The Golden Stag Inn, Oakhaven. Night.
"Kill them all!" the Silver Eagle leader roared, swinging his longsword in a clumsy arc, his coordination clearly ravaged by the local ale.
Five soldiers lunged forward, attempting to surround the bar where Rianor sat. The other patrons shrieked in terror, scrambling toward the walls or diving beneath the heavy wooden tables. Yet, Lady Rhea didn't even glance at the rapier at her waist.
"Tch. To deal with drunken trash like this, my bare hands are more than enough," Rhea murmured, spitting casually to the side.
The first soldier charged with a sluggish vertical slash, leaving himself wide open. Instead of retreating, Rhea stepped into his personal space—a lethal display of close-quarters combat. Her right hand parried the man's wrist while her left slammed into his jaw with an open-palm strike.
SLAP!
The soldier's head snapped back, his eyes bulging before he collapsed backward, taking his comrade down with him.
"One," Rhea counted, her voice flat and unimpressed.
Two more soldiers attacked simultaneously from both flanks. Rhea vaulted onto the sturdy wooden bar with the grace of a feline. In one fluid, spinning motion, she delivered a low kick that sent a row of empty beer mugs flying directly into their faces.
CRASH!
Shards of glass and dregs of sour ale sprayed into the soldiers' eyes.
"ARGH! My eyes! It burns!"
Rhea didn't waste a heartbeat. She dropped from the bar, landing squarely on one soldier's back. She locked his neck in a perfect triangle choke before driving him into the floor with a violent jerk of her hips.
THUD.
"Three," Rhea said, standing tall as she smoothed out the slight creases in her white shirt. Her breathing wasn't even labored.
Meanwhile, Sir Rianor remained seated at the bar. He hadn't moved an inch, despite the bloody brawl unfolding barely a meter away.
"You don't intend to help your sister?" asked Elara, the mage girl, who—strangely enough—remained equally composed, taking another sip of her cooling coffee.
"Why would I?" Rianor shrugged. "That would be like helping a lion catch a mouse. Entirely unnecessary."
Suddenly, a glass bottle sailed through the air—hurled by a panicked soldier—aiming straight for the back of Rianor's head. Rianor didn't see it coming, his back turned to the thrower. But Elara did.
She simply flicked her index finger once. No long incantations. No dramatic gestures.
Ting.
The bottle stopped dead in mid-air, a scant ten centimeters from Rianor's face. In a blink, it disintegrated into fine dust, its remnants drifting harmlessly to the floor. It was a high-level display of instant gravity magic.
Rianor turned, a slight raising of his eyebrows the only sign of his surprise as he looked at the glass dust. "Wow," Rianor commented, adjusting his spectacles. "Incredible reflexes. Thank you."
Elara merely shrugged with total indifference. "You owe me a life."
Across the room, Sir Roland was busy in his own theater of operations. Amidst the chaos of flying chairs and overturned tables, he stood atop a sturdy stool.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Calm yourselves!" Roland shouted, spreading his arms wide. "Look at the bloodstains on that soldier's tunic. Terribly difficult to remove, isn't it?"
Roland hoisted a bar of soap high into the air. "With the Northreach Miracle Soap, bloodstains, beer stains, and even the sins of your past will vanish in a single scrub! Buy now—fifty percent off for our special 'Bar Brawl Edition'!"
Miraculously, several merchants shivering under the tables looked genuinely intrigued. "I'll take two, Young Lord! My husband always comes home smelling of ale and regret!"
Back in the center of the fray, only one man remained standing: the lead soldier. He was trembling violently, watching his four men groaning on the floor with twisted limbs and shattered pride.
"Do you... do you have any idea who I am?!" he shrieked, his voice cracking under the weight of his panic. "I am Sergeant Brutus! Personal guard to the Second Prince! If you touch me, the Prince will—"
A massive hand suddenly clamped onto Sergeant Brutus's shoulder from behind. The grip was so powerful that the metal of his pauldrons audibly buckled inward. Duke Lucian stood there, radiating an aura that felt like a physical weight on the room.
"The Second Prince?" Lucian whispered directly into Brutus's ear. His voice was low, resembling the growl of a hungry predator. "Tell your Prince... to teach his dogs how to bark with more decorum."
With a casual toss, Lucian sent Brutus flying toward the exit. The massive man soared across the room and landed squarely in the muddy street outside the inn.
CRASH.
"Take your friends and get out of here," Lucian commanded coldly. "Before I change my mind and decide to prune your limbs for ruining my dinner."
The soldiers, though limping and battered, scrambled to hoist one another up and fled into the darkness of the night. Their fear of Lucian far outweighed their intoxication.
Silence returned to the inn. The proprietor slowly emerged from behind the counter, his face deathly pale as he surveyed the wreckage of his bar. "My tables... my glassware..."
Rianor stood up and placed a heavy pouch of coins on the counter. "Ten gold pieces. I believe this more than covers the damages and... the silence," Rianor said. "Tonight's events never happened. Do you understand?"
The owner weighed the pouch, his eyes instantly lighting up. Ten gold pieces was more profit than he usually saw in a year. "Of course, Young Lord! Nothing happened tonight! Just a bit of a localized windstorm passing through!"
Rianor turned to Elara. The girl had already shut her book and was preparing to leave.
"Wait a moment," Rianor called out.
Elara paused. "What now? Have you another theory to lecture me on?"
"No," Rianor offered a thin smile. "I just wanted to say... if you ever find yourself in need of significant research funding for that Mana Fluid theory, look for me in the Capital. My name is Rianor Sudrath. We're currently looking to hire a... Mad Scientist."
Elara went still for a moment. The corner of her lip twitched upward—a smile so faint it was nearly a ghost. "Sudrath... that bankrupt family from the North? Fascinating."
She flicked a small metallic business card toward Rianor. He caught it with practiced ease. On it was engraved: Elara Vane – Department of Forbidden Research, Sol-Regis Academy.
"If you manage to survive the Capital for more than a week... perhaps I'll drop by," Elara said, her tone laced with mystery.
Then, POOF.
Elara vanished in a cloud of faint blue smoke. A short-range teleportation spell.
"Incredible," Rhea said, approaching while brushing dust from her trousers. "She can vanish like something out of a fairy tale. Rianor, your taste is certainly... high-end. A girl who seems quite difficult to tame."
"She's not difficult to tame; she just has a genius-level IQ," Rianor corrected, tucking the card safely into his pocket. "And she's from the Academy. That is our gateway to high-magic technology."
Duke Lucian approached, his face shifting back to his weary "Father Mode." "Done fighting? Done flirting? Let's get some rest. We move out at first light, before the Prince's men return with a larger crowd."
"Yes, Father," his children answered in unison.
That night, the name Rianor Sudrath was etched into the memory of a genius mage. And the name Lady Rhea was added to the blacklist—or perhaps the list of begrudging admiration—of the Prince's Guard. The journey to the Capital had only just begun, and they had already made a mess that no one would soon forget.