The first light of dawn filtered through the small window of Sylra’s room, casting a soft golden glow over the worn wooden furniture. Caspian stirred, blinking against the pale light. For a moment, he forgot where he was, the weight of his usual worries absent in the comfort of the warm bed.


    Then he felt Sylra’s presence beside him. She was still asleep, her dark hair spilling over the pillow and her features softened in slumber. Her breathing was steady, her expression peaceful. Caspian couldn’t help but smile faintly. She looked so different from the fiery woman who had scolded unruly patrons and faced him down without fear.


    Careful not to wake her, he slipped out of bed, his movements quiet. His boots rested by the door, and he pulled them on as he glanced back at her. A pang of guilt struck him—how much danger had he brought to her door? He couldn’t shake the feeling that staying here was selfish, that he was risking her life and the life of everyone who relied on the Stumbling Wyvern.


    As if sensing his inner turmoil, Sylra stirred, her amber eyes fluttering open. She sat up, her gaze finding him immediately.


    “You’re not sneaking out on me, are you?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep.


    Caspian chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, I was just…thinking.”


    Sylra swung her legs over the side of the bed, stretching as she stood. “Dangerous habit, that. Come on, if you’re up, you can help me open up the tavern. We’ve got bread to bake and floors to mop.”


    He gave her a mock frown. “A prince reduced to mopping floors. What would my father say?”


    “Probably something about shame and dishonor,” Sylra quipped, tying her hair back as she moved toward the door. “But lucky for you, he’s not here.”


    The two of them made their way downstairs, slipping back into their roles as tavern keeper and mysterious traveler. By the time the tavern opened its doors to the morning crowd, it was as if the previous day’s tension had never existed. Sylra moved through her tasks with practiced ease, chatting with customers and keeping a watchful eye on the room.


    Caspian, however, couldn’t fully relax. Every stranger who walked through the door set his nerves on edge, and every glance from a customer felt like it lingered too long. Brask’s warning from the day before echoed in his mind.


    By midday, the tavern was bustling. Farmers and merchants filled the space, their laughter and chatter masking the undercurrent of unease that Caspian couldn’t shake. He worked alongside Sylra, carrying trays and refilling mugs, blending in as best he could.


    Then the door opened, and the noise seemed to falter for just a moment. A tall man stepped inside, his cloak dripping from the rain outside. His dark eyes scanned the room, lingering on Caspian for a fraction too long before shifting to Sylra.


    Sylra’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her composure, her smile easy and welcoming. “Afternoon, stranger. What can I get for you?”


    The man walked to the bar, his movements deliberate. “A pint of your strongest, if you don’t mind.”


    Sylra poured the drink, her mind racing. She recognized his type—sharp-eyed, quiet, and deliberate. Not a soldier, but not just a wanderer either.


    As the man took his pint, he leaned against the bar, his gaze fixed on her. “Quiet place you’ve got here. Friendly folks.”


    Sylra matched his tone, casual but firm. “That’s the idea. Travelers like yourself can rest easy here.”


    The man took a sip of his drink, then glanced over his shoulder at Caspian, who was wiping down a table. “That one’s a hard worker. Doesn’t quite fit in, though, does he?”


    Sylra’s grip tightened on the bar, but her smile didn’t falter. “He’s just passing through, like everyone else.”


    The man gave a slow nod, setting his mug down. “Funny thing about folks passing through. Sometimes they bring trouble with them.”


    Sylra leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. “You looking for trouble, friend? Because you won’t find it here.”


    For a moment, the tension was palpable, a quiet challenge hanging between them. Then the man smiled, raising his mug in mock surrender. “Just making conversation.”


    Sylra’s eyes narrowed, but she stepped back, her heart pounding. She knew then that this man wasn’t just passing through. He was here for Caspian—or worse, for both of them.


    As the day wore on, the man lingered, watching, waiting. And Sylra knew it was only a matter of time before the fragile calm of the Stumbling Wyvern was shattered.


    The man at the bar continued to sip his pint, his presence a shadow over the otherwise lively atmosphere of the Stumbling Wyvern. His deliberate movements, the way his eyes never lingered too long on one spot, and the faint smirk that played on his lips all spoke of someone accustomed to control—and manipulation.


    Sylra’s practiced composure remained, but those who knew her best began to notice the cracks.


    From his usual corner, old Gregor watched with narrowed eyes, his gnarled fingers drumming against his mug. The grizzled farmer wasn’t the most perceptive man, but he had seen Sylra face down her fair share of troublemakers over the years. This time was different. Her movements were too tight, her laughter forced, her gaze darting toward the bar more often than not.


    Across the room, a young couple—Mira and Calen, regulars from the neighboring village—exchanged uneasy glances. Mira leaned close to her husband, whispering, “She’s on edge. Have you ever seen her like this?”


    Calen shook his head, his hand resting protectively on her arm. “Something’s off.”


    Even the traveling minstrels, who had taken a break from their lively tunes, felt the tension. They huddled near the hearth, speaking in low tones and casting wary glances at the bar.


    Sylra’s discomfort didn’t go unnoticed by Caspian either. As he worked, he kept the man at the bar in his peripheral vision, his instincts screaming at him to act. But Sylra had warned him to stay low, and he didn’t want to risk drawing unnecessary attention.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Finally, it was Gregor who broke the silence. He pushed himself up from his chair, his movements slow and deliberate, and ambled over to the bar. Standing next to the stranger, he placed his mug down with a loud thunk.


    “Another round, Sylra,” he said, his voice gravelly but warm. “And make it quick. These old bones need all the warmth they can get on a day like this.”


    Sylra managed a small smile, grateful for the brief distraction. “Coming right up, Gregor.”


    As she poured, Gregor turned his attention to the stranger. “Not from around here, are you?”


    The man gave him a sideways glance, his expression unreadable. “Just passing through.”


    “Hmm,” Gregor grunted, his tone casual but pointed. “Funny thing about folks just passing through. They don’t usually spend so much time watching everyone else.”


    The tension thickened, but the man only chuckled, raising his mug. “Observant, aren’t you?”


    “Too old not to be,” Gregor replied. “And too old to care much for games. If you’re here for something—or someone—best be honest about it.”


    The man’s smile faltered for the briefest moment, and Sylra’s heart leapt to her throat. But before he could respond, Mira and Calen approached, their presence adding to the unspoken solidarity forming around Sylra.


    Mira, her tone light but her eyes sharp, spoke up. “Sylra, do you need help with anything? You’ve been running yourself ragged today.”


    Sylra shook her head, grateful but wary. “I’ve got it, Mira. Don’t worry.”


    Calen stepped closer, his voice quieter but firm. “You sure? We’re happy to lend a hand if you need it.”


    The stranger’s gaze flicked between them, his smirk returning. “Friendly folks, aren’t you? It’s almost endearing.”


    “Friendly to those who deserve it,” Gregor shot back, his tone cold.


    The man leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly against the counter. “No need to get defensive, old man. I’m just here for a drink.”


    Sylra felt the weight of the room shift. The patrons who had noticed her unease were rallying in quiet ways—staying longer than usual, positioning themselves closer to the bar, and keeping watchful eyes on the stranger.


    She took a deep breath, her resolve hardening. She wasn’t alone. Her customers, her community—they had her back, even if they didn’t fully understand the danger she was facing.


    As the stranger finished his drink and stood to leave, he paused, his gaze locking with Sylra’s. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he said, his tone layered with meaning.


    Sylra met his eyes, her voice steady. “Safe travels.”


    When he finally stepped out into the fading light, the tension in the room eased, but the unease lingered. Gregor turned to Sylra, his expression grim.


    “Who was that?” he asked.


    Sylra hesitated, glancing at Caspian across the room. “Trouble,” she said quietly.


    “And it’s not done with you,” Gregor muttered, his eyes narrowing. “You just say the word, lass. This town takes care of its own.”


    Sylra nodded, her gratitude unspoken but evident. The Stumbling Wyvern might have been a simple tavern, but tonight, it had proven itself to be much more—a haven, a community, and a battleground where Sylra and Caspian would make their stand.


    As the door to the Stumbling Wyvern creaked shut behind the stranger, Caspian felt a surge of determination. His heart pounded, and his instincts screamed at him to stay hidden, to let the moment pass. But the look on Sylra’s face, the way her normally unshakable confidence had wavered, told him he couldn’t ignore this.


    Caspian stood abruptly, causing Gregor and a few others to glance his way. Sylra noticed, her amber eyes widening with alarm as she approached him.


    “What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice sharp but low enough not to draw attention.


    “I need to know what he wants,” Caspian said, his jaw set. “He’s not just some traveler. If he’s here because of me—”


    “And what if he is?” Sylra cut in, gripping his arm. “You think marching after him will make things better? That man’s dangerous, Caspian.”


    “Which is exactly why I can’t let him leave without answers.”


    Sylra’s grip tightened, her expression torn between frustration and concern. She opened her mouth to argue, but the resolve in his eyes stopped her. Finally, she sighed, letting him go.


    “Fine,” she muttered. “But don’t be stupid. If it looks bad, you get out of there, you hear me?”


    Caspian nodded, then slipped out into the fading evening light.


    The street outside the Stumbling Wyvern was quiet, the usual bustle of the town winding down as people retreated to their homes. Caspian spotted the man walking casually toward the outskirts, his cloak pulled tight against the lingering chill.


    “Wait!” Caspian called, his voice firm.


    The man stopped but didn’t turn around immediately. Instead, he stood still for a moment, as if considering his options, before finally turning to face the prince.


    “Ah, the hard-working barkeep,” the man said, his tone laced with amusement. “I wondered how long it would take you.”


    Caspian stepped closer, his hands clenched at his sides. “Who are you? What do you want?”


    The man tilted his head, studying him with a faint smirk. “Straight to the point. I like that. But I think you already know who I am—or at least what I represent.”


    Caspian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re working for Brask.”


    “Not directly,” the man admitted. “But I’m aligned with his interests. Let’s just say I have a vested interest in ensuring certain…responsibilities are fulfilled.”


    “Responsibilities?” Caspian echoed, his voice hardening. “You mean forcing me back to Rivenhold. Or killing me if I refuse.”


    The man shrugged, his smirk never faltering. “I wouldn’t put it so crudely. It’s not personal, Your Highness. Just politics. And as much as you might dislike the methods, you have to admit that running from your duties doesn’t exactly paint you in the best light.”


    Caspian’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t run to escape my duties. I ran to escape my father’s tyranny. You expect me to return and let him use me as a pawn in his schemes?”


    The man stepped closer, his demeanor shifting from mocking to serious. “Your father is many things, Caspian, but he’s still the king. And the kingdom needs stability. You being here—hiding in some backwater tavern with a goblin barkeep—doesn’t exactly help matters.”


    Caspian’s anger flared. “Sylra has nothing to do with this. If you or Brask think you can threaten her—”


    The man raised a hand, cutting him off. “No threats. Not yet, anyway. But you’re smart enough to know how this ends. Your father won’t stop, and Brask? He’s far less inclined toward diplomacy than I am. He’ll bring fire to that tavern if he thinks it’ll smoke you out.”


    Caspian took a step forward, his voice low and dangerous. “You tell Brask and my father that if they come for Sylra, I’ll make them regret it.”


    The man held his gaze for a moment, then chuckled softly. “You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. But spirit won’t save you—or her. Think it over, Caspian. You can fight this, or you can come back willingly and negotiate terms. Either way, your time here is running out.”


    With that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Caspian standing alone in the street, his fists clenched and his mind racing.


    When he returned to the tavern, Sylra was waiting, her arms crossed and her expression a mixture of worry and anger.


    “Well?” she demanded.


    “He works for Brask,” Caspian said grimly. “They know I’m here. They’re watching. And if I stay, they’ll come for you, too.”


    Sylra’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’d better be ready when they do.”


    Caspian hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. “Sylra, I don’t want to drag you into this any more than I already have.”


    She stepped closer, her gaze fierce. “You didn’t drag me into anything, Caspian. I chose this. I chose to stand by you. So stop trying to protect me by running. If they want a fight, they’ll get one. Together.”


    Her resolve lit a fire in him, and he nodded, his determination matching hers. Together, they would face whatever came next, no matter the cost.