Clink, clang— the coins sang their end-of-day melody. It was that time when Eldarion Thorne had to count the day’s earnings—a task he never relished, yet one he dutifully performed. His employees needed to be paid, his guards their cut, and money had to be set aside for supplies and restocking. There was something comforting in its predictability, a ritual carried out almost without thought.

  It had been a good night—truly good—and there was still plenty to do before his staff could finally be released for the evening.

  “It’s been good, eh chief?” asked Rook, his voice a blend of exhaustion and high spirits. Despite the fatigue evident in his eyes, the young man’s joy at playing was unmistakable.

  “Uh, yes—you were very good, youngster, very good,” Eldarion replied warmly. A sudden thought struck him. “Say, you want to do that every day? It seems that having music with the drinks really makes the gold flow,” he said with a knowing smile, clinking two coins toghether. “I’ll have to let you off the hook from the bar duties—you’ll still get your pay, but you can keep any tips you earn, of course.”

  Rook’s eyes lit up with happiness. “You sure, Mr. Thorne?” he asked, his youthful eagerness shining through.

  “Yeah, yeah. There’ll be a little discount when the piano needs maintenance, but other than that,” Eldarion added, as around them the pub’s staff busied themselves with final tasks. The guards were stacking chairs atop tables so that the waitresses could clean the floor. Molly, in particular, zipped over in the blink of an eye, focusing on clearing the cluttered table that the merchants had occupied.

  Then Phin—his resident halfling—appeared from somewhere unexpected, startling Molly in the process.

  “Phin, dear, please try not to startle your fellow coworkers now. Come here and take your pay for the day,” Eldarion said, crossing his arms over the table and leaning forward. A knowing smile played on his lips, and his muted green eyes shimmered briefly with expectation—a look enough to give the halfling pause.

  “Uhm, yes sir. Here’s what the Inn produced today, and what’s needed for tomorrow,” Phin replied.

  “Good man. Now hand the list over to Molly—she’ll take care of it. And as for the money, this bag,” Eldarion said taking the offered object, giving the cloth bag a little shake so it clinked, “is a bit lighter than it should be, isn’t it?”

  A hint of a lupine smile curved Eldarion’s face.

  “Uhm, sir, yes sir…I am sorry,” said Phin with a cheeky smile as he handed over the pilfered coins to Eldarion’s outstretched hand. After a brief pause—Eldarion’s hand remaining still—Phin, now with an even broader grin, handed over the rest.

  “Now Phin, you’ve got your pay. Go along before I change my mind,” Eldarion said as he began counting the coins.

  Around him, the pub was winding down; employees were leaving as they finished their tasks. Molly had to pry Rook away from the piano, for the young lad was staring in disbelief, unable to believe that he was being paid for his music.

  And yet, amid the nightly routine, one question still lingered in Eldarion’s mind: why had been that young pup in his pub carrying a hidden dagger? He furrowed his brow in deep thought, idly playing with a handful of coins as the mystery continued to haunt him.

  He barely registered the soft farewells of his employees or the arrival of the night crew—those who kept watch over the inn and managed its modest kitchen. His attention wasn’t on the coins themselves, but on his old, calloused hands. Every clink of metal summoned memories of what had been done, what should have been done, and, more painfully, what had never been done. His mind whirled in a repetitive cycle, trapped in the endless, almost hypnotic song of clanking coins, each note echoing possibilities and old regrets.

  Armed patrons were not unusual here; many carried weapons openly—even if his own were hidden from sight. The adults and even some of the students frequented the pub with arms at the ready: dwarves relied on raw strength and sturdy gear, lizardmen boasted of their armored scales and razor-sharp claws, humans wielded ingenious contraptions, and the elves, for the most part, depended on ancient magic. And yet, here he was, obsessing over a mere youngster with what was probably nothing more than a concealed toy.

  Clink, clink—the coins kept their rhythm, mirroring the steady pulse of his anxious thoughts. Could this be something from his own life—a ghost of a past he never managed to tie up neatly? The City, its age-old accords, binding contracts, and unyielding agreements—held together by deep, ancient magic that could not be easily undone. That was why he had remained, why his past had never fully released him. Was he there for someone else? For his pub? His muted green eyes shimmered with a flicker of worry, suggesting that perhaps, after all, this was not merely coincidence.

  A heavy wooden thud abruptly brought him back to reality. Molly had slammed her staff onto the table with a force that scattered coins in every direction.

  “Sorry, sir,” she said in her small, nasal voice, tinged with concern. “You seemed so lost in thought I didn’t think you’d be coming—it looked like you were utterly entranced.”

  Eldarion, momentarily startled out of his reverie, took a few seconds to collect himself while Molly efficiently gathered the scattered coins. “Besides, there's metal on the table, and we don’t want Phin getting any ideas,” she added with a wry, toothy, smile.

  “Uh, yes, lass, yes…” Eldarion murmured, trying to anchor his mind back to the present. “Now, tell me—why haven’t you gone home yet?”

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  “Because I live here,” Molly countered with a shrug and a hint of a smile.

  “Ah, yes—the old cellars under the tower, I remember,” he said softly, resuming his coin counting as the rhythmic clink resumed its steady cadence.

  “Sir, you’re doing that again,” Molly remarked, her tone a mix of amusement and concern.

  “Yes, old lass, because I’m deep in thought,” Eldarion replied.

  “Sir, I am not my great grandfather,” she teased cheerily, her deep green garments swaying as she rested her hand on the old wooden staff—a relic passed down from the original Molly.

  “Uhm, yes… sorry, it’s just…” Eldarion trailed off, then added, “You’re worried. It’s the first time I’ve seen you look so troubled, sir.”

  Molly’s eyes crinkled into a knowing smile as she leaned on her staff, waiting for him to speak. “Tell me, have you seen anything odd going around the pub or the inn?” he asked, careful not to press too deeply into his private worries.

  “No, sir, nothing at all,” she replied brightly. “I haven’t smelled anything funky, nor have my furry friends seen, smelled, or heard anything amiss.”

  As if to punctuate her words, a squirrel bounded in through the open high window and landed on Molly’s shoulder. It looked fed and happy. Eldarion smiled contentedly.

  “I see you are taking care, but try to keep them away from the food storage areas, including here. Now, go along—I need to put things away and secure them.”

  He rose and gathered the coins, along with a certified annotation detailing the day’s takings, into a secure chest. The tax collectors were sure to be arriving soon, and he knew they wouldn’t appreciate any discrepancies.

  With his routine complete, Eldarion slipped into a trance—a state as natural to an old elf as sleep, honed by decades of practice. Instead of changing clothes or washing up, he carefully locked away the coins and the paperwork in a sturdy safe box.

  Molly’s domain—a small but intricate network of tunnels and burrows beneath the building—served as a safe haven, carved into the earth in such a way that it posed no threat to the structure above. His personal quarters, perched in a tower that overlooked both the pub and the inn, remained undisturbed tonight.

  Rather than ascending the tower, Eldarion headed to an unused corner of the building—a private workshop where he could tend to his true passion. Here, among dusty shelves, old alchemical texts, and an assortment of mysterious ingredients, he began working on his latest batch of liquors. The coffee-and-honey liquor had been good, but his restless mind yearned for refinement; he wanted to create something unique, a blend that might stir memories and soothe old wounds.

  In the gentle haze of his trance, as he measured ingredients with slow, deliberate care, his thoughts drifted back in time to his days as an alchemist. His mind wandered to a little chest hidden in his quarters—a chest he always avoided opening. It was filled with remnants of a past filled with dangerous experiments and grim recipes. He recalled them vividly, as if they had been etched into his very soul.

  He remembered one recipe: a touch of finely ground toxic mushrooms, mixed with a stabilizing agent extracted from the bitter bark of an ancient tree, and bound with a slow-release retardant chemical that ensured the toxins would seep lethally into their victim. To mask the bitterness and add a deceptive sweetness, a bit of rich chocolate and a spoonful of sugar were stirred in—a grim concoction fit for a lover scorned or an enemy betrayed.

  Another recipe flitted through his memory like a dark whisper. It called for the extract of nightshade, combined with a pinch of powdered serpent venom and a few drops of honey. A dash of lime juice was added to balance the flavors—a deadly mixture that, when properly administered, could ensure maximum suffering over a long, agonizing period.

  Eldarion’s calloused hands, which now meticulously mixed and matched liquors in his private workshop, had once prepared these poisons and toxins. The recipes were a reminder of the brutal lessons he had learned long ago—lessons that time and regret could not fully erase.

  He paused, his bushy eyebrows furrowing as his mind snapped back to the present. He was not concocting poison now, but rather a new type of liquor—one that might yet heal old wounds or at least distract from them. The rhythmic clink of his tools and the subtle bubbling of his mixtures filled the silence. He was alone, just him now. Until the end

  For a long moment, Eldarion simply stood there, caught between two worlds: the innocence of his current pursuit and the dark, perilous path of his past. A long, storied life had led him to this point—a life filled with triumphs and regrets, alchemy and intrigue, violence and guile. With a deep, measured breath, he resumed his work, determined to perfect his latest creation, even as the ghosts of old recipes whispered in the shadows of his mind.

  He had hoped to remain hidden and unseen, believing that the only gaze upon him was that of his own conscience—the one constant companion he could never leave behind, the very thought that kept him awake at night. That unyielding inner scrutiny prevented him from ever finding true rest. His nightly routine was a palliative measure, a way to keep the turmoil from blooming into something uncontrollable; it provided temporary respite, but it offered no genuine relief.

  Eldarion opened a creaking cupboard and carefully selected several clean bottles, each one specially ordered for its unique shape and size. He arranged them methodically on the shelf. The current batch of liquor he was working on in his private workshop wasn’t ready yet—it wouldn’t be finished for a long time—but an older batch was already set to go, and he needed these bottles to package it. He made a mental note to dip into his savings and order more; he was running perilously low on supplies. One variant in particular—the coffee-and-honey infusion—had become popular with his wealthier patrons. With a few empty bottles in hand, he silently calculated the price he should set, as memories of his younger, alchemist days stirred in his mind.

  So focused was he on this routine that he tried to ignore the weight of his past and the worries of his present. Yet his conscience, ever vigilant, remained his constant companion—the one thing that followed him like a shadow and kept him up at night. In those moments, as the clinking of bottles merged with the soft echo of his footsteps, his mind wandered back to darker times. He recalled the days when his calloused hands mixed deadly poisons and toxins with the same precision he now applied to his liquors, the weight of sword and shield, of plate and mail, of lies and deceit.

  Lost in his work and haunted by these memories, Eldarion barely noticed the silent observer. Hidden in the shadows, high on a rickety perch near the ceiling and among the lingering fumes of his experiments, an assassin had taken position. The assassin’s focus was unnervingly fixed on Eldarion’s head, as if waiting for the slightest lapse—a moment of weakness in the old man’s guarded mind.

  For a long, tense moment, Eldarion paused between his routine tasks. He balanced a bottle in his hand and considered the price for his popular coffee-honey variant, while his thoughts danced between the present and the echoes of his past. Each clink of glass and soft shuffle of his steps reminded him of the secrets he’d long buried—secrets that still haunted him like specters. In that fragile space between duty and regret, the weight of his history pressed in on him, a burden he could neither shake nor fully embrace. And so, with a deep, measured sigh, he resumed his work—each action a delicate attempt to keep his past at bay, even as it threatened to overtake him once more.