Hasryan regretted agreeing to this change in their card games’ location. It had seemed a perfect idea at first, and they were glad Arathiel had felt integrated enough to propose it. Cal could meet new players and wipe their money pouches clean, and after accepting he’d have to endure their presence, Larryn had suggested an establishment catering to rich merchants and young nobles. That way, they’d acquire some of the wealth hoarded by Upper City folks and bring it down to the Shelter. All went according to plan … except they’d scheduled this excursion into the Middle City on the rare night Arathiel couldn’t. Perhaps they should’ve waited, taken his absence as an ill omen. Arathiel had played twice with them, adding his calm humour and silent bluffs to their noisier dynamics. As he sat at a smooth table with their worn-out deck of cards, Hasryan missed his presence and questioned the wisdom of their plan.

At least they hadn’t chosen the wealthiest establishment. The Skyward Tavern thrived at the frontier between the Middle City and the Upper City, and it linked to a little inn for successful merchants. The floor was clean, the smoke drifting above came from high-class cigars, and nice vines wrapped around the supporting beams. Hasryan counted two exits: the front door and a large window he could climb down from—the tower’s rough exterior featured enough handholds, and it hadn’t rained today. A comfortable pub with an escape route and better beer than most of the Lower City’s taverns. Plus, it was cheap, and they could afford it for one night, especially if Cal lured strangers into playing with them. The halfling’s unnatural luck would cover for their expenses.

Their plan contained one problem, however: Hasryan himself. Ever since they stepped inside, people stared at him, sometimes pointing accusing fingers and whispering to one another. All he’d done was walk in, order a beer, and sit down with his friends. Too much for a dark elf, apparently. At least Larryn returned every glare tenfold. He sat on Hasryan’s left, his grey eyes scanning the crowd, ready to answer any provocation. His high cheekbones provided him with quite the frightening scowl when he wanted to.

Either Cal was oblivious to the hostile environment, or he didn’t let it show. He often acted casual and pleasant, even when angered. Perhaps because he was so small—a full inch under the halfling average certainly encouraged caution about provoking conflict. His friend’s chubby fingers played with his cards, blue eyes admiring his hand. Hasryan tried to focus on the game. For once, he had a decent chance to win against one of Ren’s priests. Beating Cal would make his day. With a confident smirk, Hasryan set his cards down on the table.

“Four Lorns,” he declared.

In Isandor’s slums, most cards had been renamed to fit the city’s major noble families, and not in the most respectful manner. The lowest numbers were reserved for the biggest Houses, while Kings and Queens had been granted to deities. Using the slang so close to the Upper City was of questionable wisdom, however. Anyone looking over his shoulder would realize the Lorns were, in truth, lowly 2s. A tiny insult could spark a fight if the wrong noble heard it.

Cal chuckled and straightened in his chair. “Oh, I bet you’re very proud of that Lorn House.”

Hasryan disliked his tone. Cal sucked at bluffing. He didn’t need to lie when he played these games: Ren’s favour followed him, and somehow he always wound up with the best hand. For the longest time, Larryn and Hasryan had been convinced he cheated, but they both excelled at sleight of hand, and neither had ever caught him. It was all luck. Cheaty luck, but luck nonetheless. Hasryan glared at Cal.

“Don’t you dare,” he said.

His warning gave Cal a fit of giggles, confirming Hasryan’s fears. His friend threw the cards on the table. “Sorry, mate. Got myself a full house of … who were the 8s? House Serringer?”

“No one we care about, for sure,” Larryn said.

He’d folded long ago, so he patted Hasryan’s slumped shoulders as Cal raked the money in. It didn’t matter who finished with the gold—everything returned to the Shelter, where Cal spent as much time as he did in his own flat. Winning was a matter of pride. One day, Hasryan promised himself, he would beat Cal.

“You really hoped to win against a priest of Ren?” Larryn asked. “Your powers of self-delusion are impressive.”

“Why don’t you shut your mouth and pass the next draw?” Hasryan answered. “I’m not giving up just yet.”

He’d need more beer, though. His pint had remained empty, abandoned by the staff. They avoided him on purpose—yet another reminder of why they should always stay in the Shelter. Hasryan grabbed the mug and was about to stand when a nasal voice hailed them from behind.

“Well, well, well … look at that. Two half-elves and a halfling. They should call you the Halfies Trio. All halfway to being worthwhile.”

That brilliant gem of wit emanated from a snide, twenty-something human noble—Drake Allastam, heir to the second most important House in Isandor.

The arrogant asshole had trimmed dark hair, a long straight nose and a pointed chin. He kept his hands on his hips and his chest puffed out, putting forward his family’s crest for all to see. This little shithead had harassed Larryn for as long as Hasryan had known him. Whenever they ventured out of the Lower City and Drake caught wind of it, he followed them around, throwing uninspired insults and trying to provoke Larryn into a fight—which worked more often than not. The noble had his usual goons just a step behind, rippling muscles waiting to be put to good use. Between the glares of other patrons and his empty mug, Hasryan had no patience left to entertain him.

“You’re right, O glorious Drake. How great would I become without a human half providing me with awful things like a conscience? Perhaps I should give in to my bloodthirsty, scheming impulses more often. Starting … now?”

Hasryan’s answer knocked Drake’s smirk down a peg, but the young noble flicked two fingers, and his goons drew closer. Larryn’s face had grown an ugly red, and his hands bundled into shaking fists under the table.

“Halflings aren’t even half a race,” Larryn said. “They’re just small. Take your messy insults elsewhere and stop harassing me. Haven’t you done enough?”

Drake leaned forward, his voice falling into a low pitch. “After the humiliation you put me through? My mattress still smells! Never. I do what I want.” He straightened up and allowed his words to carry to the entire tavern. “But I guess you have a point about your friend. Wouldn’t call him small, though, considering his girth.”

Hasryan sprung to his feet, his chair falling with a thunk, and grabbed the front of Drake’s rich doublet. Alone, he might have resisted the impulse. He knew Larryn, however, and his punch would’ve been a second behind. No one insulted Cal in front of them. This city didn’t have a single person more generous with his time and luck, more open-minded and kind-hearted. Cal might be the luckiest soul to walk these bridges, but he shared every ounce of it. He had gone out of his way to earn Hasryan’s friendship, to create a safe group for him, and Hasryan would never forget.

“Shut up.”

“What’s the problem?” Drake asked. “Don’t think your friend can take a blow? He has all the fat he needs to cushion it.”

Hasryan twisted his grip on the doublet with one hand, curling the other into a fist. Cal grabbed his arm right away.

“It’s okay, Hasryan. Let it go. He's wrong and I'm awesome. I don’t care.”

Cal might not, but that was only part of the point. This little shit followed Larryn everywhere, mocking him, laughing at his rage. He believed his noble title made him invincible—that because he was Lord Drake Allastam, no one would dare touch him. Everyone knew he’d killed the Shelter’s previous owner, even if Larryn never talked about it. Hasryan wanted to teach him a lesson. He inhaled deeply, unclenched his fist. A soft, self-satisfied laugh crossed Drake’s lips.

Hasryan grabbed Drake’s clothes with both hands again and yanked him close. He smashed his forehead hard into the noble’s nose, enjoying the loud cracking sound. Blood gushed out, sprinkling red stains in Hasryan’s white hair. His victim stumbled back with an outraged cry and tried to staunch the flow. Hasryan grinned. He could tell Larryn was struggling not to laugh.

“Get him! Call the guards! This is assault!”

The two goons surged forward and forced Hasryan to withdraw. He dodged the hands grabbing at him, but another customer smacked his wooden pint on the back of his head. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and Hasryan fell to his knees with a grunt. Larryn stepped between him and the goons, a small knife at the ready. Cal snatched the half-melted silver coin he kept as a holy symbol from his pocket, but Hasryan motioned for him to stay hidden. The wound didn’t warrant healing—it would just turn into a bad headache. Hasryan lumbered to his feet and set his back against Larryn’s, drawing out his blade. Not Brune’s gift, not here, though it remained well within his reach should he need it. His other hand hovered near throwing daggers, half-hidden under his vest.

Holding his bleeding nose, Drake glared at them. “What a cute couple you make.”

Larryn choked down a laugh while Hasryan gave the noble a long look-over. Was that supposed to insult him? They protected each other. Or tried to, at least. An overview of the room convinced Hasryan this fight wouldn’t last. A dozen bar patrons circled them, ready to jump into a brawl, equipped with chairs, mugs, and fists. He doubted any would join his side.

“Not sure we’ve got the best idea here,” he muttered, leaning on Larryn’s left to make himself heard clearly.

“If I can land a punch on his face, it’ll be worth it,” Larryn answered.

Hasryan recognized that tone. Once you pushed Larryn past a certain point, he never backed down, no matter the consequences. Better not to waste time arguing. They couldn’t take on a whole tavern by themselves, but Larryn was about to try, the rest of the world be damned. Hasryan tightened the grip on his dagger, then smirked. Cal would have to put his meagre healing skills to work after tonight.

“Let me open the way, then.”

He flung two daggers at the goons near Drake, then dashed forward and smacked the flat of his electrified blade against the left one’s cheek. Head-on battle had never been Hasryan’s forte, but his sudden burst destabilized their opponents. Larryn pounced on Drake with a wide grin.

He punched the noble twice before the crowd was upon them. Hasryan did his best to stay near Larryn and dodge, but he couldn’t keep every strike at bay. Clubs connected with his shoulder, a glass was thrown at him from afar, then someone yanked his legs from under him. He fell on broken glass with a groan and tried to roll away. A kick smashed against his temple, and sparks flew before his eyes. Cal’s voice called to them through the crowd. It seemed incredibly distant.

The clank of armour interrupted their brutal assault, and alarmed exclamations emerged from patrons. Everyone backed off. Hasryan spat blood on the ground. His split lip bled, he wasn’t sure his left leg was still attached to his body, and his fingers clung to his electrified dagger despite being stepped on several times. A few feet away, Larryn held his side, panting. Four city guards surrounded them, swords gleaming in the tavern’s light. Drake hurried to two of them.

“Arrest the dark elf. I want to see him pay.”

Hasryan tried to scramble up, but they kicked his stomach again. The ground spun as his breath escaped. They grabbed his arms, snatched his dagger away, and lifted him to his feet. As they dragged him toward the exit, Larryn stumbled after them. He was grimacing, fists at the ready. Cal pushed through and caught his wrist to stop him from attacking the fully armoured guards. Hasryan met their gaze, touched by the worry in their eyes.

“It’ll be fine. My boss will take care of it,” he said.

The Crescent Moon Mercenaries dominated the landscape in the Lower City, and Brune would never have achieved this level of success without Hasryan. Together, they had crushed all competition and unearthed dirt on several influential figures in Isandor’s guards, solidifying their position as the mercenary organization to hire and protecting themselves against the law. His friends knew that much, even if they’d never learned the details of Hasryan’s role in it. Larryn gritted his teeth but nodded. Despite the pain in his muscles, Hasryan did his best to straighten up. He countered Drake’s victorious grin with a smirk and winked at the young noble as they walked past him and into the night.