Three figures occupied a round table near the back of a small village tavern, half-shadowed by flickering lantern light and the slow drift of pipe smoke. The tavern itself was lively in the way only rural places could manage. Laughter rose and fell in uneven waves, mugs slammed against wood, and a bard in the corner plucked at a stringed instrument that had clearly seen better days.
One of the three figures stood out immediately by doing absolutely nothing.
He wore a deep hood that obscured his face completely, the fabric worn but well cared for. No drink sat in front of him. No food either. His posture was rigid, unmoving, arms tucked beneath the table as if carved from stone. Only the occasional, subtle turn of his torso betrayed the fact that he was even aware of the other two men beside him.
A patron several tables away leaned toward his companion and muttered in the Stellan tongue, not quite quiet enough, "That weirdo hasn't even spoken once."
The hooded figure did not react.
The second man, by contrast, seemed determined to make up for that silence on his own. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and unmistakably military, though his uniform was not quite standard. The traditional black, red, and gold of a Stellan captain had been replaced with black, blue, and silver. The stitching was immaculate, the fabric reinforced in places that suggested personal modification rather than regulation issue.
Long black hair spilled freely down his back, glossy and well kept despite months on the road. His obsidian-visored helmet rested on the table beside several empty beer mugs and plates that once held roasted meat, bread, and spiced vegetables. He laughed loudly, gesturing with one hand as he spoke, completely at ease in the noise and chaos of the tavern.
The third figure sat across from him, similar in complexion but noticeably shorter, perhaps by half a foot. His hair was short and shaggy, the kind of cut that suggested practicality rather than fashion. He wore a fitted black shirt reinforced with padded plating along the chest, shoulders, and legs, clearly designed for combat without sacrificing mobility.
Two things about him drew the eye. One was his left arm, concealed beneath layered fabric and a leather sheath, unused and deliberately kept close to his body. The other was the hooded cape draped over his shoulders. Combined with his gear, it might have made him look menacing, if not for the calm, almost gentle smile he wore as he listened to the taller man's story.
They fit in perfectly. Loud, relaxed, young men with coin to spend and stories to tell. To the villagers, they were likely mercenaries, one more group answering the ever-growing demand for muscle. Cult activity and rebel cells had spread like rot through the countryside. From the salt-stung coastlines of Viona to the dense jungles of Reya, anywhere farther than a month's travel from the capital was fair game.
Most capable fighters had taken up mercenary work simply to survive.
No one in the tavern realized they were looking at living legends.
Not yet.
—
"I swear to you," Marquis said, slamming his mug down for emphasis, "the idiot didn't even bother handing my sabre back. Just stared at me cross-eyed and then went and drunkenly chopped off his own hand."
Jake listened with quiet amusement, his smile small but genuine. Marquis had been talking for nearly an hour, recounting increasingly absurd stories from his early military days. For all his arrogance, there was something almost comforting about hearing them. Despite being the Emperor's nephew, Marquis had earned his rank the hard way, clawing his way up from a despised rookie to a feared and respected captain.
Jake sipped his drink slowly, eyes scanning the tavern even as he listened. Old habits died hard. No matter how peaceful the moment felt, his mind always circled back to the memory of blue fire and a howling wolf beneath a false moon. He had been caught off guard once. Vulnerable once.
Never again.
The tavern door creaked open.
Conversation faltered as a fat, burly man stepped inside. He was tall, thick-necked, his arms corded with muscle and scars. His presence alone shifted the mood. Jake heard someone whisper from a nearby table, voice tight with unease.
"That's Dangerous Dave."
Jake almost laughed. Almost.
Dangerous Dave. The name sounded like something a child would invent. He took another sip of his drink, unconcerned.
Dave was already moving toward their table.
He stopped directly in front of Jake and reached out, grabbing his covered arm with a rough grip. Dave frowned immediately, confusion flashing across his face at the strange texture beneath the fabric.
Cold. Solid.
Jake sighed and looked up at him, switching smoothly into the Stellan tongue. "We don't need to do this. Walk away. Order a drink."
Dave's face darkened. "You laughed at me."
"It was a chuckle."
Dave reached for his weapon.
Jake let the covering slip from his arm.
Metal gleamed beneath the lantern light as hydraulics whirred to life. Blue light pulsed faintly through narrow slits along the joints of his fingers and wrist. Before Dave could even react, Jake shoved him once, lazily.
The impact sent Dave flying through two tables. Wood shattered, mugs exploded, and the man landed in a groaning heap amid splinters and spilled ale.
Silence fell.
Someone screamed.
Then a voice near the bar cracked with sudden realization. "It's them. It's the Beyonders."
Marquis burst into laughter, leaning back in his chair and pointing at Jake. "I told you it would take more than an hour. Pay up."
Jake scowled, reaching into the pouch at his side and tossing several silver coins into Marquis's outstretched hand. "If anyone had talked to us sooner, I would've won."
He stood, added a few gold coins, and placed them on the bar in front of the bartender, a grizzled man named Vincent.
"For the tables," Jake said. "And the trouble."
Vincent stared at the coins, then at Jake, awe replacing fear. "You're always welcome here."
Jake nodded once. Marquis followed him out, still chuckling, and Ace trailed behind, his armored form glowing faintly as the door shut.
—
The new Beyonder cabin rose from the clearing like a quiet promise.
After the first attack, staying in the old location had been impossible. Four long months of labor had transformed the new site into something sturdier, larger, and better hidden. Fields stretched along one side, freshly tilled and thriving. The newest arrivals had proven talented in ways beyond combat, turning survival into something almost comfortable.
Jake paused by the memorials.
Two simple markers stood side by side. Luna's battle axe gleamed pristine despite the months, its edge cared for religiously. Lucas's tachi rested nearby, sharp and clean. Initials were carved into the wood. L.U. and L.A.
Jake poured half his beer onto the earth before Luna's marker, then the rest before Lucas's.
"You earned it," he said quietly.
Five months. Five months since the expedition. Since Marquis had been declared a criminal. Since most Beyonder hideouts had been erased from the map. Since Jake had turned eighteen.
Five months since he had lost a brother and a lover.
He whispered a few words only the dead would hear, then turned away.
Inside the cabin, chaos greeted him.
Evan was pinned to a couch while Aya and Beatrice rained pillow strikes down on him. Feathers filled the air. Oliver stood nearby, wringing his hands, clearly unsure which side to take.
The door closed.
All four froze.
"Jake," Evan said weakly. "We can explain."
"It looks like you want death runs tomorrow morning," Jake replied flatly. "Don't you agree, Oliver?"
Oliver swallowed. "I agree."
Betrayal flashed across Evan and Aya's faces. Beatrice cheered anyway.
"Clean it up," Jake said. "Before I reconsider."
They moved instantly.
A voice rang out from behind him. "Rejoice, children. Uncle Marquis has returned with gifts."
Jake's eye twitched.
The teenagers swarmed Marquis as he produced a large box of chocolate. Jake crossed his arms. "Is that what you spent my money on?"
Marquis shrugged, grin answering for him.
Jake sighed and headed upstairs.
In his room, he lit the Aetherium lamp and opened a desk drawer. Inside lay a worn diary. He flipped through until he reached a marked page.
Day 181.
Jake exhaled slowly.
"So much has changed," he murmured.
He picked up the pen.
The world had begun moving again, and he intended to keep pace with it.