The Splintered Oar reeked of sweat, spilled ale, and the tang of salt air. Raiders crowded the dimly lit tavern, voices raised in brawls and laughter. Broken furniture littered the floor, and the tavern keeper shouted in frustration as a pair of sailors tumbled past, knocking over barrels.
Edric Halvorn pushed through the crowd, his cloak trailing behind him. Every instinct screamed at him to assert his authority—here, in this lawless place, order had to be claimed with strength.
"Move aside!" he barked, drawing the attention of a rough-looking raider with a bloodied nose.
The man sneered, wiping the blood on his sleeve. "And who'll make me? Another spoiled prince come to show off?"
Edric's hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword. I am no spoiled boy, he thought. I am the heir of Halvorn. Let them see what that means.
Before he could respond, a flash of movement caught his eye. A small, wiry figure darted between overturned chairs—a man with sharp eyes and a calculating grin. Ronan Vale.
Ronan sidestepped a swinging fist and grabbed a loose mug, hurling it to distract the brawlers. "Mind your own business," he muttered under his breath, sizing up Edric instantly. Prince, scholar… everyone thinks they can survive here.
Elira Veyne, notebook clutched tightly, slipped through the chaos, attempting to avoid both the fights and the unruly men. Her focus was on observation—patterns, behaviors, and survival tactics. But she couldn't help noticing the prince, the bandit, and the tension in the room. These three… they are like forces colliding. Something will happen soon.
It did.
A drunken Raider, failing to dodge in time, crashed into Edric. The prince shoved him off, and the man lunged again, eyes wild. Before a fight could break out, Ronan intercepted, flicking his dagger against the man's arm. A sharp cut drew blood, and the Raider yelped, stumbling back.
Edric froze, surprised by the bandit's audacity. "Who—?"
Ronan's grin was unapologetic. "Careful, prince. Not everyone here has the courtesy to bow when you swing a sword."
Elira stepped between them, raising her hands. "Stop! Both of you!" she shouted. Her voice carried more authority than anyone expected. "This isn't the way to survive Driftport!"
The room went quiet for a heartbeat, all three of them aware of the fragile balance. Edric's pride bristled; Ronan's smirk faltered slightly; Elira's gaze was sharp, calculating.
"Name's Elira Veyne," she said quickly, addressing both men. "I am here to study this place—and to survive it. Fighting each other isn't going to help any of us."
Edric squared his shoulders. "I am Edric Halvorn, prince of Halvorn. And I will not be disrespected in my own way."
Ronan chuckled darkly. "I'm Ronan Vale. I don't care who you are, prince. Just don't get in my way."
Elira sighed, running a hand through her hair. Wonderful, she thought. Two stubborn men and me, the mediator… this will be interesting.
A sudden shout from the tavern's back called their attention. A group of Raiders had spotted newcomers—three fresh vessels docking outside—and were moving in. Looters, mercenaries, and opportunists, all eager to test the resolve of the newest arrivals.
The three of them exchanged glances, an unspoken realization passing between them: survival here would require more than skill or courage—it would require cooperation… or at least a temporary truce.
Edric's hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Ronan's dagger glinted under the tavern's dim light. Elira adjusted her satchel, clutching her notes like a shield.
The fight outside the tavern escalated, spilling toward them. And in that moment, three strangers—prince, scholar, and bandit—stood on the threshold of chaos, their paths now irrevocably entwined.