Lars' Tavern,

  Coldspring Village,

  Northern Province

  -

  Zoe pushed the door open under the chipped wooden sign: Lars’ Tavern.

  Bigger than most places in the village. Second only to the Chief’s lodge. Lars smiled, waving her through like she was royalty.

  She rolled her eyes, taking off her coat. A job's a job. Beats moping around Finn’s burnt-down lodge.

  She slipped into the back room.

  The double doors snagged halfway. Typical. She shoved harder—metal scraped, wood groaned, but they gave way.

  The layout had changed. Barrels stacked like barricades split the room, the gaps stuffed with an old floor mat. Real classy.

  “Back there, Zoe,” Lars called from behind her.

  He was tying his long black hair into a stubby knot, apron cinched tight around his round belly. A bear head embroidered right over it. Looked like it was roaring out of his gut.

  “I made you a special prep corner. Just for you.”

  Zoe stepped in, glancing around. The door behind her was a metal sheet. No clue what it was in its past life—roofing? Part of a cart?

  A knock on the metal. Lars again. “Almost forgot—your uniform.”

  He shoved the bundle into her hands.

  Zoe frowned. “What. This?”

  “Of course! You’re already cute, but now—boom! Cutest in Coldspring!” He twirled a ladle like it was a baton. “Please wear it. I’ll bump your pay, pinky promise.”

  Pay? You haven’t paid me at all. It’s been three days, dude. I need money.

  She raised a brow. “Double.”

  He winked. “Double it. Triple it. Name your price, starshine.” He disappeared before she could push it further.

  Fine. Might help me pick up the language faster anyway. She slipped into the uniform. A long-skirted maid outfit. Thank god it wasn’t short. But still, why the hell am I wearing this in a bar?

  She stepped out.

  Lars gasped, clutching his chest like she’d stabbed him with beauty.

  “Zoe! You’re killing me!”

  The first wave of customers trickled in.

  Most were coated in dust, faces streaked with soot—miners from the Clintstone shaft just outside the tavern, the same one Finn and Gunnar had brought her past a few days ago.

  A towering Lupin ducked through the door with a crew of human workers.

  The beast-folk was almost one and a half times taller than the average man, yet somehow, his companions acted like this was perfectly normal.

  “Lars! Drinks, the usual—four. And food. Whatever’s ready.”

  Lars spun a small notepad between two fingers before catching it mid-air. “But of course, darling. Anything for my first patron of the day!”

  He headed straight to the open hearth at the center of the tavern—a stone oven built right into the wall, wide-mouthed like an old pizza kiln on Earth.

  The heat from the fire bled into the room, keeping the cold at bay.

  Lars handled it like a stage performance, flipping open a peculiar all-metal pan that locked shut from all sides.

  Non-stick, heat-efficient, probably worth more than most of the chairs.

  He tossed ingredients in with a flourish, a showman cooking in plain sight, letting the smells do half the work of luring in more customers.

  Meanwhile, Zoe disappeared into the back to fetch the drinks.

  “Zoe! Two ginger ales, two potato spirits—big tankards, mind you. These boys don’t sip, they chug.”

  Zoe nodded and dashed off. A moment later, she emerged with two tankards in each hand. Quick steps. Careful footing. No spills.

  “Ay, she’s real!” one of the men laughed as Zoe approached. “Thought those doofuses were makin’ her up. Damn, Lars—where’d you find this one? I might start drinkin’ more often!”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Ew. Gross, old man. Have some self-awareness. Zoe smiled anyway.

  “Shut it, you wrinkled hog,” the Lupin snorted, snatching a drink from Zoe’s hand. “Look at your beard—you scare the cups.”

  “She’s one of Finn’s friends,” Lars called from across the tavern, apron bouncing as he stirred something aromatic. “Not from around here, still learning the language. Be nice!”

  “Finn? late Master Heimd’s kid?”

  Lars nodded with a flourish.

  “Thought that boy was always runnin’ around with that half-Lupin girl. What’s her name again…”

  The twin door burst open.

  More customers spilled in, cutting the conversation short. Lars waved dramatically to the newcomers.

  Zoe moved on, tray in hand, face set.

  Midday rest rolled in.

  Lars flipped the sign on the counter—No Service.

  Guests could still hang around, but for the next hour, no orders, no fuss.

  Zoe slumped into a chair, head down on the table. Across from her, Lars stayed on his feet, still fiddling with something at his post.

  Ugh. Tired. But better here than in the café—no picky customers, no endless complaints.

  “Thanks, girl,” Lars said, voice warm. “Got more customers than usual today—'cause of you.”

  He set something down with a dramatic flair.

  Lifted the metal lid.

  Steam billowed out.

  A full plate of slow-cooked ribs.

  Zoe blinked.

  “For you, sweetie. Bread’s right there—just tear off a chunk.”

  “Thanks, Lars.”

  She tugged at the bread. Tough as ever, but she was getting used to it.

  Kinda like when I gave Finn back his bread after biting it... sorry, Finn. She smiled, biting into the ribs and bread.

  “Eh? What’s that smile for?” Lars asked, mouth half-full from testing his own cooking.

  Zoe shook her head.

  The door slammed open.

  A man stepped in, flanked by two Felians. Clean clothes. Clean boots. Too clean for this place.

  Chatter died to murmurs. Then to silence.

  Zoe spotted it instantly—something was off in the way the man moved. Too stiff. Too focused. He was coming straight for them.

  She stepped aside, giving him and his thugs room.

  “Six drinks to go. Everything you’ve got, food included. Put it on my tab.”

  He didn’t even glance at the No Service sign.

  Lars tried to keep his usual grin, but his lips trembled. His stance held firm. “Sorry, boss. The sign’s there for a reason. And the last month’s tab? Still unpaid. I’ll go bankrupt at this rate.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” One of the Felians growled—black fur, white streaks on his snout. “Lose the attitude, or we trash this dump tonight.”

  “I get it, but I need to keep ingredients rotating. Gotta run a business, gentlemen,” Lars replied. Still smiling—but now it was tight, thin. The flamboyance had drained from his voice.

  The second Felian moved fast—orange fur, thicker build. He grabbed Lars by the collar and yanked him away from the counter. Lars’s boots scraped the floor. His legs dangled dangerously close to the hearth fire.

  Gasps. Chairs shifted. But no one stood. No one said a word.

  Zoe’s heart thudded in her ears. “Lars. I. Call. Guards.”

  She spun toward the door—

  —but a hand snapped around her wrist.

  Rough. Hot. Too strong.

  She froze. Her skin crawled as the man’s grip tightened. His nails dug in just enough to leave a message. His breath reeked of smoked meat and spirits.

  “Let. Go!”

  She twisted, shoved, tried to pry his fingers loose—but he held fast.

  “Boss, please!” Lars choked out, still in the Felian’s grip. “She’s not from around here. Just a worker. Let her go. I promised Finn she’d be safe—don’t drag her into this.”

  The boss turned. One step. Then a punch—

  Right into Lars’s face.

  Blood flew. “Shut up, you fag.”

  Zoe screamed. She tried to kick, elbow, anything—but he laughed, low and amused. Like she was some toy acting out. His thumb brushed her jaw.

  “Feisty,” he muttered. “Might keep you after.”

  The man’s hand slid higher, rough skin scraping against the soft underside of her arm.

  Zoe squirmed, and kicked at his shin—he didn’t even flinch. His other hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from her face like she was some pet he’d just bought.

  “Stop—” she gasped, but her voice was too thin, too weak.

  The patrons watched. Eyes wide.

  Not one of them moved.

  Not one.

  Lars struggled against the Felian pinning him down, coughing through split lips. "Let her go! I said let her—"

  Another fist silenced him. Blood dripped onto the wooden floor.

  Zoe twisted harder, panic spiking into something wild. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her throat closed up.

  The boss leaned in closer, his breath hot and foul against her ear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll find you a new job.”

  Something inside her cracked.

  “STOP!”

  The word tore from her, raw and broken.

  And then—

  It happened.

  A pulse ripped out from deep inside her, too fast, too big to stop.

  The air shattered.

  Tables flipped. Tankards burst apart. Men flew like broken dolls, slammed into walls, and scattered across the tavern floor.

  The hearth fire whipped sideways under the blast but stayed contained, the stone mouth of the oven holding it in place.

  Then—silence.

  Zoe got up, gasping for air and throwing up on the spot.

  She blinked at her hands—no blood, no weapon—just trembling fingers. What... what just happened?

  The boss lay sprawled on the floor several feet away, groaning weakly.

  Lars flinched when she moved. Just for a second. Then he stumbled toward her, checking her over with shaking hands.