Chapter 11 Nythir
Nythir
How to enter a tavern: hope your traveling companions behave (they won’t).
The girls had kicked them out.
“Privacy,” Lyssara had said, physically herding Nythir and Vorrik into the hallway with a towel and a glare. “Go to Luna’s. We’ll find you when we’re done.”
Whatever girl time meant apparently involved a lot of steam, hair-related rituals, and Essie trying not to die of embarrassment.
Nythir told himself he wasn’t thinking about that.
Or about how the last time he’d seen her, she’d been barefoot and grinning, hair wild from their downhill run and sweet potato sugar dusting her lips.
Which was precisely why he was now in Luna’s Tavern, nursing a beer he didn’t want.
The unease settled deeper than simple boredom.
Nythir was used to the quiet hum of his own magic, steady and contained, but tonight something felt off balance, like a chord left unresolved.
Esther’s presence had a way of brushing against his senses, not loud or invasive, just warm and strangely familiar.
Being apart from her made the absence noticeable.
A hollow space where something had begun to resonate and now did not.
“Why am I stuck here with you?” he grumbled, lifting the mug anyway.
The beer was lukewarm and slightly sour, foam clinging stubbornly to the chipped rim. The heavy oak bar beneath his elbow felt sticky from a hundred spilled drinks. The whole place smelled like roasted meat, stale ale, hearth-smoke, and the tang of too many bodies crammed into one room.
“Because we’re waiting for girl time to end, I think,” Vorrik said cheerfully, already halfway through his second orc-sized mug. He wiped foam from his tusks with the back of his hand. “Luna! Another beer!”
“Nope,” Luna said, snapping a towel over her shoulder as she slid past. Her silver hair was tied back, the rest falling in soft curls that brushed the low neckline of her dress.
She flashed him a practiced, dazzling smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“I refuse to deal with an inebriated Vorrik without his wife around ever again. I made that mistake once.”
“That’s not fair! I’m a paying customer!” Vorrik protested.
“You’re an annoying customer,” Luna shot back, snatching his empty mug. “Especially without Lyssara to wrangle you. No wife, no beer.”
Someone hollered from across the room, “Bar wench! More shots at table three!”
The loudest table in the tavern roared with laughter—the seven men in gaudy, jewel-toned vests and far too many rings.
Their clothes looked expensive if you didn’t know what real noble fabrics looked like.
Nythir did. Which meant he knew these men were the kind of rich that came from bad decisions and worse morals.
Every guild worth its salt had rules that mattered more than contracts, and one of them was simple.
You did not endanger an informant. Tavern owners, brokers, and bartenders like Luna were the lifeblood of cities like Stonehaven.
They heard everything. Names, routes, rumors, and mistakes whispered after too much drink.
Anyone who treated an informant as disposable quickly found themselves without work, allies, or warning when trouble came knocking.
Karl’s type eventually showed up in every trade hub.
Men who followed caravans and festivals, flashing coins just real enough to pass casual inspection.
They borrowed influence, borrowed names, and borrowed patience from people who could not afford to lose either.
Stonehaven tolerated a lot, but it remembered everything.
Karl had already crossed the invisible line. He just did not know it yet.
Nythir already knew how this would end. Karl would not be thrown out tonight.
That would be messy and public. Instead, the problem would be handled quietly, with witnesses forgetting details and debts being settled through the proper channels.
Jobs like this rarely came with formal postings.
They came with looks, favors, and sunrise meetings.
He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the bitter taste linger on his tongue as he watched them.
“It’s not unusual to see new faces in Stonehaven,” he said, mostly to himself.
Essie would fit in perfectly in a town built at the center of a popular crossroads. New faces came and went as often as the rising and setting sun—and Luna would remember every single one of them, no matter how brief their stay.
Vorrik followed his gaze and winced. “They’re dressed like a peacock with no sense of color.”
Luna sashayed over to the rowdy table, hips swaying in a way that made half the tavern turn their heads.
“Oh my,” she purred, leaning forward just enough for the men’s gazes to drop exactly where she wanted them. “More shots already? Karl, might I interest you in one of my more exclusive drinks? On the house, of course.”
The man in the center—Karl, apparently—laughed and slapped her on the backside. “If you insist, sweetheart.”
Luna’s professional smile didn’t falter, but a muscle jumped in her jaw.
Nythir’s grip tightened around his mug.
It was not the slap alone that sealed Karl’s fate. It was the confidence in it. The assumption that nothing would happen. Nythir had seen that look before, usually right before someone learned how badly they had misjudged the room. Karl was no longer just a nuisance. He was a problem.
Problems like Karl rarely needed killing.
That was crude. Inefficient. Most were dealt with through pressure, exposure, or removal from profitable routes.
A broken reputation lasted longer than a broken bone.
By morning, Karl would either be gone from Stonehaven or valuable to someone else. Either way, Luna would be compensated.
“Barkeep,” Nythir called.
In guild circles, titles mattered. “Barkeep” was not an insult or a role.
It was a signal. It meant business could be discussed without drawing attention, and that the speaker understood the rules of discretion.
It told the listener that whatever followed would be handled professionally, with debts remembered and favors repaid.
“I’ll be right there,” she sang back, setting the tray of shots down in front of Karl and his companions. She laughed at something one of them said, head tilted, fingers resting lightly on his arm. To anyone else, she looked entirely charmed.
To Nythir, she looked like a woman cataloguing her enemies.
She glided back to the bar, grabbed Vorrik’s mug, and turned the tap. Froth bubbled up—but the scent hit Nythir first.
Water.
No bitterness. No amber hue. Just Stonehaven well water.
“This is wa—” Vorrik began.
Luna stabbed a fork into the bar an inch from his hand, never losing her smile.
“If Sable does not get here soon,” she said through gritted teeth, her voice pitched low enough that only they could hear over the din, “I am going to cut off that gremlin’s hands and feed them to him.”
Her eyes flicked toward Karl’s table.
“Which gremlin?” Vorrik asked, yanking his hand back and visibly reconsidering his life choices.
“The one who thinks my ass is public property,” she said brightly—then louder, seamlessly cheerful, “Here you are, sir!” as she slid the fake beer back to him.
Nythir almost pitied Karl.
Almost.
“Exclusive drinks, huh?” Nythir said lightly, setting his mug on the bar. “Think you can find one for me?”
Luna’s gaze sharpened.
“Of course, sir,” she said in her customer voice. “I’ll get that for you right away.”
“Why does he get beer?” Vorrik muttered.
“Because I’m not an idiot,” Nythir said under his breath, “and I can read a room.”
“Something’s happening?” Vorrik asked, genuinely baffled.
Nythir tipped his head toward Karl’s table. “Luna is siphoning information from the men dressed like a traveling circus.”
Vorrik’s expression shifted from confusion to sympathy. “Oh.”
He glanced back at the table.
“They don’t know what’s about to hit them.”
Vorrik handled problems that required presence. Nythir dealt with the ones that required patience. Together, they ensured jobs never escalated beyond necessary. Stonehaven preferred its violence contained, its deals clean, and its informants alive.
“Exactly.”
Luna returned with a fresh mug for him, the foam thick and proper this time. He didn’t want it, but he took a sip anyway and leaned across the counter, slipping on his best lazy half-smile.
“If Nythir is flirting with Luna,” the regulars liked to say, “shut up and don’t interrupt.”
So no one listened too closely when they whispered.
Nythir slid a copper coin into her cleavage. “Payment for the beer.”
The more inappropriate the gesture, the more invisible it became. To strangers, he was just another drunk, and she was just another bartender playing along for tips.
“Oh my, how generous,” Luna said brightly. She flashed the flower-etched side of the coin toward Vorrik and the others. “You make me as happy as a caged bird who’s learned to sing.”
“Birds shouldn’t be caged,” Nythir murmured. “Maybe I should set you free.”
“How about tomorrow at sunrise?” she replied smoothly. “I hear the view is lovely just past the bend.”
Sunrise meetings were never romantic. They were neutral ground.
Early enough that tempers had cooled and witnesses were scarce.
Whatever Luna brought tomorrow would determine the scope of the favor, and whatever Nythir offered in return would set the terms. Information for action.
Protection for cooperation. That was how guild relations stayed profitable and bloodless.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Bar wench! What’s keeping you?” Karl shouted.
If being an outsider in Stonehaven hadn’t already been obvious, that sealed it.
Luna leaned closer to Nythir, her smile never slipping, teeth grinding behind it. “The bird is going to get killed if Sable doesn’t arrive soon.”
Nythir pitied her.
He wouldn’t have been able to keep up the act while getting groped. If the guild master didn’t arrive soon, Luna was going to find the most painful poison and make them suffer.
She grabbed a blue bottle and poured out amber liquid. Nythir rarely saw her pull that drink. The men were about to get very honest, very fast. Luna usually preferred subtler methods—something about savoring the euphoria of information—but even she had her breaking points.
“What does the birdcage mean again?” Vorrik asked.
“Why have codes if you’re not going to remember them?”
“I don’t need to remember them when I have you to tell me.”
“Seriously,” Nythir sighed. “Do you at least remember what the coin means?”
“Engraved side up means help, right?”
“Oh, look. He can remember stuff. Lyssara’s going to be upset when she finds out drinking is cancelled.”
“No more drinking?” Vorrik grumbled. “That is so unfair.”
“Life’s unfair. Drink your water.”