Chapter 42

  Before I drag you any further into my chaotic, absurd, sometimes dangerous, sometimes surprisingly boring life story, there are a few things we need to clear up.

  After the fight with Ygrath—that goddamned ice beast—and all the madness that followed, we stayed two more days in the half-ruined inn. “We” being Vin, Maira, and me—an improvised group of heroes thrown together more by accident than intent. We were exhausted, covered in bruises, scratches, magical fatigue, and mentally pretty much done. And the worst part? We were alone.

  The guests? Well... they died in the explosion. That explosion which happened before the passage into the Spirit Realm spiraled out of control. Markus? Sacrificed on the altar and gone. Gunnar, frozen into a statue of ice? Probably fell through one of the many holes in the chamber floor… or got pulverized during the battle.

  That meant: no staff, no company—just the three of us and whatever food we could salvage from the wreckage. I mentioned that I patched the inn back up, but the scars were still visible. For two days, we survived on pickled fish, hard bread, dusty nuts, and anything in the back of the pantry that hadn’t gone bad. You get used to the taste of chewy cheese and cold dried meat. More than that, you get used to sleeping on counters, benches, or—if lucky—beneath a half-torn banner.

  We didn’t talk much during those two days. Maira treated her wounds, Vin quietly sorted her herbs, and I sat at the entrance most of the time, staring out into the vast, snow-covered landscape and thinking. A lot. Too much, to be honest.

  On the evening of the second day, just before the sun dipped below the mountains and the shadows crept into the valley, we decided to head to Thulegard together. Maira and Vin didn’t ask questions. They just nodded. Maybe because, like me, they felt there was no point in splitting up again.

  We weren’t friends in the classic sense. Maybe not yet. But we were fighters, wanderers, restless souls. People who had traveled across Tirros for a long time—each on their own, searching for a goal that always seemed to lie somewhere on the horizon but never within reach.

  Maybe I had that goal. Or at least a clue. Two months ago, I’d found a yellowed parchment in a fortress near the Marghul swamps. It was barely readable between the soot and stains, but one name was clearly visible: Rurik.

  And below it—almost as an afterthought—a note:

  "Last known location: Thulegard."

  Rurik. A name from my past. Or more precisely: a name connected to Zarkhural. And to the demon I…

  No. Not yet. That comes later.

  In any case, the clue was enough for me. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was a trap. Maybe just one name among many. But maybe—just maybe—it was the only lead to the monster that had haunted me for half my life.

  So we set out. Northbound. Toward snow, cold, and scarred cities. Toward Thulegard.

  And now... here we are, standing in front of the Wolve Howler. A den of gambling, debauchery, drunken madness—and the next messed-up part of this story.

  -

  The very first glimpse of the building dragged a dull, half-hearted “No” from my lips. Not because I had a dark premonition or was haunted by memories of my demons—no, quite simply because this establishment looked, from the outside, like it would gleefully drown any trace of moral decency in a barrel of cheap liquor. The only danger here wasn’t subtle or demonic. It wore glitter, smiled with too many teeth, and probably smelled of cheap perfume, burnt cards, and overheated metal. And yes—granted—there were probably plenty of actual threats in there. Too many to bother counting.

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  Even the entrance was an assault on dignity. Two signs welcomed visitors with the grace of a drunk bard. One showed the unmistakable shape of a male body part—placed where you’d expect it—and was crossed out in red. The other showed the same part, exaggerated in every possible way, adorned with a green checkmark. A statement. Not a good one.

  Above the door spun a half-broken wooden sign, painted with gambling chips, ornate cards, glowing dice, and mugs overflowing with foam. The outer wall was plastered with graffiti so obscene, I wouldn’t describe it even if I were performing for the most questionable troupe of bards. Right next to the door, in curly pink letters, a hand-painted slogan proclaimed:

  “Welcome to Paradise! All your dreams and desires fulfilled.”

  I had a few dreams I definitely didn’t want fulfilled in there.

  All three of us were visibly uncomfortable. You didn’t need to be a mind reader to tell that both Vin and Maira would’ve preferred to turn around and find a regular, boring old tavern that smelled like beer and despair. Maybe one with a chessboard. Or at least fewer anatomical murals.

  But for me, that wasn’t an option. The man I was looking for—Rurik—was said to be inside. And that name was the only decent lead I’d had in years. This wasn’t about wanting to go in. It was about having to.

  I turned to Vin and Maira.

  “Find somewhere in town to stay. Wait for me there,” I said calmly. They nodded without a word, though I could see in their eyes that they had no faith in the building behind me.

  “Take care,” Vin whispered before she and Maira turned and disappeared down the street—frosty wind carrying the sound of their footsteps away.

  I was left alone. The wind tugged at my armor, a distant call from a market stall echoed down the alley, but in front of me loomed only this... establishment.

  I closed my eyes under my helmet, took a deep breath, let the cold sharpen my senses, and spoke silently to myself:

  “Eyes shut. Walk in.”

  I stepped forward, one foot after the other, the crunch of my boots on the red carpet sounding almost reverent in the still, icy air—or completely out of place. Maybe both. I carried my helmet under my arm, my gaze fixed straight ahead, toward the entrance of this… establishment, which seemed to grow warmer with each step. But it wasn’t the comforting warmth of a crackling fireplace or the scent of roasted meat. It was the heavy, suffocating heat of a packed room, steeped in sweat, alcohol, dirty dreams, and too many bodies that wanted too much.

  The building was well heated—not out of a desire for coziness, but because the real business here happened at night. Heat meant revenue. And in Thulegard, this scarred city on the edge of the wilds, everything was a transaction. Everything.

  The doorman surprised me. Not a human, not some muscle-bound mercenary with gold teeth—but a blue-scaled dragonborn. His scales shimmered in the lamplight, he was nearly two heads taller than me, and carried no weapon, just a thick fur coat that draped over his wings. He stood tall, with a quiet dignity that told me he’d faced looks like mine before. Thulegard was, according to Narla, something of a refuge for his kind. Not a welcome one—but at least they weren’t hunted here.

  When his eyes landed on me—or rather, on the symbol on my sword—his face froze. The open, if grumpy, hospitality vanished in an instant. His pupils narrowed, and for a fleeting moment, I saw real fear in his eyes. Not respect. Not disdain. Fear.

  All because I carried a damned sword with a damned emblem on it.

  His gaze locked on the symbol, drilling into the mark of the Order of the Eagle like a blade. I thought again, not for the first time, about scraping it off. Not because I was ashamed—but because I was tired of walking into judgments before I even opened my mouth.

  When I finally stood before him, he squared his shoulders as if to remind himself that he was the one guarding the door—not me. He tried to force his face back into something neutral, but the crack was already visible. Distrust clung to his brow like a scar.

  “You know no one here wants your kind around,” he said in a rough voice, without flourish or diplomacy. Direct. Honest.

  I didn’t answer. Maybe because there was nothing I could say to make it better. Maybe because I understood the distrust.

  He sighed, deep and almost resigned. “But I guess I can’t keep you out.”

  With a slow step aside, he opened the way, as reluctantly as someone letting in a storm they couldn’t stop. And then he added—whether he believed it himself or not, I couldn’t say:

  “You’re probably not here for that… but still: enjoy yourself.”

  I raised an eyebrow—not in mockery, but surprise. Something in that sentence, that bitter irony, made him almost human. I nodded—part in thanks, part in quiet astonishment.

  Just as I reached for the door, he called after me, softly but clearly:

  “Good luck. And be careful, Paladin.”

  He practically spat that last word like a curse. It clung to me like smoke. I could’ve looked back. Said something. But I didn’t.

  I crossed the threshold—into a place where a Paladin had no business being.