The warm glow of lanterns cast long, dancing shadows across the well-worn wooden planks of Morris's tavern floor. Twelve-year-old Adrian, with his striking black hair and piercing silver eyes, was nimble despite the trays laden with steaming bowls he carried. His light brown skin had a healthy glow from his work in the bustling tavern. He navigated the familiar chaos with a quiet efficiency that had become a silent testament to his years within these walls. The regulars, their faces etched with the stories of Zilaz City and beyond, barely registered his small stature, yet relied on his prompt service.
"Two more mushroom stews for Master Elmsworth's table!" Morris's voice, a deep rumble that resonated through the boisterous din, called from behind the sturdy oak counter. His brown hair, thinning at the temples and streaked with gray, was often pushed back from his forehead. A neatly trimmed brown beard covered his strong jaw, and his blue eyes, usually crinkled at the corners from years of (sometimes forced) smiles, held a hint of weariness today.
"Coming, Uncle," Adrian replied, his voice clear but soft, as he veered towards the comforting heat radiating from the kitchen. Uncle. The word was a simple truth, yet it held the weight of their shared, unspoken history. Morris watched him, a familiar pang in his chest. Adrian knew little of the parents who remained a hazy void in his memory, a subject Morris still felt ill-equipped to discuss, a promise he'd made years ago hanging heavy in the air.
The tavern, as always, pulsed with life. Merchants haggled over prices, travelers recounted tales of distant lands, and the occasional glint of polished steel marked the presence of adventurers, their eyes holding the faraway look of those who danced with danger. Adrian, ever observant, would steal glances at these figures, his young mind sometimes wandering to the possibilities that lay beyond the familiar cobblestone streets of Zilaz. A dangerous path for a boy like him, Morris thought, a protective instinct tightening in his gut. Yet, a quiet restraint, a deeply ingrained sense of his place, kept him tethered to the tavern's comforting routine.
As dusk deepened into night, the initial surge of patrons gradually receded, leaving behind a quieter hum of lingering conversations and the occasional hearty laugh. When the last unsteady figure finally swayed out into the cool night air, Morris, his broad shoulders slumping with the day's labor, slid the heavy wooden bar across the door with a sigh that spoke volumes of his forty-four years. Another day done. Another day he's safe, a silent mantra he often repeated.
"Tired already?" Adrian asked, his small hands already beginning the familiar task of clearing the empty mugs. "It wasn't as crowded as some nights, Uncle."
Morris ran a calloused hand through his thinning, gray-streaked brown hair, a weary smile touching his lips. "Not everyone possesses your youthful vigor, lad," he chuckled softly.
Adrian paused, setting down a stack of mugs. A familiar concern tugged at him. "It's more than just the work, Uncle. You haven't eaten properly all day." His brow furrowed slightly, a miniature imitation of Morris's own worried expression. "Just that dry crust at dawn."
"Ah, you notice too much, Adrian," Morris said, his gaze softening with affection. He sees too much, feels too much. I wish I could shield him from everything.
Then, a sharp rap echoed through the sudden stillness of the tavern, the sound cutting through the comfortable silence like a shard of ice. Adrian froze, a prickle of unease raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Late visitors. Never a good sign, Morris thought, his weariness instantly forgotten, replaced by a surge of protective adrenaline.
Morris's weariness vanished, replaced by a guarded alertness that Adrian had learned to recognize – the tightening of his jaw, the subtle shift in his stance. "Stay close," he murmured, his hand instinctively drifting towards the worn wood beneath the counter, where the familiar grip of the old cleaver waited. Whoever this is, they're not welcome.
He moved with a deliberate slowness towards the heavy door. The iron bolt groaned as he slid it back, revealing a figure silhouetted against the moonless night. Tall and cloaked in shadows, the man exuded an aura that felt both traveler-worn and strangely potent, a subtle hum of something unknown. Scratched iron armor hinted at journeys across harsh lands, but it was the glint of red in his eyes, catching the faint light of the lanterns, that held Adrian's gaze, and sent a knot of apprehension twisting in Morris's stomach. The stranger had shiny brown hair that framed sharp features, and even in the dim light, Morris could tell his skin had a tanned complexion. Red eyes… unnatural.
Shiny brown hair framed a face etched with sharp angles, and a sheathed sword at his hip spoke of a life lived by the blade. His gaze swept across the familiar interior of the tavern, lingering for a moment on the empty tables before settling on Morris with an intensity that seemed to weigh the very air. He's looking for something. Or someone.
"Morris," the stranger's voice resonated, a low, controlled rumble that carried an unexpected weight. It was not a question, but a statement, imbued with a knowing that sent a shiver down Adrian's spine, and a deeper wave of suspicion through Morris. How does he know my name?
A palpable tension filled the small space as Morris stiffened, his hand now resting beneath the counter, his fingers curled around the cleaver's handle. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice edged with caution.
The red-eyed man, offering a slow, almost languid smile, replied, "Seraph Hanveil. A traveler seeking rest and perhaps a warm meal. I've heard whispers that this is the best haven in Zilaz."
"We're closed," Morris stated flatly, his blue eyes narrowed, his gaze never leaving Seraph's. Go away. Just go away.
Adrian, his usual timidity momentarily overshadowed by a strange curiosity and a flicker of empathy he couldn't explain, stepped slightly forward. An unbidden sense, a feeling he couldn't quite articulate, urged him. "Uncle," he said softly, "maybe… maybe we can offer him some stew. The night is cold." His silver eyes flickered towards the cloaked figure.
Seraph's gaze flickered to Adrian, a hint of something unreadable in those crimson depths before returning to Morris. "The boy speaks with wisdom. Perhaps a little kindness carries its own reward."
Morris's jaw tightened, his blue eyes unwavering on Seraph. Kindness to strangers can be a dangerous game. "Kindness has its price."
"Indeed," Seraph replied, his smile never quite reaching his intense red eyes. "And I am prepared to pay it."
To be continued....
( sorry guys for not adding line breaks , i have tried to implement line breaks from 4th chapter onwards)