There was a young pup in his pub.

  Though that wasn’t exactly unusual—there were always plenty of them, especially during the school year. Fewer in summer perhaps, which was to be expected, but the pub was never short of young pups.

  Some were boasting, some simply drinking; and as the owner of the establishment let his eyes wander, he noticed a few in the back drowning their sorrows in bad company.

  He placed a bottle on a shelf behind the counter and let his gaze drift again, lazily, toward one of his guards.

  A nod, a flicker of his eyes, another nod.

  The guard went off to attend to his duty, while the rest of the patrons pretended not to notice.

  There was only the briefest pause in the murmur of conversation—a raised voice, a heavier, growlier murmur—and the young ones were discreetly extracted from that table, taken safely to one of the rooms in the adjacent inn, another establishment he owned. He crossed eyes with the director of the Academy, an elf older than him even, and a silent nod of thanks. Eldarion smiled a bit to himself, there was no need, it was good business practise to protect your own customers.

  He ran an old, callused hand over his richly purple robes and let his eyes wander once more, as if seeking nothing in particular.

  All the clientele were fed and their glasses replenished with drinks.

  Molly—well, Molly the Fourth, a proud descendant of the original Molly—zipped through the tables, collecting empty cups and plates while taking orders with practices ease. A Molefolk, barely tall enough to peek over the tables, she was as capable as her predecesors.

  She needed no help.

  So he sat back and relaxed, letting his silver mane cascade over his robes as he savored the quiet moment of stillness. And he couldn’t help but wonder: why was that young pup in his pub?

  This pup in particular was an elf—like himself, like the Director—and, like many of the others there, the pub also hosted several lizardmen, dwarves, and humans. Faculty and students alike mingled within these walls. They made up the bulk of his customers, followed by members of the guilds, the nobility, and, of course, the merchants. Those were the bitter spots in his otherwise beautiful establishment—gaudy clothing, overloaded tables that promised a cleaning nightmare—and they even carved out an island of isolation for themselves. Yet he couldn’t evict them without cause. His eyes kept wandering, and with practiced, effortless ease he could check on that young pup without his knowledge.

  He could tell who was who from the subtle cues. The older students were nervous, expectant—exams loomed on the horizon, far enough to feel safe yet close enough to fill them with an energy of fear and doubt. Those in the middle were confident, even relaxed; though soon the reality that nothing lasts forever would come crashing down on them, for now they were comfortable in their situation and station. And then there were the young and new, uncertain and unconfident—always with his guards close by so long as they were in his pub, for they were prime targets for any lowlife, especially in a city like this. Yet that young elf had caught his eye.

  Not for the way he looked—for with a touch of sarcasm and irony, he was sure most of elfkind looked alike: a squarish face, rich clothing, golden hair, and a perfectly chiseled visage with deep, golden eyes. He almost scoffed, almost, and to cover his expression he poured himself a cup of one of his gins and looked up.

  No—the reason he had noticed that young pup was the way he carried himself. The way he drank—not enough to simply savor the moment—and the subtle manner in which he concealed a dagger beneath his robes. Innocent enough for anyone who might glance his way, save perhaps for Eldarion, whose ears twitched at the slight shift in conversation. Something was afoot.

  He got up, grabbed a special bottle from behind his counter, and let himself be guided by the slightest change in the soundscape. That was his pub, and he always knew when something was seriously amiss. He approached the table and grumbled under his breath. He had secretly hoped it was the merchants causing the ruckus—so he could boot them out—but no, they were too smart for that. This was a faculty table, and by the time he arrived, they were deep in a philosophical debate.

  “… but I am telling you, back in the homeland, maintaining something like this could incur a great cost…”

  The one speaking was a lizardman, still adorned with his tribal markings and chains hanging from his horns—an expat who had come to teach at the Academy recently.

  “Indeed, but the cost is already covered! The boys in silk here have already paid for it! All my people do is keep things from falling over!”

  Answered an old acquaintance of his—Thundok Stonebarer, an unimaginative name for an unimaginative dwarf. He taught the basics of geology and was as happy as a camper about it.

  “But costs are never paid just once, especially for things that need to be maintained!”

  The lizardman pressed on. He still hadn’t met him—a fiery fellow this one.

  “What does it matter!” Thundok dismissed his concerns with a wave, while drinking deeply from his beer mug. In that moment, Molly zipped in from nowhere with a freshly poured drink for him. Thankfully, he always paid for his drink.

  Eldarion was measuring whether or not to intervene; the conversation, though fiery, wasn’t yet enough to warrant action. That was when the Director spotted him and beckoned.

  “Eldarion! Come here, let me introduce you to one of our newest faculty members,” the Director called with a knowing smile. “Allow me to introduce you to Skalskar the Ironscale.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” Eldarion greeted.

  Skalskar rose, stiff and upright, crossing his arms over his chest in a solemn bow.

  “A pleasure to be in your establishment, sir,” he added, his tone expectant.

  “Please, please—don’t be so stiff. This city doesn’t call for that, and certainly not in my pub. Relax a bit; here, this one’s on the house,” Edlarion said as he uncorked the bottle and made a round for the table—save for Thundok, who was happily nursing his mug. “The Wolf and Moth is always happy to welcome new elements of the faculty.”

  Someone passed him a chair—likely Phin, though with that halfling’s notorious silence, it was hard to be sure—and Eldarion was given a spot at the table.

  “And what is your specialty, Professor Skalskar, if I may ask?” Eldarion inquired, digging at the source of the debate.

  “International politics,” he boomed with pride. “It was my great grandfather who broke the peace between our warring tribes; he was the one who taught me everything.”

  “Ah, I see—you are a bearer of his ideals,” Eldarion remarked. Though his words sounded complimentary, his mind churned furiously.

  “Indeed—something this city needs a lot,” Skalskar continued, downing a glass of Eldarion’s special liquor—a brew of coffee and honey he concocted himself. He poured another glass for Skalskar.

  “I see, I see. And let me ask you something—have you been here long?” Eldarion pressed, seeking better context.

  “Just a few weeks,” came the reply.

  Eldarion furrowed his brow; that particular bottle was from a batch stronger than he had intended. He had to be careful—he was so old that he was losing his touch. In lizardman terms, that meant… at least a moon or two, oh dear.

  “I see, I see. I’m afraid you’re misunderstanding something, Professor Skalskar. This isn’t your land… If I were to do what you’re doing right here, wouldn’t that be dangerously naive?” Eldarion pressed, his muted eyes flashing with every ounce of meaning and warning.

  “I… understand.” Those simple words struck true—a moment to drive the point home.

  “Furthermore, just as your noble great grandfather had to deal with people at the table—people with their own interests and objectives—so it is in this city, from locals to foreign powers. And while this pub may be a haven of peace and quiet, a place for drink and respite outside its walls…”

  He let the sentence hang, much like many had in the past.

  Skalskar swallowed hard, so frightened that the alcohol seemed to have lost its effect. Eldarion and the Director exchanged a sharp glance, and the latter nodded in thanks. It had perhaps been the most unelegant warning he had ever given, but it was enough. The atmosphere had grown tense and heavy, a consequence of Skalskar’s foolish idealism—and Eldarion knew exactly how to set things right.

  "Anyway," Eldarion boomed to everyone present. "Why don't you give us one of your songs, Rook!" he called to the human who had been working at the bar alongside him. Though young and eager to play, Rook’s eyes shone with a mix of anticipation and a hint of nervous excitement.

  "Sir, yes sir," Rook replied, dropping what he was doing behind the counter as he rushed to the piano. In his haste he nearly toppled over several chairs and stepped on at least one person—but it was all right. That person happened to be a merchant, who merely offered a bemused smile. Just before his fingers could dance on the keys, Rook looked at Eldarion, confusion bright in his brown eyes beneath his dark hair, and asked, "What should I begin with, sir?"

  "Why not my favourite! So people may laugh a bit!" Eldarion nodded, and with a flourish, Rook prepared to sing. "Who is going to end it?" Rook intoned.

  "Who Is Going to End It?"

  (Verse 1)

  Oh, the guilds made their move with their hocus and pride,

  The merchants just nodded and paid from the side,

  The nobles poured blood just to keep it all right,

  And the powers-that-be said, "Eh… let’s not fight."

  (Chorus)

  Tick, tock, the wheels still spin,

  They all made the mess, but who cashes in?

  Tick, tock, the walls grow thin—

  So who is going to end it?

  (Verse 2)

  The guilds keep the magic, they claim they’re the spine,

  They loathe all the merchants who hoard every dime,

  The merchants fund magic, but scoff at the lords,

  Who bleed for the city, yet sharpen their swords!

  (Chorus - building in energy)

  Tick, tock, the gears still turn,

  The liars still profit, the dreamers still burn!

  Tick, tock, the fire’s been lit—

  So who is going to end it?

  (Bridge )

  "Oh, but don’t worry, folks! The foreign lords are here to help!

  They whisper to merchants, they bribe all the guilds—

  And as for the nobles? Why, they’d sell off their city for a fancy new shield!"

  (Verse 3 - a slow, mocking waltz rhythm)

  The rebels cry "freedom!" but still take the coin,

  The traders want power, but won't break a joint,

  The nobles dream banners, the guilds dream of crowns—

  And all the while, the city drowns!

  (Chorus - marching rhythm, growing in urgency)

  Tick, tock, the sand runs low,

  The cracks in the stone begin to show—

  Tick, tock, the deal’s been writ…

  So who the hell is going to end it?!

  (Verse 4 - playful but sinister, like a conspirator whispering secrets)

  Now the city still stands, but the vultures all wait,

  The kingdom sends whispers, the empire sends bait,

  The merchants want gold, the guilds want their share,

  The nobles want thrones—but nobody dares!

  (Verse 5 - faster, spiraling into chaos)

  Oh, the beggars are spies, and the priests take their tithes,

  The coin has two faces, the truth comes in fives!

  The papers are signed, but the ink's never dry,

  And the people just ask—"who’s next to die?"

  (Chorus - sharp and dramatic, final note held long before cutting off suddenly)

  Tick, tock, the voices fade,

  Another deal, another blade—

  Tick, tock, the fuse is lit…

  So who the hell is going to end it?!

  The patrons at the bar were first shocked, but soon after laughter filled the room. Despite the song’s satirical edge, everyone had fun—it was nice to laugh at one’s own situation. Eldarion took another appreciative swig of his drink.

  "Keep it going, Rook, and pocket any tip these fine folks give you; I'll handle the bulk of the bar," Eldarion said. Rook nodded all slimes—a simple man with simple needs—before being immediately mobbed by adults and students alike, all clamoring for this tune or another. As he left the table to man the counter, drinks began to flow freely. He cast one last glance back: Skalskar was studying his drink thoughtfully, Cleten remained calm (perhaps he’d been wrong about elfkind—after all, Cleten might be an elf, but he looked decidedly gnomish), and Thundok was just happy, a strange shine lighting his eyes.

  And still, Eldarion had to answer the lingering question—why was that young pup in his pub with a dagger?