The noise hit me as soon as we stepped inside—layered voices pressing in from every direction, loud without being joyful. My legs felt heavier than they had a moment ago, the day finally catching up with me now that we'd stopped moving.
I scanned the room on instinct, eyes dulled by fatigue.
"Do you see Xan and Branwen any—"
The word died in my throat.
I hadn't found faces. Just backs. Two men at the bar, shoulders turned away from us. One of them was too broad for the space around him, filling it without trying. Krumm. I recognized him by his frame alone—the bulk, the way he treated the room as an inconvenience rather than a place meant to hold him.
My attention fixed there before I could stop it.
A beat passed.
Across the room, Xan looked up. His eyes met mine briefly, questioning, then followed the line of my stare toward the bar.
I watched recognition settle over him—quiet and immediate. Like a man watching a storm arrive right on schedule.
Then the voices resolved.
Caldo's came first—irritated, articulate, complaint shaped into accusation.
"It doesn't matter if you believed it. Someone wanted us delayed," he was saying, words clipped and precise. "And it worked."
Krumm's voice followed, louder and blunter, circling the same point like it was the only one he could hold onto.
"Yeah. That spirit."
My stomach tightened.
Krumm turned.
At first his gaze slid past me, unfocused. Then it snapped back, recognition clicking into place with visible effort.
"You," he barked, shoving away from the bar. "You lied! Lied about that scary spirit!"
The room shifted.
Patrons nearest the bar backed away, stools dragging as space opened between us. A few retreated outright. Others hesitated—still deciding whether this was danger or entertainment.
The mug left Krumm's hand a heartbeat later.
It sailed wide and shattered against the wall behind me, ale spraying across the boards.
"Bar fight!" someone shouted, delighted and loud.
The tavern erupted.
Voices spiked. Chairs scraped as people scrambled back. Someone cursed. Another voice whooped.
A man near the hearth stood abruptly, knocking his stool over.
"Those are the ones who cleared the mines!" he shouted. "Saved half the town's coin flow, they did!"
A few heads turned. Someone else muttered agreement.
Krumm didn't.
He charged.
Before he reached me, another patron lunged out of the chaos—arms wrapping around Krumm's shoulders from the side.
"Enough!" the man shouted.
Krumm roared and twisted. The grip broke as easily as wet rope. With a violent shrug, he flung the man aside. The patron crashed into a nearby table, wood splintering as it collapsed under the impact.
The space between us vanished.
Branwen saw it before I did.
"Watch out!" she shouted.
She was already standing, turning toward me—and in that instant, Caldo's attention snapped to her. His expression shifted, calculation replacing surprise. Whatever conclusion he'd reached, it clearly didn't include her being uninvolved.
The two men who'd been near Caldo didn't retreat with the rest. They straightened instead, attention sharpening as they edged forward.
"By Valkur's strapping buttocks!" Branwen roared.
Krumm hit the bar like it was part of the road.
He ran straight across it—boots thudding against the wood as he barreled toward me. I barely got my arms up before his fist crashed into my shoulder and jaw.
Pain exploded, sharp and immediate. My vision blurred as I staggered back into a chair and went down hard.
Krumm didn't slow.
He slammed into me a heartbeat later, tackling me to the floor. The air burst from my lungs as his weight crushed down, forearm pinning me.
"Get off him!" Imoen shouted.
Her boots came up fast—short, snapping kicks to Krumm's side and thigh. Not enough to drop him, but enough to make him shift, to snarl and turn his head.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the men near Caldo step forward.
Xan's voice cut cleanly through the chaos, low and precise. The spell took him mid-step. He sagged and collapsed without a sound.
Krumm growled, hauling me partway upright by my collar.
Pain radiated through my arms and ribs, and the thought landed hard and unwelcome.
I am not good at this.
And if I wanted that to change—
I was going to have to survive this first.
Krumm drew back his fist again.
Something cracked against the side of his head.
Not a punch.
Wood.
Krumm staggered, more surprised than hurt, his grip loosening just enough for me to wrench free and roll away. My ribs screamed, but air finally reached my lungs again.
Rasaad stood in the space Krumm had opened, a chair in his hands.
He hadn't come running. He hadn't shouted. He was simply there—calm, measured, eyes already reading angles and momentum as if the chaos were a familiar problem.
Krumm roared and charged him instead.
Rasaad stepped aside at the last possible moment and brought the chair down sideways, catching Krumm across the shoulder and collarbone. One leg splintered with a sharp crack. Krumm lurched, momentum betraying him.
Rasaad didn't press. He used what remained of the chair as a barrier, a lever—anything that kept fists from landing cleanly. Krumm swung wildly, knuckles crashing into wood instead of flesh.
I got my feet under me, shaking, vision still swimming.
Krumm's attention stayed forward.
I didn't think.
I stepped in and drove my knee up hard where it would hurt most.
Krumm made a strangled sound and folded just enough for Rasaad to move.
Rasaad seized his shoulder and turned the stagger into a brutal stumble, guiding him down onto one knee. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just efficient.
Across the room, the last man hovering near Caldo tried to force his way forward—only to be met by the tavern itself.
A chair leg swung. Another patron piled in. Then another. Hands grabbed, bodies collided, and the man went down under sheer weight of numbers. It wasn't clean—just a communal decision that he wasn't picking his target tonight.
Caldo saw it.
His eyes flicked from the dogpile to Branwen and back again. For the first time, doubt crept in—not fear, not yet, but the realization that the room had stopped listening to him.
But Caldo didn't break.
He snapped forward and drove a punch into Branwen's side—solid enough to make me flinch. A second blow glanced off her jaw.
Branwen barely gave ground.
She straightened slowly, eyes locked on him.
"You've chosen poorly."
She stepped forward.
Her first strike caught Caldo square in the chest, forcing the air from his lungs. The second drove him back into a table hard enough to rattle it.
Caldo raised his arms too late.
Branwen seized him by the collar and slammed him sideways, using the table to break his balance before driving a fist into his ribs. He folded with a sharp grunt and tried to retreat—but the space behind him was gone.
Around them, the room had fully turned.
Not fleeing.
Watching.
Caldo stumbled again, composure finally cracking as he realized there was no one left to impress.
Branwen held him upright just long enough to make sure he understood.
Krumm snarled and tried to rise, but Rasaad was already there—poised, controlling distance with nothing more than stance and timing.
I stood unsteadily, breath coming in sharp pulls, hands trembling as the adrenaline refused to settle.
This wasn't just our fight anymore.
The Belching Dragon had decided it was done being polite.
And all I could think was that this was the first time I'd walked into this place—and it had already left its mark.
Iron struck iron.
A spear butt hit the floor once. Then again.
"Enough!" a voice called from the doorway.
The pressure in the room didn't vanish, but it shifted.
Two guards pushed their way inside, helms on, shields slung, spear shafts already in hand. They took in the scene at a glance.
"Separate," one ordered. "Now."
Rasaad stepped back first. Krumm thought about surging again—and didn't.
Branwen released Caldo with a final shove.
"On your feet," a guard said, spear angled toward Krumm.
Krumm spat, then stood, favoring one leg. The spear shaft pressed him back a step.
"And you," the guard said to Caldo. "Care to explain why half this tavern looks ready to finish what you started?"
Caldo opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"We were deceived."
That earned him nothing.
The guards moved in, hauling Caldo and Krumm toward the door as a third dragged the remaining two men—bloodied, swearing, and struggling—out of the crowd's grip.
"They started it," someone near the hearth said.
Others murmured agreement.
One guard glanced back at us.
"You lot do have a habit," he said evenly, "of making your presence known."
The door slammed shut.
The Belching Dragon exhaled.
I sagged against the wall. Imoen was at my side immediately.
"You're bleeding," she said.
"I know."
Rasaad knelt beside the shattered chair, setting it aside with care. Branwen rolled her shoulders once, flexed her hands, then glanced at me.
"You still standing?"
Barely.
But I nodded anyway.
Because I was.
Someone clapped.
Not applause—just a single, deliberate sound.
"Well," a voice said pleasantly, "that was worth every spilled drop."
The man rose from his chair near the wall, smoothing his vest as if he'd witnessed a clever trick rather than a brawl. His beard was neatly kept, his eyes bright with unmistakable interest.
"Volothamp Geddarm," he said with a shallow bow. "Traveler. Chronicler. Witness."
Imoen blinked. "You just… sat there."
"Ah," Volo said, wagging a finger. "Observed. Remembered. Intervention ruins pacing."
Branwen snorted. Rasaad's mouth twitched.
Volo surveyed the damage and sighed—not in dismay, but calculation. He produced coin and set it on the bar.
"I'll cover the repairs," he announced. "In exchange, I claim the story."
The tavern keeper didn't argue.
Volo smiled at us.
"I do hope our paths cross again. You add a remarkable amount of excitement wherever you go."
When he drifted away, already murmuring notes to himself, Xan leaned against the wall.
"We appear," he said, surveying the wreckage, "to leave impressions wherever we go."
I let out a slow breath.
"I could use some rest," I said.
Around us, the Belching Dragon settled into a wary calm.
For now, at least, the fighting was done.
And that was enough.