The taverns of Esgard breathed with new odd life.
Smoke coiled heavy in the rafters of the Broken Anvil, mingling with the sour tang of old ale and sweat.
The hearths burned low, offering long shadows against battered walls and cracked stone floors.
Peasants, merchants, mercenaries — all pressed shoulder to shoulder, clenching tankards in dirt-stained hands, whispering rumors like prayers.
It had been months since the trial. Months since the Council had fallen to stunned silence before the impossible.
And the city still had not decided if it was grateful... or terrified.
"...I'm tellin' you," said a stout man with a crooked nose, slamming his mug on the table. "They dropped every charge. Not 'cause she argued it. Not 'cause she begged for it. All because of him."
The others at the table leaned closer.
"Ian Night," the man whispered, his breath thick with ale. "The Demonblade."
Around the tavern, heads turned. It was not a name spoken lightly these days.
