If the Guild Hall was a concert hall of chaos, a place like The Tipsy Hydra was a back-alley jazz club. The noise was more intimate, the lighting dimmer, the smells a more complex medley of spilled wine, pipe smoke, and the simmering stew that was the house special. It was still loud, but it was a comfortable, lived-in kind of loud. It was also, crucially, just another tavern in a city full of them, making it the perfect place for someone trying to be invisible.
Riko sat in a shadowy corner booth, nursing a simple glass of water. Her back was to the wallâalways to the wallâand the hood of her white cloak was pulled low, casting her face in a deep shadow. She hadn't really been able to unwind since the incident at the Guild. The weight of the hundred-platinum-coin bounty felt like a physical presence, a second cloak made of the gazes of every stranger she passed. Every friendly greeting felt like a potential prelude to a knife in the back. True relaxation, she mused, was a luxury that had long been stolen from her. She had never been a fan of alcohol anyway; its ability to dull the senses was a weakness she could not afford, now more than ever.
Suddenly, a hand settled firmly on her shoulder.
The world exploded into a web of white lines. A threat. Close-range. Unidentified. Rikoâs body uncoiled like a viper, her training and trauma taking over completely. She spun on the bench seat even as her hand blurred toward the hilt of her sword, the rough leather of the grip a familiar, deadly comfort. The boothâs bench screeched against the floorboards as she launched to her feet, poised to deliver a swift, incapacitating strike that would shatter the bones in the offending arm.
"WOAH! Calm down, Riko, it's just me!"
The voice was frantic, but familiar. Riko's hyper-focused senses processed the unique, chaotic outline, the specific, harmless pattern of life in front of her. Lyra. The killing intent vanished in an instant, leaving a cold, trembling exhaustion in its place. She let her hand fall from her sword, thankful it was her friend and not one of the city's knights.
In front of her stood Lyra, a cascade of fiery red curls framing a face dotted with freckles. Her bright green eyesâthe color of new spring leavesâwere wide with a mixture of mischief and genuine concern. She had both hands raised in a gesture of universal surrender. "Gods, Riko. One of these days you're going to put that thing through my chest before I can even say hello."
Riko offered no apology, only a slight, weary nod as she sank back into her seat, pulling her hood even lower. Lyra, seemingly unbothered by the near-death experience, slid into the booth opposite her and, in a single motion, flagged down the barmaid. "A tankard of your strongest ale, Mara! The good stuff!"
Within seconds, a heavy drink was slammed onto the table. Lyra grinned, tilted the entire thing back, her throat working, and didn't stop until it slammed back down, empty. Riko's nose wrinkled slightly at the pungent, tingling scent.
"Ah! Nothing like it," Lyra sighed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She immediately held up three fingers to the barmaid. Riko stared, her stunned silence a rare and visible sight.
Lyra caught her expression and smirked, putting on a playfully innocent voice. "Oh, don't be like that. You know I could never resist a good drink. Besides," she leaned forward conspiratorially, "you need to relax. You're wound tighter than a rusty crossbow."
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A faint sigh escaped Riko's lips. "Lyra... you need to lay off the ale. Last time, the city guard had to drag you to a holding cell because you used an A-rank lightning spell to 'get the bartender's attention'."
Lyra's cheeks flushed as she stifled a laugh at the memory. But just as quickly, her expression changed. Her laughter died. Her eyes flicked to a spot over Riko's shoulder, and she made a tiny, almost imperceptible motion with her finger.
Riko didn't need the warning. Her Kokugan had already picked him up. A new outline had entered her perceptionâsharp, rigid, and wrapped in an aura of cold, arrogant authority. Worse, she could perceive the faint, sickly purple haze clinging to his bright aura, a color that wasn't a color, swirling like poison in clear water. The unmistakable stain of Sin. She rolled her eyes, a gesture hidden by the shadows of her hood. "I'm not surprised he would be here," she murmured.
Lyra raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "You know him?"
"Ronan," Riko said, the name leaving her lips like a sigh of annoyance. "The best Holy Knight in the capital."
Lyraâs eyes widened as she looked between the approaching knight and her quiet, dangerous friend, wondering what kind of history existed between them. She wisely decided that now was not the time to ask.
A few minutes later, the tavern table was littered with three more empty tankards. Lyra was now leaning heavily on her elbows, a wide, goofy grin plastered on her face as she slurred her way through a story Riko couldn't follow.
"...and so I told him, 'that's not a goblin, that's my... my hat!' But the hat was already on fire, you see..." Lyra giggled, trailing off into a fit of hiccups.
Riko, watching her friend dissolve into a happy, drunken mess, finally had enough. She held up a hand, catching the approaching barmaid's eye and giving a slight, firm shake of her head. The unspoken message was clear: no more for this table. Lyra let out a theatrical groan of despair as the barmaid nodded and turned away.
The pungent, cloying scent of ale seemed to hang in the air, so thick it made Riko's eyes twitch with irritation under her hood. But the tavern was growing quieter. The rowdy laughter was dying down, replaced by the shuffling of chairs and nervous whispers. Riko's Kokugan painted the reason in stark white lines: the imposing figure of Ronan was making his way through the tavern, the crowd parting before him like water.
He stopped a few feet from their table, his polished gauntlet resting on the hilt of his sword. Riko didn't give him the satisfaction of looking up. She was focused on Lyra.
And then she felt it through her Crest. Not just his presence, but a sudden, sharp spike of killing intent. A gathering of immense power. The purple haze around his aura flared into a violent inferno.
The world went silent for a fraction of a second, broken only by the sharp, ringing sound of Mana-infused steel being drawn from its scabbard.
Time seemed to slow. Mistake, was her only thought.
She was already moving. She exploded upwards, pushing off the bench and launching herself into the air just as a blade of pure, white-hot light scythed through the space she had occupied. The holy blade carved through their heavy oak table and the booth's bench as if they were paper, unleashing a shower of splinters and vaporized wood. Riko landed silently on her feet in the center of the tavern floor, her own hand now resting on the hilt of her sword. The patrons who weren't screaming were frozen in shock, staring at the smoldering ruin of the booth and the Holy Knight, Ronan, who stood with his glowing sword held high, his face a mask of righteous fury.