Chapter 3 – The Coin That Binds
Kael hated taverns in border towns. Too many eyes, too many knives, not enough ale worth drinking.
Still, he sat in the corner of the Broken Anvil, boots up on a chair, ribs bandaged in filthy cloth. Smoke from his pipe curled through the rafters, mixing with the stink of spilled beer and unwashed soldiers. The place was a storm waiting to break — half the patrons mercenaries, the other half deserters or thieves pretending otherwise.
And then she walked in.
Nyra Thunderhand didn't belong in any tavern. She carried herself like a storm cloud on legs, her cloak dripping rain, her eyes sparking with some private thunder. Heads turned when she entered, some with lust, some with fear, most with the kind of curiosity that got men killed.
Kael tapped ash into his mug. "Spoke too soon," he muttered. "Now the night's interesting."
Nyra scanned the room, found him instantly, and stalked over.
"You followed me," she said.
Kael spread his hands, grin sharp. "Please. This is the only tavern within ten miles. If I'd known you were here, I'd have picked a worse one."
She didn't sit. "Why are you still breathing?"
"Luck. Skill. Stubbornness." He puffed smoke in her direction. "Take your pick."
Her hand twitched like she wanted to fry him where he sat. The tavern's lamplight flickered. A couple of mercenaries at the next table leaned back nervously.
Before Kael could push her buttons further, another man entered.
The tavern went quiet, the way a den of dogs goes quiet when a wolf steps in.
Serik Veylan filled the doorway like he owned it — tall, broad, wrapped in a black cloak trimmed with silver. His armor gleamed despite the mud outside. His hair was iron-grey, his beard cut close, his eyes cold as steel nails.
Kael knew the type instantly. Warlord. The kind that paid men well, bled them dry, then bought more.
Serik's gaze swept the room until it landed on Kael and Nyra. Then he smiled, like he'd already won something.
"Well," he said, striding over. "Two of the most inconvenient people in Vael'Dar, sitting at one table. Saves me the trouble."
Kael took his boots off the chair but didn't rise. "Do I know you?"
"You will. My name is Serik Veylan. I pay well for talent. And you two…" He looked from Kael to Nyra, lingering on the faint crackle of lightning still dancing on her fingertips. "…are very talented."
Nyra crossed her arms. "Not interested."
Kael smirked. "Depends on the coin."
Serik pulled out a pouch and tossed it onto the table. It hit with a heavy clink. Kael didn't need to open it to know it was more gold than he'd seen in months.
"All I need," Serik said calmly, "is for you to retrieve something for me. A relic. Buried beneath the Cursed Mountains. Simple work. Dangerous, of course, but I doubt that troubles either of you."
Kael raised a brow. "Relics, curses, buried mountains… you do know how to sweet-talk a mercenary."
Nyra's voice cut sharp. "What kind of relic?"
Serik's smile didn't waver. "An old one. Power older than kingdoms. The kind of power men kill for. The kind of power the Temple would burn an entire city to keep hidden."
Nyra's jaw tightened. Kael caught it. He filed it away.
"And if we say no?" Kael asked.
Serik leaned closer, voice dropping. "Then someone else will take the coin. And when they find it, they'll use it. The question isn't whether the relic will be unearthed. It's whether you profit from it — or get crushed when someone else does."
The tavern held its breath. Even the fire seemed to listen.
Kael flicked his eyes to Nyra. She looked like she wanted to gut Serik right there, but the storm in her gaze warred with something else — something colder. She knew more than she was letting on.
Kael took a slow pull of his pipe. "How much?"
"Enough for you both to vanish and live soft for the rest of your days." Serik's grin widened. "And enough to buy more enemies than you could ever kill, should you spend it unwisely."
Kael blew smoke at the ceiling. "Well, priestess? Seems like a fine way to die."
Nyra's glare could've split stone. "I'm not a priestess."
"Outlaw, then. Mercenary. Storm witch. Pick your poison. Question is — do you want the coin, or do you want to spend the next month dodging Temple blades until one finally sticks?"
Her silence was answer enough.
Serik rose, satisfied. "Good. You leave at dawn. My men will meet you at the old southern gate. Don't be late."
He turned and left as easily as he'd come, the tavern parting around him like reeds before a storm.
Nyra sat finally, dropping into the chair across from Kael with a sigh that rattled.
"I should kill you for agreeing without me."
Kael grinned. "You're welcome."
Her eyes narrowed, lightning flickering faintly in the depths. "You're going to get us both killed."
"Probably," Kael said, draining the dregs of his mug. "But at least we'll be rich corpses."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, broken only by the storm outside.
Then Nyra laughed — sharp, bitter, and entirely without joy.
"Gods help me," she muttered, "I'm actually going to do this."
Kael raised his mug in a mock toast. "Welcome to the partnership, Thunderhand."
The storm outside growled in approval.