Chapter 43

  As I stepped into the establishment, a wave of warmth, light, and noise hit me so suddenly it nearly stole my breath—not because of its intensity, but because of the sheer contrast to the bitter cold silence outside. I paused for a moment in the entrance, helmet under my arm, sword at my hip, wondering what the hell I was even expecting here. Because in that moment, it struck me how little I actually knew.

  All I had about Rurik were two meager statements:

  He was a warrior. And he took himself far too seriously.

  That was it.

  No age, no height, no skin color or species. No clue about his clothes, his rank, or his role. Not even whether he was rich or poor—if he was one of those types who clung to the bar, spending his last coins on watered-down ale, or one of those who slipped behind pink velvet curtains, with gold rings on their fingers and the scent of sinful secrets trailing behind.

  The “Wolve Howler” was bigger than I had expected. Much bigger. And far more decadent.

  The ceiling arched high above me, supported by thick beams covered in carvings—most of them decidedly not appropriate for all ages. Magical orbs of light floated through the room in a variety of colors. Some pulsed in time with the bard music, others changed hue depending on where they were in the room. Red, violet, gold, sometimes a deep, poisonous green—the entire place looked like a blend of fever dream, carnival, and intoxicated hallucination.

  The stench was… impressive. A wild cocktail of vomit, stale sweat, booze, and that sharp artificial perfume that seemed like a cheap attempt to cover it all up. Instead of helping, it mixed in with the rest, becoming a cloud of guilt, greed, and forgetfulness.

  To the right, game balls rolled along wooden lanes, accompanied by the constant clack-clack of determined gamblers following their bets with gleaming eyes. At low, illuminated tables, chips were pushed around—some gently, others slammed down with frustration or elation, depending on whether someone was close to loss or victory. Cards were shuffled with practiced fingers, occasionally followed by a shout—sometimes angry, sometimes triumphant.

  The crowd was a true gathering of Tirros’ peoples.

  A goblin with gold-plated teeth laughed shrilly as he tricked the last copper coins from a visibly drunk dwarf. A few tables over, two elves—no forest kin, more of the city-bred kind—sat with flawlessly pressed vests and lavender-scented cigarillos. They observed the game like a chess match: cold and analytical.

  In a booth, a minotaur—huge, braided beard, three tankards of beer in one hand—tried to read his cards while a cackling halfling beside him chattered endlessly.

  At another table sat a group of orcs, tattooed, half-shirtless, playing dice and provoking each other with every roll. One of them seemed to be chewing on his fifth armband while another cleaned his teeth with a dagger.

  In the corner, I noticed a lone lizardwoman—her scales a metallic violet. She wore a silk robe, smoked a long pipe, and her yellow eyes slid unobtrusively over everyone in the room. Businesswoman or assassin. Or both.

  To the left, along the wall, were three bars—each overflowing.

  The first had a rustic air, run by a bearded human missing one ear and possessing a voice like gravel. The second was tended by a delicate dryad, her hair cascading like silver vines onto the counter, offering each guest a smile that always lasted a bit too long.

  The third bar—the one farthest back—doubled as a food stall. A troll, his chef’s hat drooping over his eyes, shoveled roasted nuts, pickled meat strips, and spicy dough balls into wooden bowls while grunting and ignoring the guests. That area smelled of deep-fried food, spices, joy… and stomachaches.

  And beyond all that: velvet curtains. Pink, purple, sometimes black. Behind them, voices could be heard, laughter, the occasional moan or argument. I didn’t want to know what was going on back there. I knew anyway.

  I drew in a breath through my nose—immediately regretted it—and let my eyes scan the room.

  Rurik. Warrior. Arrogant. He could be anywhere in here. But I was here now. And I was going to find him.

  So I began moving through the Wolve Howler—or rather: I drifted like a half-out-of-place shadow through a kaleidoscope of noise, lights, and vice. I tried to keep a low profile, but with heavy armor, a long sword at my side, and a face that resembled a silent executioner more than a partygoer, it was a hopeless endeavor. Instinctively, I placed a hand over the eagle insignia on my sword, hoping to hide the order’s mark. The result was counterproductive—now it just looked like I was about to draw my blade, which only drew more attention.

  While I inwardly scowled at myself, my eyes landed again on the minotaur I had spotted earlier. The massive fellow was still at his table, now wearing an expression caught somewhere between anger, despair, and utter confusion. His last bet had clearly gone wrong—the halfling next to him was laughing uproariously as the chips slid toward a third player. The table groaned ominously as the minotaur leaned forward. I wasn’t sure what would break first—the table or someone’s spine.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  And just then, a voice sounded behind me. Calm. Polite.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  I spun around—reflexively, almost too fast. My grip on the sword tightened instinctively, my body tense, ready to draw. But I stopped myself when I saw who it was. No street thug. No assassin. Not even a drunk.

  An elf.

  But not the kind you read about in fairytales. No long-haired nature priest with a flute and a bird on his shoulder. This one was different. Bald, save for a narrow ring of hair above his ears. Sporting a solid chin beard—unusual for his kind, maybe cultivated deliberately to command respect. His shoulders strained the seams of his tailored black suit, and his arms were as thick as those of some orcs. Beneath the fabric, a well-trained body showed itself—not a brawler, but someone who knew how to knock a man out without wrinkling his jacket.

  His gaze was sharp, but not hostile. More curious. Evaluating.

  I eased my grip on the sword and gave him a nod.

  Then I remembered his question. What I was doing here. I could’ve lied. Mumbled something about an old friend, a lost coin purse, or a job I was looking for. But... it wouldn’t have helped. And I’d never been good at lying anyway.

  “I’m looking for someone named Rurik,” I said plainly. “I was told he’s a warrior.”

  I left out the second part—that Rurik thought far too highly of himself. Maybe he was just a loudmouth. Maybe a joke. Or maybe the most dangerous bastard in this entire city. I wasn’t about to gamble my life on unnecessary provocation.

  The elf looked at me. A moment too long. First, he seemed surprised. Then, he frowned. And finally... a crooked, almost amused smile appeared on his face.

  Not hostile. But definitely amused. Like I had asked about a ghost, or the King of Tirros.

  Or trouble.

  “Please follow me,” he said at last—with a gesture that was surprisingly graceful, especially for someone with such massive hands.

  He turned, and I hesitated only for a heartbeat before following.

  With each step, it grew darker. Quieter. The sounds of gambling slowly faded behind us.

  I followed the massive elf without saying a word—step by step, straight ahead, deeper into the spine of this house of indulgence. The gaudy main hall faded behind us. With every meter we walked, my gaze sharpened, my breath became shallower. We passed the pink velvet curtains, that threshold that already from the outside seemed like an unspoken vow: whoever passes through here leaves behind shame and morals.

  The elf moved as if he knew the way by heart. The thick carpets muffled his steps, while my boots sent a faint creaking over the antique parquet with every stride. Paintings—no, oil paintings—hung on the walls, their content best left in the half-shadow. Their golden frames bore delicate patterns of leaves and animal heads. A scent of sweet incense, musk, wine, sweaty flesh, and burnt wax filled the corridor like an invisible veil.

  Then, after a turn to the left, the light changed. While the previous hallway had been bathed in warm orange, this one was awash in a rosy-purple glow. It was soft and eerie at once—like the illusion of comfort ready to collapse into a nightmare. The wooden paneling gave way to dense velvet, deep red and interwoven with golden thread. Small glass orbs on the ceiling cast a dim light, reflecting off tiny mirrors along the corridor walls.

  The thought that I might be walking into a trap had long since taken root in the back of my mind. Now it began to blossom, like a flower opening in the light. My body responded automatically: my hand slid—slowly, almost tenderly—back to the sword hilt. Not visibly, but ready.

  And then we stood before it.

  The curtain.

  Bright red. Velvet. Thick as theater drapes. And in front of it: silence. No laughter. No whisper. Just the thumping of my heart in my ears.

  “I only brought you here because you're a paladin,” the elf said, his voice now darker, heavier.

  I turned to him, and a queasy feeling crawled up my spine.

  “One of the first… since he began ruling here.”

  What…?

  My eyes widened. Something spread in my gut that had nothing to do with hunger. The elf saw the look on my face—and grinned. A low, throaty laugh escaped his lips.

  “Go on in.”

  With a curt bow, he turned and disappeared.

  I remained. Silent. Staring at the curtain.

  Ruling? He…?

  Impossible. Rurik couldn't be the ruler of Thulegard. Maybe… the owner of the Wolve Howler? Or a crime lord? Or some delusional noble with too much coin?

  I took a deep breath. Pulled my hand from the sword. Placed it on the velvet.

  The fabric was warm, like fresh from the sun, though there were no windows here. I pushed it aside—slowly, almost reluctantly.

  And then I entered the room.

  What awaited me was… not a throne room. Not an office. Not an interrogation chamber. It was… a grotesquely luxurious boudoir.

  Candles flickered everywhere—in every color and shape. Some on silver candelabras, others on wall shelves, some even on the floor. The air was so heavy with perfume and wax that I felt I had to slice it just to breathe.

  A massive fireplace made of black stone was set into the far wall. Above it hung a gigantic painting—a stylized, dramatic, kitschy warrior portrait. Rurik? Perhaps.

  Furs covered the floor—bear, wolf, something that looked like a manticore. Plush sofas stood in a semicircle, occupied by women of various species—a halfling with purple hair, a Vulpana with white fur, a dark elven beauty with cold eyes, a goblin draped in glittering fabric. All barely clothed, all posed as if this were their stage.

  And in their midst lay him.

  A half-giant. Perhaps two and a half meters tall—hard to tell, as he reclined half on a mountain of cushions, half on a sofa groaning under his weight. Gray skin, gleaming like steel, muscles like ropes beneath. Long silver hair braided thickly, draped over his shoulder. A fresh scar stretched from his chin across his right collarbone.

  His gaze met mine. Golden eyes—sharp, intelligent. Not a fool. Not a drunk.

  A warrior, yes. But one who had survived war—and made something else of himself.

  He smiled. Open. Charming.

  “Come in, paladin,” he said in a deep voice.

  “Leander told me you were looking for me.”

  I swallowed. And then stepped forward—step by step, past colored cushions, burning candles, the flickering hearth, and the many gazes studying me from all sides.

  Another threshold. Another place no paladin should be.

  But I crossed it.

  Because I had questions. Questions that had haunted me my entire life.

  And Rurik… might have the answers.