Inside the drowsy-wheat tavern the firelight catches the dust motes drifting through the tavern like slow-falling snow. I've been here three hours, nursing the same whiskey, watching the door. When you finally walk through it, something in my chest—something I thought calcified decades ago—shifts.

You don't look like a hero. No gleaming armor, no righteous sword at your hip. Just a traveler with tired eyes and the kind of quiet determination that either means wisdom or foolishness. I find myself hoping, for once, it's the former.

The bench across from me groans as I shift my weight, gesturing with one thick, calloused finger toward the empty seat.

"You're late." My voice rumbles low, carrying over the tavern's murmur. "I've been watching that door since the sun was high, wondering if you'd prove to be another disappointment."

The barmaid flinches at my tone, but I ignore her, red eyes fixed on you with an intensity that's made armies waver. Yet beneath the harshness, there's something else—a flicker of desperate hope I can't quite extinguish.

"Sit. Drink. Tell me why a soul such as yours would seek out a relic like me."

The tavern was thick with the smell of cheap ale and woodsmoke, the kind of place where dreams went to die quietly between coughs and the clatter of chipped mugs. You sat in the corner, nursing a drink you could barely afford, your fingers tracing the rim of the tankard as you watched the door with the desperate patience of a man waiting for a god to descend.

And then the door groaned open, and the god walked in.

He was immense—a mountain of flesh and muscle wrapped in robes that cost more than this entire village's yearly harvest. His horns scraped the lintel as he ducked through the doorway, and the air itself seemed to thicken with his presence. The tavern fell silent. Even the fire seemed to dim, as if afraid to burn too brightly in his shadow.

He moved with surprising grace for his bulk, his kilt swaying beneath the hem of his opulent robes as he made his way to the bar. The bartender, a man who'd seen brawls and bloodshed and the occasional dragon attack, went pale as milk.

"Whiskey," the satyr rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together in a landslide. "The oldest you have. And a glass for the boy in the corner."

You froze as his glowing red eyes met yours across the room. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. The weight of his gaze alone was enough to pin you to your seat like a butterfly to a board.

The bartender scrambled to comply, and moments later a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses appeared on the bar. The satyr grabbed both glasses and the bottle with a casual ease that spoke of immense strength, then lumbered toward your table.

The chair across from you groaned in protest as he sat, the wood straining beneath his weight. He poured two generous measures of whiskey, sliding one toward you with a hand that could crush your skull like an eggshell.

"Thalric," he said, by way of introduction. His voice was quieter now, meant only for you. "And you are... a dreamer, if I'm not mistaken. The kind who looks at the stars and wonders if they're close enough to touch."

He took a long sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours. Up close, you could see the lines etched deep into his weathered face—the map of a thousand battles, a thousand losses, a thousand years of watching empires rise and crumble to dust.

"Rumors travel fast," he continued, setting his glass down with a heavy clink. "They say you've been asking about me. About the old magic. The kind that doesn't come from books or tutors or the petty academies that churn out mediocre mages like a mill churns grain."

He leaned forward, his massive forearms resting on the table, and for a moment, the weariness in his eyes gave way to something sharper. Something hungry.

"So tell me, little dreamer. Why should I waste my time on you? Why should I believe you're anything more than another fool with a head full of fantasies and a heart full of fear?"

The tavern door groaned open, and the scent of rain-soaked earth and woodsmoke rolled in with you. Your threadbare cloak did little against the evening chill, but the warmth of the hearth and the low murmur of patrons promised respite. Your eyes scanned the room, searching for the figure that had drawn you here—the rumored archmage, the last of a dying age.

And there he was.

A mountain of a man, or something close to it, hunched over a corner table. His robes, rich and embroidered with silver thread that seemed to shimmer with faint, latent magic, pooled around him like spilled midnight. A tartan kilt peeked out from beneath the fabric, an odd, almost absurd contrast to the opulence above. Great curved horns swept back from his brow, catching the firelight like polished bone. His beard, trimmed and grey, framed a face that was both weathered and strangely soft, and his eyes—glowing embers in the dim—were fixed on a goblet of wine he hadn't touched.

He didn't look up when you approached, but you felt the weight of his attention nonetheless, a pressure in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks.

"Rumor travels faster than truth," he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly tremor that vibrated in your chest. "And it often dresses up fools in the armor of heroes." He finally lifted his gaze, red eyes meeting yours with a weary, ancient scrutiny. "What do you want, girl? A spell to make you beautiful? A charm to win a lover's heart? Or are you simply another soul seeking to warm themselves at the dying fire of a forgotten god?"