The interior of the Silver Stallion was a stark contrast to the majestic, echoing halls of Belvart. Here, the air was thick with the smell of scorched pine from the hearth, seasoned mutton, and the damp wool of travelers seeking respite from the mountain chill. The floorboards creaked underfoot with a rhythmic, homely groan, and the low-hanging rafters were stained dark by years of pipe smoke.
Sheng sat at the heavy oak table, his hands wrapped around a wooden mug of lukewarm cider he didn't remember ordering. Across from him, Bob the Priest was the picture of serenity. His robes, though travel-stained, were neat, and his face held a permanent expression of gentle concern.
"You're shaking, Sheng," Bob said softly, pushing a basket of dark bread toward the assassin. "The road from the peaks is long, but you look as though you've been carrying the mountain itself on your back."
"I might as well have been," Sheng replied, his voice barely audible over the chatter of a group of merchants in the far corner.
The door to the inn swung open with a bang, letting in a swirl of cold night air. Arthor and Elvric entered, looking like twin pillars of exhaustion. Arthor's hair was windswept, his humble knightly face shadowed by stubble, while Elvric looked uncharacteristically frazzled, his silk robes snagged by brambles from the descent.
When they saw Bob, their expressions shifted instantly—Arthor with a look of immense relief, and Elvric with a flicker of his old, mischievous spark.
"Bob! By the light of Levatactis, you're a sight for sore eyes," Arthor said, sliding onto the bench with a heavy thud. He signaled the innkeeper for three more plates. "I didn't think we'd see a friendly face this side of the border."
"I was helping the orphanage in the valley when I missed the old cooking of the South and headed here," Bob explained, his eyes twinkling. "I had a feeling i might meet old friends but i never expected you three. But where are Orthox and Richard? I thought you were an inseparable quintet these days."
The silence that followed was heavy. Elvric leaned back, crossing his arms and looking at Sheng. "It's a long story, Bob. A story involving a table, a very loud dwarf, and a legendary reputation that is currently being burned for fuel in every tavern from here to the coast."
Sheng winced. "Arthor was right. Richard didn't just tell me about a tournament. He came to warn me."
"Warn you about what?" Arthor asked, leaning in. The Knight had been patient all day, but now that they were behind closed doors, his commander's instinct for the truth was returning. "You and Richard were whispering for ten minutes. He made up that tournament story the second we walked up. Didn't he. What did he actually say, Sheng?"
Sheng looked at his three friends. Arthor, the man who had led armies; Elvric, the man who could rewrite the laws of reality; and Bob, the man who cared for the sick and the lost. They were the only people in the world he trusted with his life. Now, he had to trust them with his dignity.
"The rumors in Belvart... they aren't just about a failed task," Sheng began, his voice dropping into a low, pained hiss. "Richard told me that Sylvia's friends—specifically Miran—have been busy. Because I'm a human and she's a high-born elf, they aren't treating it as a mistake. They're treating it as a taboo. They're telling everyone that I'm obsessed. That the 'Shadow of the War' has become a common stalker."
Bob blinked, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "A stalker? But... you're Sheng. You've saved kingdoms. Why would anyone think you'd be so... untidy with your heart?"
"Because of the way Orthox did it!" Sheng cried out, his frustration finally boiling over. He slammed a hand on the table, causing the cider to slop over the rim. "He stood on a table! He shouted my name to a room full of her admirers! He made it sound like a challenge! Richard said that now, the 'simps'—that's what he called them—are forming groups to hunt me down to prove their devotion to her. I can't go back to work, Arthor. I can't even walk into a shop without people wondering if I'm there for a contract or because I've lost my mind over an elf I've never even spoken to!"
Arthor's face went grim. He understood the strategic nightmare. Reputation was an assassin's armor; once it was dented by ridicule, it offered no protection.
"And Richard?" Elvric asked. "What was his 'favor'?"
"He's staying behind to try and bribe the town criers," Sheng muttered, rubbing his temples. "He's trying to spread a counter-rumor that it was all a prank played by a rival guild. But he told me that until the heat dies down, I'm effectively 'retired.' The organization won't give me contracts if I'm attracting this much public attention."
Sheng looked at Bob. "That's why we had to leave, Bob. Not because of the attack on the city. Because if I stayed and fought, I'd just be giving them more chapters for their story. The 'Mad Assassin' defending the city of his 'beloved.' I had to run."
The cafeteria went quiet. Even the merchants in the corner seemed to sense the gravity of the moment. Sheng felt a hollow, cold weight in his chest. He felt like he had failed not just himself, but the very idea of the "Professional Assassin."
"Mistakes are made so that we can learn, Sheng," Elvric said, his voice surprisingly soft. He reached out and tapped Sheng's mug. "But I have to say... of all the ways to end a legendary career, 'Death by Dwarf' is certainly the most creative."
Sheng didn't laugh. He just stared into his cider, wondering if he would ever be able to show his face in a city again.