He walked up to the front of a door. The door was wooden and double-sided, with a faded cross carved into it. The muffled noise from inside seeped through the pores of the wood—laughter, shouting, the clinking of metal and mugs.
He didn't knock.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. At once, the noise died down. Eyes turned to him—sharp, hostile stares from faces worn and mean.
He smirked, enjoying the attention.
It was a tavern he had walked into—the very famous one in the Great City.
The room was large, with tables arranged along both sides—left and right—and at the center. An open aisle ran straight from the entrance to where the bar was.
He ignored the eyes and strode toward the counter. But behind it wasn't a man. It was a woman.
Behind the counter, bottles were stacked on wooden shelves. Silver pots lined the divider separating her from the customers, along with metal goblets and glasses of different shapes and sizes.
"Wine," the man said, his voice deep and croaky as he threw back the hood that had been covering his face.
He was dark-skinned, and his face was scarred badly—so much it looked like he had crawled out of the grave. His nose looked broken in more than one place, and his hair was low. His beard was patchy and recently shaved.
There was a clank as the woman dropped a goblet of wine in front of him, some of it spilling out at the rim.
He stared at her, a strange grin tugging at his lips. She was plump, with a round face and breasts that pressed tight against the apron wrapped around her body.
He leaned forward, eyes locked on her chest.
"You know," he said, voice low, "I'd like to drink you too."
He reached a hand toward her.
But someone spoke behind him.
"A pot… of wine," the voice said—firm and sharp, stopping his hand mid-reach.
Three others stepped forward behind the speaker, joined quickly by another man who stood up from his seat and walked over.
They looked mean. Grim.
The scarred man didn't flinch. Instead, he turned back to the woman and smiled even wider.
"How would you guys like this to go?" he asked.
"Because I'm going to stuff this man's head,"—he pointed to a bald guy standing near the back—"up your ass, and leave him screaming for his mother."
He turned to the other two men. One held the hilt of a dagger; the other was stroking the blade of an axe.
"Then I'm going to nail your hand to this counter—with the same knife your friend's holding."
He looked at the rest of them now—three more, tight-jawed and fuming.
"And you three... you're going to wish you hadn't walked up here first."
He took a step back, raised his arms just slightly, palms open.
"Any questions?"
But the answer he got was a punch—thrown by the first man who had ordered the pot of wine.
The scarred man's eyes suddenly glowed white. The punch slowed in mid-air, sluggish like it was moving through water. He tilted his head slightly, letting it glide past his cheek. Then, with fluid ease, he caught the man's arm, lifted him with a shoulder flip, and hurled him backward with brutal force. The man crashed into the shelves behind the counter, bottles exploding around him in a rain of glass.
Just then, an axe came flying toward him.
Without thinking, he yanked the man beside him—another who had moved to attack at the same time—and used him as a human shield. The axe sank deep into the man's skull with a wet crunch. Blood puffed out like mist. The barmaid screamed, backing away, her mouth wide in horror.
But the other men in the bar were enjoying the fight scene, some hailing.
The bald man charged at him, pulling out a massive hammer and swinging it with a roar.
The scarred man ducked low, then drove a fist straight into the bald man's knee. He crumpled to one leg with a groan. But even as he bent down, another attacker rushed from behind, a jagged bottle in hand aimed at his back.
He twisted right, seized the man's wrist mid-strike, and flipped him over his shoulder, slamming him hard onto the floorboards.
Without pause, he grabbed the bald man by the head and slammed two punches into his face. Blood burst from his mouth and nostrils as he dropped like a sack of stones.
Another man stepped forward—only to be met with something he couldn't process.
In a blink, the scarred man vanished and reappeared behind him, his hand still gripping the bald man's head like a trophy.
His eyes gleamed white once again. And just like he had promised earlier—
He fazed the bald man's head straight into the attacker's backside.
"AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!" the man howled, falling to his knees, clutching his rear in agony.
Just then, the last two men stepped forward, their eyes now filled with fear—but also rage.
The first one attacked, though fidgeting nervously—but then a hand, conjured by the bald man, gripped him by the neck mid-leap and slammed him backward.
The second lunged at him, arms outstretched to grab him, but he swerved to the side, seized the man by the head, and slammed it down hard onto the counter with a sickening crack.
In one smooth motion, he drew the dagger from his sheath and drove it through the man's arm, pinning it to the wooden surface. The man screamed, writhing.
"Well," he said, brushing specks of blood off his cloak, "I think I fulfilled my promises."
Just then, the door to the tavern flew open with a bang—and in walked Zolomon.
"Zolomon, what a pleasant surprise to see you here. I thought you didn't do taverns," the man said with a smirk.
"Bathemius... nice mess you've made around here," Zolomon replied dryly.
Just then, the man who had been thrown into the bottles behind the counter staggered to his feet. Without warning, a jagged shard of ice formed in his hand. He leapt forward, arms raised, eyes burning with murderous intent—ready to strike Bathemius down.
But with a flick of his finger, Zolomon seized the man mid-flight. And with a flicker of his hand. There was a sudden snap, and the attacker dropped like a rag doll—his neck broken.
"Just for clarification," Bathemius said, glancing at the corpse, "I had that under control."
The hail from the people in the tavern died down the moment they realized who had walked in. It was Zolomon.
He was dressed in his usual flowing white robe, hands clasped behind his back, his steps slow and deliberate—almost slithering. The room seemed to tighten with silence.
"You're coming with me, Bathemius," Zolomon said as he approached. The two men looked at each other like old ghosts, familiar yet wary, as though burdened by a long, tangled history.
"Nah... hell no. Ain't," Bathemius replied, his voice deeper than before. He scoffed. "Look at yah. All famous now. The great Zolomon—the White Elder. But you forgot me. You forgot us all."
"We have to leave here to talk," Zolomon said, avoiding his gaze. He wasn't one for many words, and the fact that he had come all the way to a tavern—a tavern—meant something was urgent. He didn't do taverns.
"You think you can just walk in here and order me around, huh?" Bathemius snapped, his anger bubbling beneath the surface. "You missed it. I ain't goin' nowhere with yah." He grabbed one of the remaining pots of wine and drank straight from it.
"He's back, Bathemius," Zolomon said flatly.
Bathemius froze. The pot lowered slowly from his lips.
He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. His mind reeled. Could it be?
Zolomon took one step closer, his voice quiet but heavy. "We need to talk."
Then he turned and walked away, the folds of his robe swaying behind him.
Bathemius stood there, stunned. If what Zolomon said was true—if he was truly back—then there was only one thing left to do.
Prepare for war.