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Chapter 2 - Lurking danger

The Rusty Flagon tavern had never seen anything like it. Tables groaned under the weight of roasted meat, spilled stew, and mugs overflowing with ale. Grease gleamed across the warped floorboards, soaking into old rugs, while chairs scraped and laughter rang out like thunder. Tonight, Bluridge wasn't cold, quiet, or hungry. Tonight, it was alive. And everyone knew why.

Phantom had struck again.

Vault 21 was wiped clean. The guards had been humiliated, some found blasted by their own comrades and Count Lukan's tax gold was nowhere near his private tub. But the people weren't just drinking for the theft. They were celebrating the meaning behind it. Phantom had sent a message loud and clear: the nobles weren't untouchable. Someone out there could hit back, anyone could.

Old Man Garrick teetered on top of a splintered barrel near the hearth, raising a blackened chicken leg like it was the king's own scepter. His beard looked singed, and his robe smelled like it hadn't seen water in years.

"To the ghost who robs the rich!" he cried. "To Phantom! May his boots be silent, and may his enemies always step in something nasty!"

The room exploded with cheers. The joke was awful, but nobody cared. Mugs clinked, someone fell backward in laughter, and a coin meant for Garrick's cup hit him straight in the eye.

"That's gratitude for you!" he yelled before toppling face-first into a bowl of another person's stew.

Across the tavern, a butcher's apprentice stood on a bench, swaying.

"He's twelve feet tall!" he shouted, waving his arms. "Glowing purple eyes! I heard he floats. Like a balloon. A really angry one."

"You're drunk, Harold," muttered Marcy, who took pride in correcting people.

"I'm not drunk," Harold slurred. "I'm enlightened." In a moment of enlightenment, he tripped and promptly vomited at his own feet.

In a dim booth tucked into the corner, Zane sipped from a plain mug, watching the celebration unfold. No one spared him a glance. Dirt smeared his cheeks, his boots were worn, and his shirt loose and forgettable. He looked like any other tired worker taking a break from the day. Nobody would guess that Phantom himself was sitting in the middle of their party.

And that was the point.

Everyone still saw him as the same reckless kid who once ran naked through the square on a dare. A joke. A distraction. No one saw what he'd become, what he'd trained to be.

But he didn't look like a boy anymore. His shoulders had broadened from years of rooftop scrambles and quiet battles in the dark. His arms were strong, his eyes sharper than anyone remembered. A woman had mistaken him for a chimney sweep and handed him a copper. He thanked her with a nod, hiding a crooked grin.

Someone near the fire banged their mug against the table in rhythm, and soon others joined in. A tune started—loud, messy, and half-remembered.

"Phantom, Phantom, shadow in the night,

Steals your gold, and gives us light!

Guards all cry, and nobles scream,

While we eat pork and live the dream!"

"That last line's awful!" someone groaned.

"I like it," someone else said. "It's honest."

Behind the bar, Darlene poured drinks with one hand and kept wandering fingers away from her till with the other. She spotted Zane and pointed.

"You! The boy with the nice cheekbones. Sing louder or get out!"

Zane wanted to protest or be frustrated. but instead he lifted his mug and belted out the song. After all weren't they singing to him. Off-key, shameless, and hilariously awful. The crowd turned just to hear him butcher it, and when he grinned and kept going, the tavern lit up with laughter all over again.

But then the mood shifted.

A man by the bar raised his voice—low, tired, but firm. His arm was in a sling, and a nasty bruise darkened his temple.

"Laugh while you can," he said. "But don't forget why Phantom exists."

The music died off. Conversations slowed. Zane's expression barely changed, but his eyes flicked toward the man.

The speaker didn't wait for permission. "Last week, guards broke into my neighbor's house. Claimed he hadn't paid enough tax. Smashed his chairs, took his coin, and lit his shed on fire when he tried to stop them."

A few heads turned. Murmurs spread.

"They broke my brother's fingers," said a man near the back, standing slowly. His voice cracked. "He just asked why the toll doubled. They called it defiance."

An old woman with trembling hands wrapped her shawl tighter.

"They took my daughter," she whispered. "Sixteen years old. They said she couldn't sell bread without a permit. Bread."

Now the tavern was quiet.

No one laughed. No one sang. Zane didn't move. His hands stayed wrapped around the mug, but his jaw was tight.

Everyone in that room had a story. A friend jailed for speaking up. A parent beaten for missing payment. A child taken away for trying to earn a coin. The guards didn't protect anyone. They enforced silence. They punished need.

That's why Phantom mattered. Not for the tricks or songs. Not even for the stolen gold. But because every time he appeared, he reminded them they weren't alone. That someone was still out there, watching, fighting. Someone still believed the poor deserved dignity. It let the people relax and made the town bearable.

The silence stretched.

Then, from the middle of the room, someone raised their mug—not to make noise, but to be heard.

"To Phantom."

The words rang out softly, but clearly.

Others followed.

"To Phantom," they echoed, and this time it wasn't celebration or jest. It was thanks. It was hope.

Zane stood. He didn't need to hear more. This was why he did it. This was the reason. He hadn't come to be praised. He came to remember, why he climbed high towers at night.

The fight wasn't over. The nobles would respond, and the guards would come harder than before. But that was fine. He'd been ready for worse. He wasn't done yet.

Just as he reached the door, it slammed shut. The danger that had been lurking in their midst was unleashed.

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