The morning light spilled into the Stumbling Wyvern, the warm glow dancing across the polished wooden tables and casting long shadows on the floor. Despite the storm of emotions from the night before, Sylra and Caspian had agreed to open the tavern as usual. The aroma of freshly baked bread and brewed coffee mingled with the faint scent of ale, masking the tension that lingered in the air.


    Sylra stood behind the bar, her sharp eyes scanning the room while her hands worked with mechanical precision to set up for the day. Caspian was near the door, his posture relaxed but alert, like a lion waiting for an approaching threat.


    The door swung open with a creak, and in stepped Commander Brask. The man was a towering figure, his dark armor polished to a mirror-like sheen and the emblem of Rivenhold’s royal guard emblazoned prominently on his chest. His expression was unreadable, his chiseled jaw set firm, and his piercing gray eyes swept over the room before settling on Caspian and Sylra.


    The tavern grew silent. Even the regular patrons paused mid-sip, their eyes darting between the commander and the prince.


    Brask stepped forward, the weight of his boots echoing against the wooden floor. He stopped a few paces from Caspian, standing tall, his hands resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His face betrayed no emotion as he regarded the two of them.


    “Prince Caspian,” Brask said, his voice low and steady, carrying the authority of a man who had seen countless battles. “You’re a hard man to track down. I didn’t expect to find you... here.” His gaze shifted briefly to Sylra, then back to Caspian.


    “I wasn’t hiding,” Caspian replied evenly, his tone calm but firm. He crossed his arms, his stance unyielding. “And I’m not running.”


    Brask’s lips twitched in what might have been a smirk, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “No, you never were one for cowardice. A trait the king admires, though I wonder how far it will take you this time.”


    Sylra stepped forward, her chin tilted defiantly as she placed herself beside Caspian. “If you’re here to cause trouble, you can turn around and leave,” she said, her voice sharp but controlled.


    Brask’s eyes flicked to her, assessing her with a soldier’s precision. “I’m not here for trouble, miss,” he said, his tone almost polite. “I’m here on the king’s orders.”


    “And what does my father want now?” Caspian asked, his voice carrying a hint of disdain.


    Brask’s expression didn’t change as he reached into his cloak and pulled out a sealed letter. He held it out to Caspian. “He wishes to parlay. A meeting at the old keep outside the city. Just you and him. Neutral ground.”


    Sylra’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing. “Neutral ground,” she repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism. “How convenient.”


    Caspian took the letter but didn’t open it. Instead, he fixed Brask with a steady gaze. “And if I refuse?”


    Brask shrugged, his armor clinking softly with the motion. “Then the king will proceed as planned. The tavern will be seized by sundown, and the rest will follow.”


    Sylra’s fists clenched, her amber eyes blazing. “This place is mine. You tell your king he has no right—”


    Brask cut her off with a raised hand, his tone still infuriatingly even. “I don’t make the rules, miss. I enforce them. My advice? If you care for this place and for him”—his gaze lingered on Caspian—“you’ll hear the king out.”


    Caspian exchanged a glance with Sylra. He could see the conflict in her eyes—the fury at the injustice of it all and the fear of what might happen if they pushed too hard.


    “Fine,” Caspian said at last, his voice heavy with resignation. “Tell him I’ll come. But only if he guarantees the safety of everyone here.”


    Brask inclined his head slightly, a sign of acknowledgment. “As you wish, Your Highness.” He turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “Be careful, Caspian. Your father doesn’t like to lose.”


    With that, the commander stepped out, leaving the tavern in a tense silence.


    Sylra turned to Caspian, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and worry. “You’re not going alone,” she said firmly.


    Caspian sighed, reaching out to take her hand. “Sylra, I have to. This is my fight.”


    “No,” she said, her voice shaking with determination. “It’s our fight. And if you think I’m going to sit here while you walk into whatever trap he’s set, you don’t know me at all.”The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I wouldn’t dare argue with you,” he said softly.


    Together, they began to prepare for the meeting, knowing that whatever awaited them at the keep, they would face it side by side.


    As the tension settled over the tavern like an oppressive fog, a raspy chuckle broke the silence. Old Gregor, slouched in his usual corner seat with a mug of ale in hand, tipped his head back and took a long, deliberate sip. His weathered face, etched with years of hard living, bore a sly grin.


    “Well, if this ain’t the start of a tale worth singin’,” Gregor said, his voice carrying the gravelly weight of a man who’d seen more than his share of trouble. He set his mug down with a thud, leaning forward with a glint of mischief and sincerity in his one good eye.


    Caspian turned, folding his arms as he regarded the old man. “And what would you suggest, Gregor?” he asked, half-expecting some drunken ramble.


    Sylra, still fuming from Brask’s visit, crossed her arms and glared. “This isn’t a joke, old man. That was the king’s commander.”


    Gregor raised a hand, palm outward, in mock surrender. “Aye, lass, I know who he is. Brask isn’t a man you ignore lightly. But you two are wound up tighter than a crossbow spring, and that won’t do you any good.”


    Sylra opened her mouth to retort, but Gregor cut her off with a surprisingly sober tone. “Listen here, both of you. I’ve walked paths darker than the shadows you’re steppin’ into now, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: a clear head and a steady hand win the fight—not anger, not fear.”


    Caspian frowned, his gaze softening slightly. “And how do you propose we do that, Gregor?”


    Gregor tapped his temple with a finger, his grin fading into something more serious. “Think like the king. He’s a man of power, aye? He’s used to folks kneelin’, doin’ as they’re told. But you’ve got somethin’ he doesn’t understand: loyalty born of love, not fear. That scares men like him more than any sword.”


    Sylra’s expression softened, her arms uncrossing as Gregor’s words sank in. “So, what? We just walk in there and show him we’re not afraid?”


    Gregor chuckled, lifting his mug again. “Not just that, lass. You make him see the cost of takin’ you down. Caspian’s a prince, aye, but he’s more dangerous as a man who fights for somethin’ real. And you, Sylra—never forget that this tavern isn’t just yours. It’s a home for half the folks in this room. You’re a queen in your own right, and don’t let anyone, king or not, take that from you.”


    Caspian glanced at Sylra, his hand instinctively finding hers. “He’s right,” he said, his voice steady. “We have more to fight for than he does. We just need to show him that.”


    Gregor raised his mug in a mock toast. “Aye, there’s the fire I was hopin’ to see. Just don’t let it burn too hot, or you’ll scorch yourself before the real fight even begins.”


    Sylra smiled faintly, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time since Brask’s visit. “Thanks, Gregor,” she said quietly.


    Gregor waved a dismissive hand, draining the last of his ale. “Bah, don’t thank me. Just remember: a king’s power is only as strong as the fear he casts. Take that away, and he’s just a man like any other.”


    As the old man leaned back, humming an off-key tune, Caspian and Sylra shared a determined look. Whatever awaited them at the keep, they would face it not as a prince and a barmaid, but as equals bound by love, loyalty, and the unyielding strength Gregor had reminded them they possessed.


    As the tavern settled once more into a thoughtful quiet, another voice rose from a table near the hearth. Calen and Mira, a young couple known for their easy laughter and genuine affection for one another, exchanged a glance before Calen spoke up.


    “Caspian, Sylra,” Calen began, his voice soft but steady. “If you don’t mind us saying something, we’d like to share a thought or two.”


    Sylra glanced their way, her tension easing slightly at the sight of the familiar pair. “Go ahead,” she said, her tone still laced with uncertainty but softening under their gentle gaze.


    Mira reached over, resting her hand on Calen’s as she spoke next. “We’ve heard bits and pieces of what’s going on. It’s clear you’re both caught between forces that don’t care about love or loyalty, only power. But love... love is its own kind of power.” Her green eyes glimmered with warmth as she smiled at Sylra. “And you two have that in abundance.”


    Calen nodded, his rough, calloused hands fidgeting with his mug as he added, “Mira and I—we’ve faced our share of folks who didn’t think we belonged together. She’s from a merchant family, and I was just a farmhand with nothing to my name. Her father threatened me, tried to keep us apart, even sent folks to haul her back home when we ran off to be together.” He gave Mira a sidelong smile. “Didn’t work, though. She’s more stubborn than a mule when she sets her mind to something.”


    Mira chuckled, squeezing his hand. “That’s true. And we stood our ground, together. It wasn’t easy, and there were moments we doubted if we’d make it. But love gave us the courage to fight for what we knew was right.”


    Sylra’s amber eyes softened, her fingers brushing against Caspian’s. “It’s not just about us, though. If things go wrong, this place—our home—could be lost.”


    Mira leaned forward, her expression earnest. “Then fight for your home as much as you fight for each other. Love and community are the roots of strength. The king may hold power, but you two hold something he can’t control: the hearts of the people who stand with you.”


    Calen nodded, his eyes meeting Caspian’s. “You don’t have to face this alone. Whether it’s speaking with the king or standing against whatever he throws your way, you’ve got us—and everyone else here who believes in what this place stands for.”


    Caspian took a deep breath, their words settling like a balm over his troubled thoughts. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Both of you. It means more than you know.”


    Mira smiled, her hand still resting in Calen’s. “You two remind us of why we fought so hard to stay together. And if we can do it, so can you.”


    Sylra nodded, her resolve growing stronger with every passing moment. She glanced at Caspian, her voice steady as she said, “They’re right. We have more than just each other—we have everyone here. We’ll face this together.”


    The tavern, filled with quiet murmurs of agreement, seemed to echo with the unspoken promise of solidarity. Whatever the king had planned, he would face not just a prince and a barmaid, but an entire community bound by love, loyalty, and the unshakable determination to protect their own.