched and his left hand trembled, but his voice carried the rasp of authority.
"I'll tell you what he is. A butcher's son. I was there when King Jameson first took him in. Sixteen years old and strong as an ox. Carried a whole carcass across a yard without breakin' a sweat. The king saw him and said, 'That's a lad worth molding.' And mold him he did. Darian became Jameson's guard, his sword-arm, his shield. Not for crowns or coin, but for the folk like us."
"Aye," muttered a washerwoman, her eyes glistening in the firelight. "And his Eleyna. Sweet girl she was, farmer's daughter from the southern fields. I knew her father, a good man. She worked her way into the castle as matron, oversaw the linens and kitchens. Always had a smile, always a kind word for servants. Darian loved her since they were little. You could see it clear as day."
The cobbler frowned. "But what happened to her? I've only heard whispers."
The soldier's mug lowered slowly, his voice a growl. "Best not ask that."
But the farmer slammed his fist on the table. "No, we'll speak it here, where the king's spies don't reach. Eleyna saw what she wasn't meant to. Caught Mansis himself with a young girl, no older than eleven. Tried to stop him, she did — screamed the halls down. And for that, the bastard slit her throat."
Gasps rippled through the tavern. Some crossed themselves, others cursed under their breath. The washerwoman wept openly, pulling her shawl tighter.
"That's why he fights," Mira said firmly, setting down her tray. "Not just for us, but for her. For what was stolen. For justice."
From the shadows near the hearth, a hooded figure chuckled darkly. "Justice, is it? Or vengeance?" The stranger leaned forward, his voice dripping with skepticism. "Don't fool yourselves. To the crown, he's no hero. He's outlaw, traitor, murderer. If Silas gets his hands on him, you'll see how quick hope dies."
The soldier's scarred face hardened. "Hope don't die easy. Not when it's built like Darian. You've not seen him. Eight feet tall, and broad enough to block the church doors. Silas may hunt him, but Silas is still just a man. Darian's more than that. He's the people's strength, walking."
"Aye!" cried a young potter, half drunk, sloshing his ale. "I heard he cut through six guards in the square with a single swing!"
"That's nonsense," Mira snapped, but she smiled all the same. "Six or sixty, what matters is this — the king is frightened. Why else tighten his grip? Why else raise the taxes again, hire more spies, station soldiers at every corner? He fears the shadow he can't catch."
The room buzzed with agreement, voices layering rumor upon rumor. Some claimed Darian had walked into the prison and broken the locks with his bare hands. Others swore he was protected by gods, or that Eleyna's spirit guided him, whispering where to strike.
The old farmer leaned back, his gaze distant. "Doesn't matter what tales folk tell. I'll tell you plain: he's one of us. Butcher's blood. Farmer's love. Raised by a king, aye, but never forgot the dirt under his boots. And for that, I'd follow him 'til my last breath."
A silence followed, heavy and reverent. Slowly, mugs were raised.
"To Darian," Mira said, her voice steady.
"To Darian!" the room echoed, a chorus of defiance ringing against the smoky rafters.
But in the shadowed corner, the hooded stranger sipped his ale and said nothing. His eyes were sharp, and when he rose to leave, no one noticed the serpent-shaped emblem on his belt.
Outside, the streets of Harta were still and cold, but the air carried the tavern's whispers. The name of Darian Duskbane spread again, seeping into alleys and guardhouses, into markets and hovels. Each retelling grew bolder, each detail sharper, until the outlaw knight was no longer just a man.
He was a legend.
And legends, once born, are impossible to silence.