"Twice they've tried to slay the king, and twice they've failed. Are the false gods faltering? Or has the king risen beyond their grasp?"
---------------
The common room of Nabu's Corner had taken on the restless energy of a
storm waiting to break. Nisheena moved behind the bar with practiced
efficiency, but her crimson eyes kept drifting toward the empty corner where
the wanderer had sat just hours before. The leather-bound book of poetry still
lay hidden beneath her counter, a tangible reminder of the mystery that had
walked into her establishment and might never walk out again.
She was worried, and that irritated her more than she cared to admit. Worry
was a luxury she couldn't afford in her line of work it clouded judgment and
led to poor decisions. But the cold truth gnawed at her thoughts like a
persistent ache: if Tarkun killed a king's blessed warrior, it wouldn't just be the
Urartu family that faced consequences. The capital's justice was swift and
brutal, and it made no distinction between the guilty and the merely
unfortunate enough to live in the same town.
Baelur would burn. Every man, woman, and child would pay the price for one family's stupidity. Around the room, her patrons had divided into clusters, their voices carrying fragments of speculation and fear. At the table nearest the window, three men hunched over their ale like conspirators, their conversation drawing her attention despite her attempts to focus on her work.
"I'm telling you, they're fools if they think they can hold him," said Gorek, the
blacksmith, his scarred hands gesturing emphatically.
"You saw what he did to those four outside. A king's blessed doesn't go down easy."
"Four surprised thugs is different from a whole stronghold," countered Meren, the trader. "Tarkun's got walls, guards, and time to prepare. Even a blessed warrior bleeds."
"Maybe," said the third man, a nervous fellow named Pip.
"But what happens when the capital finds out? You think they'll care about the details? They'll assume the whole town was in on it."
The conversation sent a chill down Nisheena's spine. At least someone else
understood the stakes, even if they couldn't do anything about it.
"Exactly why we need to act," came a new voice, young and filled with the kind
of righteous fury that made Nisheena's teeth ache.
She looked up to see Kael approaching their table, his farmer's clothes dusty
from the fields and his face flushed with anger. The boy he couldn't be more
than twenty. had the look of someone who'd grown up on stories of heroes
and honor, someone who still believed the world could be saved by doing the
right thing.
"We can't just sit here while they torture a king's warrior," Kael continued, his
voice rising enough to draw attention from other tables.
"It's not right."
"And what exactly do you propose we do?" Gorek asked with bitter
amusement.
"Storm Tarkun's stronghold? We're farmers and craftsmen, not soldiers."
"We're people of Baelur," Kael shot back. "This is our town too. We can't let the
Urartu and Dabru families drag us all down with their stupidity."
Nisheena had heard enough. She set down the glass she'd been polishing and
stepped around the bar, her silver hair catching the lamplight as she
approached their table. The conversation died as she drew near, all eyes
turning to her with the mixture of respect and wariness she'd earned over the
years.