"The false gods have fated the king to die. But what sin has he committed to earn their wrath? And can a mere man defy the will of gods?"
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Nisheena had been running Nabu's Corner long enough to read the currents of her establishment like a sailor reads wind and tide. Tonight, those currents all flowed toward the corner table where the wanderer slept with one booted foot propped on scarred wood and a leather-bound book covering his face. An hour had passed since he'd entered her inn, and still every conversation seemed to orbit around him like moths around a flame. She polished glasses behind the bar with practiced efficiency, her crimson eyes cataloging details that most would miss. His travel-worn clothes were well-made beneath the dust and wear not the rough garb of a common sellsword, but the kind of practical quality that spoke of money and standards. His breathing was too controlled for true sleep, too measured. And that massive sword, even wrapped in its leather bindings, dominated the space around him like a slumbering dragon. The half-empty bottle of rum sat untouched beside his elbow. Nisheena made note of that too. A man who ordered drink but didn't finish it was either naturally cautious or expecting trouble. Given what she'd witnessed outside, she suspected both.
"I'm telling you, it's the blood," hissed Gorek, a scarred blacksmith who spent more time in her taproom than at his forge. He leaned across his table toward two other patrons, his voice carrying despite his attempt at discretion.
"They drink the king's blood, that's how they get the strength. Makes them more than human."
"That's horseshit," scoffed Meren, a trader whose caravans occasionally brought news from the eastern settlements.
"You think the king bleeds himself for every soldier? There'd be nothing left of him."
"Then how do you explain it?" he gestured toward the sleeping figure. "No man lifts a blade that size. I've worked iron all my life I know weight when I see it."
The third man, a nervous fellow named Pip who scraped by doing odd jobs, glanced around fearfully before speaking.
"Maybe it's not natural. Maybe it's some kind of curse or demon pact."
Nisheena had heard enough. She set down her cloth and glass with deliberate care, letting the sound carry across the suddenly quiet common room. Every eye turned to her as she stepped around the bar, her silver hair catching the lamplight.
"It's a secret," she said, her voice carrying just enough authority to command attention.
"No one knows how they receive the king's blessing, and the blessed warriors will never reveal it. That's part of their oath."
The three men leaned forward, hungry for information. Nisheena smiled the kind of smile that promised knowledge at a price.
"What I can tell you," she continued, moving closer to their table, "is that you should never get close to one of them. The king's blessed are cruel and have no mercy toward anyone. They're cursed to protect the king and his family only. Everyone else is expendable."
It was a masterful lie, woven from threads of truth and fear. She had no idea what drove the king's blessed or what their true nature might be, but fear was a currency she understood better than gold. Let these fools believe the wanderer was a merciless killer bound by supernatural compulsion. It would keep them from doing anything stupid.
"Cursed?" Pip's voice cracked slightly.
"Bound by magic older than this kingdom," Nisheena said solemnly. "They say once you take the king's blessing, you can never—"
The inn's heavy door exploded inward with a crash that silenced every conversation and sent several patrons diving for cover. Four men in Urartu colors strode through the doorway, steel already half-drawn from their sheaths. Their leader, a bull-necked brute with arms like tree trunks, scanned the room with predatory intensity.
"Can't you come in nicely?" Nisheena snarled, her earlier performance forgotten in the face of genuine irritation. These Urartu dogs had no respect for her establishment, no understanding that Nabu's Corner operated under its own rules.
"Where is he?" the leader demanded, ignoring her completely.
Before Nisheena could respond or decide whether she wanted to one of the other soldiers spotted their target.
"There," he said, pointing toward the corner. "Sleeping like a baby."
The four men advanced in formation, their boots heavy on the wooden floor. Every patron in the common room held their breath, some scrambling for better vantage points while others pressed themselves against walls. Nisheena felt her jaw clench. Violence in her inn meant broken furniture, spilled blood, and questions from authorities she preferred to avoid.
"If you cause any scenes in my establishment—" she began, but the soldiers weren't listening. They had eyes only for the figure slumped in the corner chair. The wanderer hadn't moved. The book still covered his face, one foot still rested on the table, and his breathing remained steady and controlled. But Nisheena noticed something the soldiers had missed his
left hand, previously relaxed on the chair's arm, had shifted slightly. Not much, but enough to be within easy reach of his weapon.
The lead soldier drew his sword with theatrical flourish, the steel singing as it cleared its sheath. He pressed the point against the wanderer's throat, just above the pulse.
"Easy now," he said with ugly satisfaction.
The wanderer's voice emerged from beneath the book, calm as still water. "Easy."
Without haste, he reached up and removed the book from his face. Nisheena got her first clear look at his features in the lamplight weathered skin, dark eyes that held depths she couldn't fathom, and a face that might have been handsome before life carved its lessons into every line. He looked at the sword pressed to his throat with mild interest, as if it were no more threatening than a dinner knife.
"Get up," the soldier commanded.
The wanderer remained seated, seemingly oblivious to the steel at his neck. He picked up his rum bottle, took a measured sip, and set it down again with deliberate care.
"You're coming with us to see lord Tarkun," another soldier added, his voice tight with nervous energy. Still no response. The wanderer might have been deaf for all the attention he paid them. He examined his fingernails, adjusted his position in the chair, and generally acted as if four armed men weren't standing over him with drawn steel. The second soldier's face flushed red. "You should thank lord Tarkun!" he shouted. "He said don't kill him,
bring him alive!"
That got a reaction. The wanderer looked up then, his dark eyes focusing on the shouting man with sudden intensity. He leaned forward slowly, deliberately, the sword point sliding along his throat without drawing blood. The soldier holding it stepped back instinctively, but the wanderer kept coming, rising from his chair with fluid grace until he stood nose to nose with the man who'd been shouting. Nisheena could see the soldier's adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. The wanderer was close enough that his breath would fog the other man's vision, close enough that the soldier could count every scar on that weathered face. It was a masterful display of psychological warfare using proximity as a weapon, turning the threat of violence into a promise.
"You shouldn't make any scenes," Nisheena called out, worry creeping into her voice despite herself.
"If you want to fight, take it outside."
The wanderer turned his head toward her, and for a moment their eyes met across the crowded room. Then he smiled not the cold expression she'd expected, but something warmer, almost amused. As if he appreciated her attempt to manage a situation that was clearly beyond anyone's control. Without breaking eye contact with Nisheena, he spoke to the soldiers.
"Let's go then. Take me to your leader."
The words were casual, almost friendly, but they carried an undercurrent that made the soldiers exchange nervous glances. This wasn't submission it was a predator agreeing to visit someone else's territory. The wanderer moved toward the door with unhurried steps, the soldiers falling into formation around him like an honor guard rather than captors. As he passed Nisheena's position behind the bar, he paused.
"I'll pay the money when I'm back," he said quietly
Nisheena looked at him. really looked and saw something in those dark eyes that made her breath catch. This man wasn't just dangerous; he was dangerous with purpose. Whatever had brought him to Baelur, it was bigger than mercenary work or random violence.
"If you're back," she replied with forced humor.
The wanderer laughed a genuine sound that seemed to lighten the oppressive atmosphere of the room.
"Fair point."
Then he was moving again, the soldiers hustling to keep pace as he walked toward whatever fate awaited him in Tarkun's stronghold. The door swung shut behind them, leaving Nabu's Corner in stunned silence. Nisheena stood motionless for a long moment, her mind racing through possibilities and implications. A king's blessed warrior who laughed at death threats, who turned potential violence into psychological theater, who paid for drinks he didn't finish. what game was he playing?
More importantly, how could she profit from it?