The freshly-rebuilt tavern smelled of sawdust and yeast, its new oak beams still gleaming under hanging lanterns. Boris shouldered through the swinging doors like a battering ram, his voice booming across the half-empty common room.
"Borin!"
Behind the bar, a mountain of a man looked up from polishing tankards. His identical beard was flecked with flour instead of road dust, his massive arms crossed over an apron that had clearly survived the tavern's destruction and been stubbornly repaired.
"Ugh!" Borin's annoyed grunt carried the weight of a thousand sibling arguments. His scowl deepened as he took in the group. "What fresh hell is this? I told you not to bring—"
His words died as his gaze landed on Regulus. The tankard in his hand bent slightly under suddenly tightening fingers.
A beat of silence.
Then—"You."
Dimos' mother seized the moment to drag her son toward the stairs. "Come, let's get you washed up," she murmured, her grip white-knuckled on the boy's wrist. Dimos went willingly for once, though he craned his neck to watch the impending explosion.
Regulus raised both hands in mock surrender. "In my defense—"
"You!" Borin vaulted over the bar with terrifying agility for a man his size. "The walking fire hazard!" He jabbed a flour-dusted finger at Regulus' chest. "You owe me for a new stewpot! And three ladles! And—"
"He brought Dimos home," Boris interjected smoothly.
Borin froze mid-tirade. His eyes flicked to his nephew's retreating back, then back to Regulus. The anger drained from his face like water through a sieve.
Nyx chose that moment to slink forward, her smile all sharp edges. "What fascinating hospitality."
The tavern keeper's face went through several complicated expressions before settling on grudging acceptance. "...Ale's on the house then," he muttered, stomping back behind the bar. "But you're paying for the stewpot."
As Borin began pulling drinks with unnecessary force, Boris leaned toward Regulus. "That," he whispered, "was the warmest welcome he's given anyone in a decade."
Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed shut—Dimos finally escaping his mother's fussing. The sound seemed to shake the last tension from the room as the tavern's normal murmur of conversation resumed.
Borin slid a foaming tankard across the bar with enough force to slosh liquid over the sides. His glare dared Regulus to comment.
Regulus took a long, deliberate sip. "Still water your beer, I see."
The resulting roar shook dust from the new rafters.
The tavern's lanterns flickered as Borin's bellow rattled the newly-hung shelves. "Ungrateful brat!" He slammed another tankard down hard enough to crack the fresh wood of the bar counter.
Regulus ducked the spray of ale, raising his hands placatingly. "Jeez! I'm sorry for hiding the equipment I destroyed, Borin!" He shot a glance at the clearly expensive copper pots gleaming behind the bar. "I really couldn't afford it on such short notice. We were on a tight budget!"
Borin's massive hands clenched around a serving tray, the metal groaning in protest. "Tight budget?" he growled, voice dripping with disbelief. "You used my good saffron to clean your boots!"
Nyx, perched elegantly on a barstool, swirled her untouched ale with a smirk. "In his defense," she purred, "they did shine beautifully afterward."
The tray bent further in Borin's grip. Upstairs, the floorboards creaked as Dimos and his mother paused their reunion to listen to the commotion below. Boris leaned against the wall, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Regulus scratched his neck sheepishly. "Okay, that one might have been an accident. But in my defense—"
"No more defenses!" Borin roared, throwing the ruined tray into the kitchen with a clatter that made the new serving girl yelp. "You'll work off every valis! Peeling potatoes! Scrubbing pans! And by the gods, you'll learn proper skills if I have to—"
A sudden crash from the kitchen interrupted him. All eyes turned as a young apprentice peered out, face pale. "Um... chief? The new stove is... smoking?"
The color drained from Borin's face. "My five-thousand-mark Vulcan range—" He whirled on Regulus with murder in his eyes. "You breathed on it, didn't you?"
Regulus took a careful step back. "I haven't even been in the kitchen yet!"
Boris finally lost his battle with laughter, guffaws echoing through the tavern as his twin stormed toward the kitchen. Nyx delicately sipped her ale, golden eyes sparkling with amusement over the rim of her tankard.
"You know," she mused, "for someone who survives divine trials, you do have the worst luck with cooks."
Regulus groaned, dropping his head to the freshly-polished bar - right as Borin's enraged shriek echoed from the kitchen: "WHO TAUGHT YOU TO SEASON A STOVE?!"
Somewhere upstairs, Dimos' gleeful cackling joined Boris' laughter, the sounds blending into the warm chaos of a family reunited.
The tavern's noise swirled around Regulus—Boris' booming laughter, Dimos' gleeful cackling from upstairs, Borin's enraged shouts from the kitchen as he battled the smoking stove. The scent of charred spices and fresh ale hung thick in the air, mixing with the warmth of the hearth and the lingering sawdust from the rebuilt beams.
Nyx sipped her drink, watching him over the rim of her tankard with those sharp, golden eyes. "Something on your mind, little moth?"
Regulus stared into his own ale, the foam slowly dissipating. The chaos, the yelling, the way Borin had threatened him with kitchen labor instead of actual violence despite his fury—it was all so… familiar.
"Family, huh?" he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Nyx followed his gaze toward the kitchen, where Borin was now loudly lecturing the terrified apprentice on the "sacred art of not ruining good damn equipment." Boris had collapsed into a chair, wiping tears from his eyes as he wheezed with laughter. Somewhere above, Dimos' mother was scolding him for leaning too far over the railing to watch the spectacle.
Nyx's lips curved, just slightly. "Annoying, aren't they?"
Regulus huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah." He took a long drink, the ale bitter and rich on his tongue. "But not the worst thing to have around, I guess."
Nyx studied him for a long moment before reaching over and stealing his tankard, taking a deliberate sip. "Careful," she said, her voice low and teasing. "You're starting to sound sentimental."
Regulus smirked. "Don't worry. I'll deny it if you tell anyone."
Borin chose that moment to storm back into the room, his apron singed and his face smudged with soot. "RIGHT!" he bellowed, pointing a wooden spoon at Regulus like a sword. "You. Kitchen. Now. You're peeling potatoes until your fingers bleed."
Regulus sighed dramatically but pushed to his feet. "Yes, chef."
As he followed Borin toward the kitchen, Nyx's laughter followed him—light, genuine, and far too pleased with his suffering.
And for some reason, Regulus didn't mind at all.