NOVPUB
Chapter 44: Shadows In Smoke
A Tavern.
A crooked little place tucked into a half-collapsed alley just outside Esgard’s third district wall—its name half-scorched off the hanging sign and its windows covered in soot and grime.
Inside, a heavy fog of pipe smoke lingered like ghosts refusing to leave. The scent of ale, sweat, and burnt meat fought for dominance in the air.
Ian sat at the far corner table, cloaked in tattered gray and hood pulled low.
Eli sat across from him, similarly dressed, his golden eyes dimmed by a smear of soot to keep their telltale gleam hidden. A tankard sat untouched before Ian while Eli nursed his second mug, eyes occasionally drifting to the flickering fire pit in the center of the room.
But their real attention was on the patrons.
Dozens filled the tavern—miners, gamblers, cutthroats, city guards off duty—all huddled in booths or circled around the bar counter. And all of them talking.
Loudly, drunkenly.
But every few minutes, a name would drop into the noise like steel onto stone:
Ian.
Or as they now called him—the Demon Blade.
"Aye, I saw it with my own eyes," a red-faced man near the hearth slurred. "That thing—whatever it was—black bones and purple eyes, had Varn shitting himself. Just like that!"
A bearded miner beside him scoffed. "Varn was a brute, not a fighter. Just muscle and rage. Easy pickings for a trickster with dark arts."
"Trickster?" the first man barked. "You think what he did was a trick? I’ve seen mages, I’ve seen summonings. That wasn’t summoning, that was binding. Like he plucked the thing from the Pits of hell itself."
The barmaid passing by raised an eyebrow and muttered, "Gods save us if they let devil-blood fight in the coliseum now."
Another voice, from deeper in the tavern, picked up the thread. A man in a leather coat, with a gambler’s drawl and teeth stained by blackroot, tapped his cards on the table.
"Doesn’t matter what magic he’s got. That match was a qualifier. Nothing but spectacle. The real killers are in the League of champions. He’s in deep waters now."
His companions nodded. "You hear who’s next?"
"Not yet," one replied. "But it doesn’t matter. He could get Torkas the Splitter or Myra of the Veil. Either way, he’s dead."
At that, a pause.
Ian’s name might have buzzed with excitement, but those names—Torkas and Myra—drew something colder: fear.
"You ever seen Torkas fight?" someone muttered. "He broke a War Mage’s spine with a single swing. One swing."
"And Myra?" another whispered. "She doesn’t even use weapons. Just threads and nails. Ripped a man’s face off mid-match, smiled while doing it."
Ian didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but he noted the names and the reactions.
Eli leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice low.
"Told you. The real beasts wear chains of gold and sit on piles of bones. You’re just now stepping into their yard."
Ian kept his eyes on his tankard. "Then I’ll just have to take it from them."
A short distance away, a new group had begun talking, more cautiously. They sat in a booth near the side wall, six men crowded around a chipped table, their voices low. Unlike the others, their speech didn’t ring with drunken enthusiasm but with a conspiratorial hush.
"You hear what the rat-folk are saying?" one asked, glancing around.
"Which rats?"
"The ones from the docks. Word is... that beast the slave summoned... it wasn’t just a summon."
"Huh?"
"Wasn’t a spell. Wasn’t even from a scroll. They say he used forbidden rites. Blood rites. Human sacrifice."
Across the room, Ian’s lips twitched faintly beneath his hood.
"Said he had a soul tied to the creature—used it as anchor. When the soul was spent, the creature vanished."
"Which means..."
"Which means," the man whispered, "he can’t summon it again. No more sacrifices left. And without that thing, he’s just a strong slave with a sword. The next match will bury him."
Eli leaned in again. "That one’s ours, isn’t he?"
Ian nodded. "Second layer of the plan. Seed the idea that I’m already spent. That I’m weaker now."
"They’re eating it up."
Indeed, the whispers had begun to spread. The table of conspirators lowered their voices further, but their words leaked into nearby ears.
Soon others were parroting fragments—"no more summon,"
"used forbidden magic,"
"he’s just a man now."
The tide was shifting fast. Rumors bloomed like rot, subtle and quiet but insidious.
Ian drained his tankard. "You think the bookies’ll bite?"
Eli finally looked up. "They already are. All they need is confirmation. A few paid informants, a few staged arguments on the street, and the rest of the city will believe you’ve lost your edge. The odds’ll climb. Payout increases."
"Just in time for your next fight."
Ian’s mouth curled into a slight smile. "Exactly."
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the tavern swirl in chaos and conjecture. More voices joined in—some mocking, some afraid, some even reverent.
"I heard he doesn’t even sleep. Just meditates with bones."
"My cousin swears he saw the thing whispering to Ian before the match. Like it could talk."
"Ain’t natural. Might be strong, but mark my words—he’ll die just like all the others who thought they were gods."
"They said the same thing about the Dread King of Varnath," one muttered.
The gambler raised a brow. "And?"
The man smile returned. "He died screaming."
The gambler barked a laugh that turned a few heads.
A commotion flared near the bar—two men shoving over a spilled wager slip, arguing over Ian’s chances. The barkeep shouted them down while others laughed and tossed copper coins onto the floor.
The mood was turning just as Velrosa wanted.
Suspicion. Misinformation. Controlled chaos.
All they had to do was keep fanning the fire.
Eli stood, stretching his back with a lazy grunt. "We should go before someone starts betting body parts."
Ian followed, pulling his hood tighter. As they left the tavern, the rumors still buzzed behind them, echoing off stone and glass.
"He won’t win again."
"The demon’s power is gone."
"He’ll die like the rest."
And above it all, Ian’s name—half-spoken in awe, half-spoken in fear.
The Demon Blade.
