The music stopped.
Millicent was standing right by the door, and she yanked it open with lightning-fast reflexes.
A middle-aged man rushed in, covered head to toe in snow, wearing a brown overcoat. He was panting so hard he could barely breathe, his broad face soaked through. From the way he was dressed, he looked like someone from a nearby village.
He stared around in a daze, still gasping, then stammered as he pointed toward the pitch-black woods outside and shouted, "Close the door! The wizard's coming! An evil wizard!"
This Muggle had clearly been hunted by a dark witch or wizard, and his mind was a complete mess. Everyone present fell silent.
"Merry Christmas. Welcome to the Three-Cups Traveler's Tavern." Skyl took a drink from behind the bar and handed it to the intruder. "Giggling Grog. Drink up—this is your first cup here."
The man accepted it with trembling hands. The moment he swallowed, he burst into uncontrollable laughter. That was what Giggling Grog did.
When the terror finally loosened its grip and the delayed fear caught up with him, he broke down sobbing.
"Don't cry. You're safe here. What's your name?"
"Fabian… Fabian Bauer, sir."
Skyl's voice stayed gentle as he guided Bauer to a tall stool at the counter. "Still worried about the witch who chased you? Fate didn't invite her into the Three-Cups, so she can't see this place. You don't need to fear her hurting you here."
Fabian—the Austrian farmer—looked utterly bewildered. He stared around, stunned. This strange middle-of-nowhere tavern was packed with customers who were either dressed in bizarre outfits or looked outright unnatural. He saw Moonshadow the dark elf, dazzling enough to make your head swim. He saw a strange blue-skinned woman with four arms. He saw a whole cluster of odd little dwarves.
The guests had already gone back to lively drinking, and the stage struck up bright, celebratory music.
Fabian's eyes darted around—then he suddenly spotted an old woman outside in a pointed witch's hat. She clenched a fistful of dog leashes, dragging along a pack of German shepherds.
"It's her! She's here!"
The tavern's patrons only flicked a glance at the panicking Fabian, then ignored him. Outside, the old witch circled the tavern again and again, but she seemed completely unable to see the building at all. The dogs kept sniffing the ground. Fabian's footprints vanished here; his scent ended here, as if he'd disappeared into thin air.
The old witch let out a coaxing call. "Little lamb, where are you? Come out now. Hee-hee. Your friends… your family… they miss you so much."
She swished her wand. The dogs she held on their leashes all took an invisible beating, yelping in pain. One of them—a particularly young female—whined in the shivering winter night.
Fabian clenched his fists and cried harder. He turned and begged Skyl, "My friend, can you help me? I'll trade anything. My house, my car, my savings—anything on me, if there's any part you like, you can take it—please…"
Skyl asked for another drink from behind the counter. "Flaming Dragon Tequila. This is your second cup."
"I don't want alcohol, sir. I'm begging you—help me."
"Drink it. That's the rule of the Three-Cups," Skyl said. "Those who drink here get what they want. And even if they don't, they'll at least get a beautiful dream."
The farmer looked at the young foreign man and, all at once, felt like it made perfect sense. He took the cup and downed it in one go.
The tequila hit like a line of fire, racing down his throat into his stomach. A searing burn flared in his belly—then, in the next instant, an endless surge of courage rose in his chest.
His muscles swelled. He became fierce, heroic—like the champions the ancient Greeks worshipped. That cup turned plain, ordinary Fabian into Hercules.
The guests in the tavern were men and women who'd all seen battle. Really, aside from the Finger Maiden, only Bilbo could hardly be called a warrior—though as a master thief, he was still top-class in his own way. They cheered the Austrian farmer on. Legends from different worlds either smiled and nodded or thumped their chests, and the ordinary Fabian felt himself blaze with determination.
The Dragonborn nodded to his housecarl, Lydia. The Nord woman lent Fabian a strange concave shield called Spellbreaker, a precious magical artifact. Raise it, and it formed an anti-magic ward—made to break mages. Then she offered him a steel sword, forged at Whiterun's famed Skyforge.
Shield and sword in hand, Fabian's limbs stopped shaking entirely. He straightened, strode to the door, and stepped outside.
"Oh, little lamb," the old witch croaked with a nasty laugh. "Where did you run off to? And what are you holding there?"
Many hermit witches grew irrational with time—until even their faces became ugly, warped, unnatural.
Maybe she really was the young, beautiful witch Fabian's father had met years ago. Maybe she had once lived in Fabian's fantasies too—when he was a boy, he'd foolishly imagined her as some hidden forest spirit, withdrawn from the world. But everything beautiful was beaten down by time. Innocence was strangled by money. The courage in Fabian now didn't only let him face an enemy he couldn't possibly defeat—it also let him judge himself.
"Witch, I'm the one who disturbed you! Kill me if you must, but my family is innocent! Please—let them go, and let those tourists go too!"
"Those stupid Muggles you brought ruined my potion," the old witch snarled, her face twitching with anguish. "That was Felix Felicis! Merlin's mother, do you have any idea how much time and effort that took me?!"
Fabian understood the negotiation was dead. He let out a scream, raised his shield, and charged.
Every curse thrown at him was blocked by the shield in his hand. Then, with one clean, decisive strike, he severed the old witch's leash-holding arm.
The witch shrieked, then Disapparated—leaving behind a thunderous crack in the snowy night air, like the whip-crack of an explosion.
The dogs whined and swarmed in. Most had bloodshot eyes and lunged at Fabian. But two young male dogs stepped in front of him.
They tore into each other. In the blink of an eye, blood spilled everywhere. Fabian recognized the dogs protecting him—his two sons.
He tried desperately to drag the others off, but they'd gone mad and couldn't understand human words anymore. Fabian shouted apologies as he swung his sword and cut down the rabid dogs.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Fabian cried, tears pouring down a face full of courage. "This is all my fault! I'm sorry!"
When the last mad dog fell, the two loyal hounds who had protected him were already dead.
Fabian's heart was paler than the snow that buried all of Austria—but the two cups were still working. He was still strangely optimistic, still brimming with courage. This was what he deserved, he thought. It just hurt so much it felt like knives.
A soft whimper sounded.
A little dog padded out of the darkness and nudged Fabian's palm with a warm, gentle nose.
"Anna." He scooped the pup into his arms. "Where's Mom?"
He looked around.
All he saw were the bodies of the dogs. Maybe his wife had been among the attackers. Maybe she'd escaped in the chaos.
Fabian smiled, bleak and broken, then turned back to look at the warm, steaming tavern. Its green-painted door was still open for him.
Inside, the music had stopped again. The guests were all watching the entrance.
Farmer Bauer returned to the bar, holding the battered little female pup tight against his chest.
"Can I have my third cup?" he asked Skyl, hope trembling in his voice.
He returned the sword and shield to Lydia.
Behind the counter, Marika looked at him with quiet sorrow. She was already reaching for mixing tools.
Skyl nodded and said to the bar, "A ginger beer."
Marika flashed a bright smile.
Dumbledore stepped forward and let out a soft sigh. "May I see the child?" He took the small shepherd dog and used magic to heal the lash wounds. Just as hope lit in Fabian's eyes, the old wizard sighed again. "Sadly… she's been maliciously transfigured for too long. Even if we change her back, she won't recover a human mind."
A full mug of ginger beer slid across the counter.
Fabian grabbed it and drank like it was medicine that could save his life. Beer spilled from the corners of his mouth and splashed onto little Anna like rain. The pup shivered and shook herself.
Most of the guests raised their cups to drink with him.
"One cup of happiness, one cup of courage, one cup of love," Skyl said with a warm smile. "Mr. Bauer, your service at the Three-Cups is complete. Time to pay the bill."
Drunk and bleary, Fabian nodded and fumbled out a wad of paper cash.
"Is it enough? This is all I have."
"No. We don't take money." Skyl took out a cypress wand and tapped the man lightly on the forehead. "Remember this tavern. Leave behind your longing. From now on—no more meetings. Mr. Bauer, have a peaceful Christmas night."
Fabian slumped onto the counter and fell fast asleep, snoring.
In his arms, the little dog slowly began to turn back into a human child. The young girl lifted her head and said to Skyl, "Big brother… thank you."
Music rose again through the tavern, and the room filled with laughter and clinking cups.
When Fabian Bauer woke up, he was back home. He felt like he'd had an impossibly long dream.
His wife was gone. His two sons never returned. Fabian collapsed into grief—until he heard a soft voice calling, "Dad."
It was his daughter, restored.
"Oh, Anna…"
Villagers came to offer condolences. Travelers heard that a farmer had encountered a witch, and they came knocking one after another.
Fabian told his astonishing story again and again, never growing tired of it. Before long, a TV station arrived to interview him. That Christmas, a new legend began spreading across Europe—and then the world.
Have you heard of the Three-Cups Traveler's Tavern? Warm and welcoming, it always appears at the moment of despair. It serves only three cups of drink, but it can grant your three wishes.
You've heard of it? Then that's wonderful. Hold on to hope—maybe one day it will appear before you too. Have you decided what three cups you'll drink?
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