A candle burned low beside an untouched goblet of wine. Councilman Rudeus scribbled a long message on parchment. His hand stilled. He turned toward the door as it opened without a knock.
Recognition flickered in Rudeus's eyes. He turned back to his writing.
His visitor's shadow stretched across stone wall, gliding closer to Rudeus's seated shadow at his desk.
The visitor's shadow drew a dagger. A brief hesitation — then the blade plunged down into Rudeus's back.
The goblet trembled on the desk edge, tipped, and fell.
Wine spread across the floor. A moment later, a drop of blood landed in the spill, rippling the candle's reflection.
Archii's Tavern
The tavern hummed with late-hour chatter and mug clinks. A small argument brewed at the center table — voices raised, beer spilled, fingers pointing.
One patron praised Fredder Kaine. "He's at least the only one with guts to act against the Black Batch while others sit idle."
Another criticized the Kaine expedition as a failure. The man hiccuped. "Word is there were no survivors 'cept the Kaine Sealbearer. Reinforcements only brought back corpses."
A third man chimed in, "Bet my right eye the Black Batch'll target Fredder Kaine after this. He's been away from Elsem too long — he don't understand there's reason none of 'em high-and-mighty lords mess with the Black Batch. Even Leonhart Whyteleafe — gods guide his soul — could not exterminate them."
The earlier patron hoisted his mug. "In the off chance Fredder Kaine doesn't get assassinated through the night, here's to hoping he seizes the throne." The man hiccuped again, words beginning to slur, "though he'll fall short of Leonhart's legacy… a Kaine rule will at least soften taxes on the small folk."
The previous man hollered toward the bar, "Hey Archii! How much you pay in taxes these days?"
"Speaking of comparison," came the oldest man at the table, "Didn't Leonhart once had a brother. What was his name again? Er… Eielhart — yes." He snapped a finger.
"No, you old drunk. That's his son's name. The crowned prince. Leonhart had no brother."
Another turned to Knyyt Vale — Brimmah's former guard partner — lounged at the head of the table, basking in self-importance, legs kicked up and his Knyyt helm sitting proudly on the table. "Who do you reckon to be the next king before the young prince?"
Vale didn't even address the question. Instead he began boasting about his position in the castle and knowing all the royals and Lords. "I knew Frederich Kaine's expedition would fail even before it did." He added "Knew it the moment I heard Brimmah was on the party."
While serving another table, the stewardess, Priscilla — a narrow-eyed young woman with a striking dimple on her chin — froze mid-motion at the mention of Brimmah's name.
Across the room at the bar, Archii noticed her reaction. He too was but a freckled-faced youth — but constant envious remarks and questioning about how a young lad from the slums managed to own an establishment — had taught Archii how to observe people and act older than his years.
One patron from Vale's table recalled Brimmah as the boy who won the last tournament and even impressed King Leonhart.
But Vale condemned him as an Elmerian spy.
Archii caught Pricilla's eyes. Knowing her, he shook his head at her to discourage whatever she was thinking to do.
She glanced away.
Archii's eyes shifted on a quiet man at the table behind Vale, his face half-hidden under a scarf, sipping and listening.
As Priscilla took another order, Archii leaned in with a quiet warning. "Don't do anything rash!"
Vale's voice continued carrying across the air. "I always suspected that Brimmah was shady."
Priscilla walked across the parlour carrying a jug of ale. She ignored another patron raising his cup for a refill. She walked straight to Vale's table instead, offered to refill his cup with false politeness — then "slipped" and dumped the jug on him.
Priscilla apologized curtly — clearly insincere.
Vale exploded, thrusting up from his chair.
Archii rushed over to intervene. He bowed his head. "My deepest apologies, Sir Knyyt. Please forgive my girl's clumsiness. Your next round is on the house."
Vale gritted his teeth. Before he could respond, one of his drinking mates cut in, "Just his next round? A drop—" a hiccup interrupted him. "A drop spilt on me too."
"All of your next rounds are on the house." Said Archii
"Hear hear!" The men hoisted their cups.
Vale sat back down in a hiss.
In the Tavern's Backroom, Archii scolded Priscilla. "You risked our safety. You know damn well Brie's name draws attention. You want a Knyyt knowing we are affiliated to Brie, is that it?"
Priscilla shot him a disappointed look. "He is our best friend!" She retorted. "Your best friend. Put his life on the line fighting that tournament and he left us his prize money to start our lives. Yet you cannot even defend him name?"
"And throw away what he fought for in doing so?"
"You are just afraid!" She protested.
Archii blurted, "Brimmah is dead."
Priscilla raised her voice. "He is not!"
Silence fell.
Archii pulled her toward the narrow slit-window overlooking the parlour.
He pointed her eyes toward that scarfed man sat at the table behind Vale. "See that man? He frequents here often as Knyyt Vale. Sits close and pretends to mind his business. I suspect he's Black Batch, gathering information from loose lips like Knyyt Vale. Say I report him and he gets captured. His comrades could target us in retribution. The Crown certainly won't protect us."
"What does that have to do with defending Brie?"
"It's one and connected, don't you see? We have no one to protect us if we antagonise a Knyyt. But it's only a matter of time before his own superiors discover how he comes here and stupidly spills information. It's safe and wise to let him dig his own grave."
Priscilla's defiance faded. She nodded faintly, fighting tears. Voice low, she asked, "You truly believe Brie is dead?"
Archii placed a hand on her shoulder. "You and I both know Brimmah is too stubborn to die." With that, he sent her back to work.