The Black Stone Tavern was quieter than a scolded dog the morning after Janko's debut as Opeka's "Cursed Cat."The usual buzz of gossip had softened, as if the village was still chuckling over yesterday's chaos.
Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and mastermind behind Janko's glowing barn and black-painted whiskers, leaned against the counter, nursing a bruised jaw and a grin that could outshine the sun.
N'Nazmuz's curse—a burden he'd chosen years ago for training—had already started healing the marks from Janko's fists, its thirty-kilogram weight pressing on his shoulders like an overzealous iklos. The curse made Killy stronger and tougher than most, even brutes like Janko, with wounds that closed overnight and stamina that snapped back like a bowstring. But fame had a cost, and Killy had paid it yesterday, taking Janko's punches without fighting back, his gold-flecked eyes glinting with defiance as he taunted his way through the brawl.
"Killyaen, no juggling my tankards today, you hear?" Goran's voice rumbled from the storeroom, gruff but laced with the weary affection of a man who'd raised a whirlwind. The tavern keeper, a seven-time champion of the Arena of Immortals, stomped out, his beard bristling like a porcupine.
"And you're not dodging the consequences of that stunt with Janko. You're scrubbing this tavern—floors, tables, rafters—till it shines like a noble's boots."
Killy groaned, slumping dramatically against the counter, his gold-tipped braid swinging. "Goran, you're killing me! Scrubbing? For a masterpiece like Janko's barn?
It's practically a village landmark now!" He flashed a cheeky grin, but Goran's one good eye narrowed, promising no escape.
Killy sighed, grabbing a rag and bucket, the curse's weight making the bucket feel like a sack of stones.
"Fine, but when Opeka starts selling tickets to see 'Supreme Elf Rules' glowing in the dark, I want half."
Bera bustled in from the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour and her dark curls fighting their scarf like angry vines. "Tickets? The only thing you're selling is trouble, you scrawny elf-wannabe." She swatted at him with her wooden spoon, but Killy sidestepped, wincing as the curse tugged at his muscles.
"And don't even think about hiding my rolling pin to skip this," Bera added, stomping back to her dough with a smirk.
Killy set to work, scrubbing the tavern's worn floorboards with exaggerated grumbling, each stroke a reminder of the curse's strain.
The villagers trickling in for their morning ale couldn't resist poking at the "Cursed Cat" saga.
Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith with a grin sharper than his blades, leaned against the bar, sipping ale. "Heard Janko's still scrubbing his face raw," he said, winking at Killy. "Reckon the Cursed Cat'll be Opeka's new legend by week's end." Killy chuckled, his black eyes sparkling.
The nickname, born from Marko's quip during yesterday's brawl, had stuck to Janko like the black paint on his cheeks, and Killy's fame grew with every snicker.
By noon, the tavern gleamed—or at least smelled less like a stable—and Goran dragged Killy to the field behind the tavern for training.
The curse made every step feel like trudging through mud, but it had forged Killy's strength and speed beyond most men's, even Janko's. Goran, his broad frame casting a shadow like a cliff, tossed Killy a wooden practice sword. "You're learning a new Storm Technique today, you little idiot," he growled. "Something to use that curse, not just your smart mouth."
Killy caught the sword, twirling it despite the curse's weight.
"A new technique? For the Supreme Elf? About time you taught me something worthy of my legend." He struck a pose, only to yelp as Goran's practice sword clipped his shoulder. The old warrior didn't play games.
"Shut it and listen," Goran said, circling Killy like a hawk. "This one's called Wind's Rebuke. It's about turning the curse's weight into power—lean into it, not against it."
He demonstrated, his blade slicing the air in a fluid arc, fast despite his bulk. "The curse drags you down, so use it to anchor your strikes. Pivot, swing, let the weight pull you forward."
Killy mimicked the move, his lean frame weaving through the grass, the curse's pressure grounding his stance. His first tries were shaky, the sword wobbling as he fought the weight, but the curse's stamina boost kept him going. Sweat soaked his braid, but by late afternoon, he was landing clean strikes, the blade whistling as he spun with the curse's momentum.
"Not bad, eh?" he panted, grinning. "Janko better watch out next time he tries to play Cursed Cat."Goran grunted, a rare flicker of approval in his eye.
"Keep practicing, or the only thing you'll cut is your own pride." He sheathed his sword, leaving Killy to drill alone as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of amber.
As Killy caught his breath, a commotion stirred in the village square. A creaky cart rolled in, pulled by a mule that looked as thrilled as Janko's barn. A traveling merchant, his cloak patched and his hat lopsided, hopped down, unloading crates that promised wonders. Killy's heart leapt—books. Stacks of them, leather-bound, tattered, some with titles in scripts he couldn't read but craved to unravel.
In Opeka, books were rarer than spiritual stones, those glowing gems hoarded by the village's elite—Goran, the headwoman, village hall guard,Marko, maybe the
miller if he was feeling fancy.
Killy had no stones, just a pouch of gold coins scraped from tips and the occasional "misplaced" bet with tavern patrons.He sprinted to the square, the curse's weight be damned, and skidded to a stop before the merchant.
"How much for the books?" he asked, eyes wide as he scanned titles like Tales of the Starlit Courts and Runes of the Forgotten. The merchant, a wiry man with a grin like a weasel, named a price that made Killy's stomach lurch.
But dreams of grand adventures—stories of heroes, magic, and worlds beyond Opeka's dusty borders—were worth more than gold. He handed over every coin he had, walking away with a stack of books so heavy the curse groaned in protest.Back at the tavern, Killy sat by the fire, his new treasures piled beside him. He flipped open a book, its pages whispering of places he'd never seen, his mind already wandering to battles and mysteries far beyond Opeka.
Another day, another price paid—bruises, scrubbing, and an empty pouch. But with a new sword technique and a stack of stories, the Supreme Elf felt ready for anything. Even if "anything" was just another prank waiting to spark Opeka's next legend.