The night continued, quiet now except for the soft murmur of the few remaining patrons and the occasional clink of mugs. Laxyie leaned forward, his pale eyes fixed on her.
"What were you mourning?" he asked,
Lyla's hands trembled slightly as she lifted her mug, staring into it like it held all her memories. "I was on a mission," she said finally, her voice tight, raw with grief. "To guide one holy mage to the city of Yoner. It was supposed to be simple. Safe." She laughed bitterly, a short, hollow sound. "But it wasn't. We were ambushed by Aîiurh and ten elemental users. My squad… The other mages abandoned me. They fled."
Her gaze lifted, fierce now despite the tears staining her cheeks. "I fought. I did everything I could with what I had. But I couldn't stop them. I lost most of my crew… and the holy mage… she died. And Pyoin… they exiled me. Pretended I had failed them, not the ambush, not Aîiurh. Me."
She sank back into her chair, shaking slightly, trying to drown her pain in the ale before her. "So here I am… in Stronar, Selam… drinking until it doesn't hurt so much."
Laxyie's hand clenched slightly at his side. His gaze sharpened. The name—Aîiurh—slammed into his chest like a hammer.
His mother. Her screams. The fire. The blood. The way that man and others had stood there, untouched, commanding death while his mother…
His pale eyes burned with rage, void-like and cold. He looked at Lyla, a storm coiling in his chest. "Aîiurh, huh?" he said, both words carrying the weight of years of fury and loss.
The tavern seemed to shrink around them. Music, laughter, and chatter faded into nothing. For the first time in years, Laxyie's calm, measured demeanor cracked, replaced with raw, burning hatred.
And Lyla—she had poured her sorrows into the night, but now she saw the fire in his eyes. A fire that told her one thing clearly without asking: Aîiurh would not go unpunished.