Zane reached for the back door of the tavern just as an unnatural gust of wind surged through the building. It was not a breeze from the outside. It carried no scent of the forest or freshness of the evening air, therefore it was unnatural. It was something else entirely. Every door inside the tavern slammed shut at once, as if pushed by invisible hands. Windows shook in their frames. Flames in the lanterns danced and nearly went out. The light dimmed, and a heavy silence fell across the room, thick and stifling.
Conversations halted in mid-sentence. Tankards paused halfway to mouths. Patrons looked around in confusion, some blinking like they had just awakened from a horrific dream. The musicians lowered their instruments slowly. Even the usually loud drunkards seemed caught in a sudden hush, now sober. The entire tavern, moments ago so full of laughter and energy, now stood frozen, waiting.
Someone had entered. No, not entered, the person was already there.
He had been sitting quietly in the farthest corner of the room. Two mugs sat on his table, one nearly full, the other halfway gone. The lantern above him seemed unable to properly cast light in his direction. Shadows gathered around him unnaturally. At first, no one had noticed him. Now, everyone saw him as he stood.
He rose slowly. There was no rush in his form, no sense of threat in his movement, and yet the atmosphere became even more oppressive than it had ever been. His posture was relaxed, his stride unhurried, but something about him made the villagers tense. He wore a deep crimson robe, its gold trimmings glinting faintly as he moved. The cloth shimmered, enchanted with protective wards that almost pulsed with restrained power. Pinned to his chest was a polished insignia that caught the light: the seal of Count Lukan's court mage.
A few gasps escaped from the crowd. Some stumbled back instinctively. Zane froze near the door, his fingers just inches from the handle. He did not move. His breathing slowed. His thoughts sharpened.
The village had been celebrating Phantom. They had cheered for a man the kingdom had branded a criminal. They had lifted their mugs to someone who had defied authority. Now, standing in their midst, was a mage loyal to Count Lukan, watching them like a hawk spotting prey. His face remained still, his expression unreadable, but his eyes held judgment. Cold, merciless judgment, from the look in them, the verdict had already been reached.
The mage's lips curled into a faint smile. It was not the kind that welcomed. It was the kind that preceded cruelty. The kind a predator gave when it knew the game was over. His gaze swept across the room, passing over each table, each face. The warmth that had filled the room earlier seemed like a distant memory.
A single villager backed away from his table, bumping into another. The sound of a clattering mug hitting the floor shattered the stillness. It was enough. The tension broke. Shattering like a frigle biscuit.
Panic exploded.
Chairs screeched against the floor. Tables overturned. People scrambled toward the exits. Mugs crashed, and plates shattered. Screams filled the air. Mothers pulled their children close. Some villagers ran. Others dove for cover behind furniture. The music had died, but the chaos now carried its own rhythm, wild and desperate.
Zane remained by the door, still unmoving. He watched as Rogar, the village blacksmith, bolted for the front entrance. Despite his size, fear made him fast. He moved with the urgency of a man who could sense the end. But the mage raised one hand in the air. His gesture was small, almost casual, just the flick of a wrist.
A sudden rush of energy shimmered in the air. It moved fast, almost invisible.
There was a sound , it was sharp and brutal. Rogar collapsed mid-stride. A spray of red followed. He hit the floor screaming. His foot had been cleanly severed. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the wooden boards. He writhed and clutched the stump, his cries piercing the chaos.
Everything stopped again.
The room fell into a deeper silence than before. A terrified kind of stillness. No one else dared moved. They understood now. Running meant dying. The mage had made his point.
He stepped forward slowly. His boots crunched across broken wood, spilled food, and the remains of joy that had filled the room moments earlier. He passed by villagers too afraid to meet his gaze, and others too frozen to look away. When he reached the center of the tavern, he finally spoke.
"Every single one of you will be imprisoned for your treason," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You cheered for a criminal. You lifted your drinks to a traitor. You mocked the authority of Count Lukan. That is sedition."
His words struck harder than his magic. Mira one of the commoners, crouched behind the counter, held her child close. Her hand trembled as she stroked the back of his head. She had survived the worst years of famine, the loss of her husband to illness, and the bitter winters that came with poor harvests. But nothing had frightened her like this moment. She could feel the cold certainty in the mage's voice. This was not a warning. It was a sentence.
Old Garrick, once a soldier in the Count's army and now a broken man, sat beside the hearth. His cane had fallen. He stared at the floor, mouth half open, unable to form words. His body did not shake, but his eyes told the story. He had seen this kind of terror before, long ago on a battlefield. He never thought it would return to his doorstep.
All around the tavern, people held still in horror. A few whimpered. Others mouthed silent prayers. No one dared rise. No one dared speak.
Zane remained low, crouched behind an overturned bench. He did not reach for his weapon. His chi was strong, honed, and fast. He could flash across the room before the mage blinked, his blade through the man's back before the first scream. But what would that accomplish? Killing this mage would bring retribution. There would be no justice, only fire. More mages would come. Soldiers. Banners bearing the Count's seal. Bluridge would be razed. Everyone would suffer for his decision.
So Zane did not move. He let his fury remain buried beneath a mask of helplessness. He let fear show on his face, a calculated illusion. He looked like a boy caught in something he did not understand. He kept his hands visible. He made no sudden gestures. He played the role of the forgotten, the background figure, the harmless villager.
The mage never looked in his direction.
Zane's heart pounded in his chest. Every second he stayed crouched was a risk, but acting too soon would be worse. He kept his breathing slow. He listened. He watched. His mind raced through possibilities, escape routes, signals he could give to others if things spiraled.
But he remained still.
The mage surveyed the tavern like a man studying a map, marking which lives to uproot first. His attention lingered on a man who had led the initial toast. The villager stared at the ground now, hands trembling. The mage's hand twitched as if he were considering another example.
Zane clenched his teeth and waited. He could feel the magic in the room like a second skin. It hummed around him, oppressive and cold. He had trained his senses to detect it. What he felt now was dangerous, but not yet fatal. The mage was powerful, but alone. That mattered.
Every second bought the villagers a little more time.
Zane could not save them tonight. Not by drawing his blade. But he could survive. He could find the mage's trail later, away from witnesses. He could strike when it mattered. However right now? Keeping a low profile was paramount.