Chapter 8: Drinks with a Warrior
POV: Adam
The castle's great hall in the evening was a different creature than the formal court space Adam had glimpsed during official business. Torchlight painted the stone walls in warm amber, and the conversations carried the easy rhythm of people who'd earned their leisure through blood and service.
Adam stood in the doorway, suddenly aware that his practical clothes and commoner's bearing marked him as distinctly out of place among Cintra's noble warriors. The doublet and breeches that served him well in taverns and forests looked shabby beside silk and fine leather, and his posture lacked the unconscious arrogance that marked those born to privilege.
Fish out of water doesn't begin to cover it.
"Adam!"
Ciri's voice cut through the hall's ambient noise, drawing attention he didn't want. She sat at a table surrounded by young nobles, her ash-blonde hair catching the torchlight as she waved him over with royal disregard for social protocol.
He waved back awkwardly, noting how the gesture made several conversations pause and restart with slightly different tones. In a world where reputation could mean the difference between life and death, being acknowledged by the princess was valuable currency.
Or a target painted on my back. Depending on who's watching.
"Boy! Over here!"
Eist's voice boomed across the hall with the authority of someone used to being obeyed without question. The Skellige warrior sat at the high table with other military leaders, a pewter mug in his hand and stories on his lips.
Adam approached the table with careful steps, noting how the other warriors studied him with professional interest. These were men who'd earned their positions through violence and competence, and their approval wasn't granted lightly.
"Sit," Eist commanded, gesturing to an empty chair. "We were just discussing the finer points of monster hunting."
Were you, now? Or is this a test disguised as hospitality?
A mug appeared in front of Adam—ale that smelled stronger than anything he'd encountered in the Golden Sturgeon. The first sip confirmed his suspicions: medieval beer was apparently designed to strip paint and induce questionable decision-making in equal measure.
"Tell me, boy," Eist said, leaning forward with the intensity of someone genuinely interested in the answer. "What's the most dangerous creature you've faced?"
The question carried undercurrents that spoke of evaluation and judgment. These men traded stories of combat like currency, and the wrong answer could mark him as either a liar or a coward.
Truth, then. But carefully measured.
"Drowners," Adam replied, taking another sip of ale that made his eyes water. "Four of them, on the harbor docks. Learned they're faster than they look and smarter than anyone gives them credit for."
"Aye, they're cunning bastards," agreed a scarred man whose voice carried the rasp of someone who'd breathed too much smoke and blood. "Lost a good sergeant to a pack of them near Oxenfurt. They waited until he was alone, then came at him from three directions."
The conversation flowed into shared experiences of monsters faced and comrades lost, stories that revealed the grim reality of a world where humanity survived by killing things that wanted to eat it. Adam found himself relaxing despite the potent ale, drawn into the camaraderie of people who understood violence as a professional necessity.
This is what I've been missing. The brotherhood of shared danger.
"You know," Eist said during a lull in the storytelling, "I met Calanthe in battle. Skellige Succession War, when the clans were tearing each other apart over who deserved to rule."
The warriors leaned forward with anticipation. Eist's love story was apparently legendary, though none of them had heard it told by the man himself.
"I was leading a charge against the rebels when a spear took my horse out from under me," Eist continued, his eyes distant with memory. "Found myself surrounded by six men with murder in their hearts and time on their hands. Thought that was the end of Eist Tuirseach."
He paused to drink, letting the tension build.
"Then this lioness comes out of nowhere—blonde hair streaming like a banner, sword in each hand, cutting through my enemies like they were wheat before the scythe. Saved my life without knowing who I was or why it might matter."
"And?" prompted the scarred warrior.
Eist's smile was pure contentment, the expression of a man who'd found something worth fighting for. "Calanthe is my moon. Ciri is our shared sunrise. Everything I do is for them."
The words hit Adam with unexpected force. This wasn't political calculation or strategic alliance—this was love expressed through metaphor and commitment measured in blood.
"That's..." Adam paused, searching for words that could contain the emotion behind Eist's simple statement. "That's really beautiful. In a violent, war-torn kind of way."
Eist's laughter boomed across the hall, rich with genuine appreciation. "You have wit, boy. I approve."
[Relationship +15]
Current Points: 25/50
Status: Friendly Stranger → Friend
The ale continued flowing, and the stories grew more outrageous with each round. Adam found himself relaxing completely for the first time since arriving in this world, drawn into the warmth of acceptance and shared danger.
This is what belonging feels like.
"You know," Eist said quietly, leaning close enough that his words wouldn't carry beyond Adam's ears, "I've been watching you."
The sudden shift in tone sent ice through Adam's veins. "Have you?"
"You like her."
The words hung between them like a blade waiting to fall. Adam's mind raced through possible responses, each one more catastrophic than the last.
"What? Who?"
Eist's expression shifted to mild disappointment. "Ciri. Don't insult my intelligence, boy."
Shit. How obvious have I been?
"She's twelve," Adam said carefully. "I'm thirteen. We're kids."
"Aye, now. But you won't always be." Eist's eyes held the penetrating gaze of someone who'd learned to read truth in men's faces. "I see how you look at her. Like she's the sun and you're trying not to go blind."
The accuracy of the observation was terrifying. Adam had thought he'd been subtle, careful, professional in his growing attachment to the princess who would reshape the world.
Apparently, I'm as transparent as glass.
"Honor matters," Eist continued, his voice carrying the weight of experience earned through loss. "Love matters more. But protection matters most of all."
The conversation that followed was unlike anything Adam had expected—a warrior's philosophy of devotion delivered between swigs of paint-stripping ale. Eist spoke of love as a form of warfare, of devotion as the strongest magic, of the responsibility that came with caring for someone whose destiny exceeded their ability to protect themselves.
"If you feel that for Ciri—truly feel it—then I won't stand in your way," Eist said finally. "But if you hurt her..."
The pause carried implications that didn't need to be spoken.
"Calanthe will kill you. I'll just hold you down."
Adam laughed despite the nervous energy crawling up his spine. "Good to know where I stand."
[Relationship +10]
Current Points: 35/50
Foreshadow: Romance path officially acknowledged by family
The evening dissolved into increasingly blurry introductions to other warriors, each one accompanied by ale that could strip rust from armor. Adam tried to impress them with casual displays of airbending, but alcohol and precision didn't mix well.
His attempt to create a gentle breeze instead became a focused blast that swept an entire table's worth of drinks onto the floor in a crash of pewter and spilled ale.
The warriors roared with laughter, lifting their mugs in salute to the boy who'd declared war on furniture and lost spectacularly.
Note to self: air magic and alcohol don't mix.
The last thing Adam remembered clearly was being toasted as "the table's conqueror" by men whose approval meant more than he'd expected.
Consciousness returned like a siege engine to the skull, delivering pain with mechanical precision and ruthless efficiency. Adam opened his eyes to unfamiliar surroundings—stone walls instead of wood, fine linens instead of rough cloth, and light that stabbed through his brain like heated needles.
Castle guest room. How did I—? Oh. Right. Medieval ale versus modern tolerance. The ale won.
"Good morning, hero."
Ciri's voice carried amusement that made his skull throb in sympathy. She sat in a chair beside the bed, holding a tray that promised either salvation or further torture.
"I heard you 'fought' a table last night," she continued, her tone carefully neutral. "The table won."
Adam groaned, pressing his palms against his temples in a futile attempt to contain the chaos inside his head. "I'm never drinking again."
"Until next time."
Despite the apocalyptic hangover, warmth spread through his chest at her presence. She'd brought water and bread, simple kindness that felt like luxury when his body was convinced it was dying.
She didn't have to come. She chose to.
"How bad was it?" he asked, accepting the water with hands that shook only slightly.
"On a scale of 'dignified' to 'legendary disaster'?" Ciri's smile was pure mischief. "You achieved mythical status. The servants are already composing songs."
"Wonderful. I'll be remembered as the boy who lost a fight with furniture."
"Could be worse," she said, settling back in her chair with the satisfaction of someone enjoying another person's well-deserved suffering. "You could have tried to demonstrate your abilities on something important."
[Relationship +5]
Current Points: 45/50
Status: Approaching Close Friend
They sat in comfortable silence while Adam's body slowly remembered how to function without wanting to die. The hangover was misery, but the memory of belonging—of being accepted by warriors whose approval mattered—made the pain worthwhile.
Twenty-three days until the invasion. Time to see if I can build enough alliances to matter when the fighting starts.
Ciri's presence beside his bed spoke of care that went beyond simple friendship, though neither of them was ready to examine that truth too closely.
Some things are worth hangovers. Some people are worth fighting for.
A familiar blue shimmer appeared in his peripheral vision, making him wince as the light stabbed through his already abused optic nerves.
[MISSION ALERT - Urgent Priority]
[MISSION: "The Nekker Nest"]
Village under attack 15 miles northeast
Rewards: 300 XP, 60 crowns, +20 Village Reputation
WARNING: Level 8+ recommended, multiple hostiles confirmed
Of course. Because hangovers make everything better.
But looking at Ciri's concerned face, remembering Eist's words about protection and devotion, Adam knew he'd accept the mission despite his body's protests.
The world doesn't stop ending just because I made poor decisions with alcohol.
Hangover aside, last night had been good. Eist's approval, Ciri's teasing kindness, feeling like maybe—just maybe—he belonged somewhere in this medieval nightmare.
Of course, the System had to ruin it with another monster hunt.
Twenty-three days to get strong enough to save everyone. Starting with whoever's being torn apart by nekkers fifteen miles away.
Some mornings demanded heroism whether you felt ready for it or not.
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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