The room came back to Arvey in pieces. First came the smell of old wood, then the sharp sting of liquor, then the pressure in his skull that sat behind his eyes and pushed against them from the inside. He kept his breathing shallow, staring at the table in front of him while his vision steadied.

  A small glass stood near the edge of the table. Red wine rested inside it without moving, which told him the chair had not been dragged here in a rush. Someone had placed him carefully, which meant they wanted him awake.

  "You're awake. Good. I was starting to think they hit you too hard."

  The voice came from ahead of him. It sounded smooth, almost amused and too relaxed for the situation, as if this situation was nothing more than a casual conversation to him. Arvey lifted his chin a little, feeling the pull in his neck before he forced his eyes toward the far side of the room.

  A bar stretched across the wall. Bottles lined the shelves in rows that had been cleaned recently, though the room still smelled of stale drink and damp grain. Behind the counter stood a large man with broad shoulders and a heavily muscled frame. His thick forearms, covered in intricate tattoos, flexed as he polished a wine glass with practiced ease. A well-groomed mustache framed his upper lip, giving him an air of calculated confidence.

  Arvey planted his palms on the armrests. The chair felt too soft under his weight, which annoyed him at once. "I don't have time for this," he said. He pushed down hard, intending to rise before the man said another word.

  A hand hit his shoulder from behind. The force drove him back into the cushion, making the wood inside the chair groan. Arvey started to turn his head on instinct, but fingers clamped down on his skull, pressing his face toward the table.

  The grip was too strong. Arvey felt the weight in those fingers and the ease behind it.

  "Listen when the boss speaks," a man behind him said in a flat voice.

  Arvey clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening as he forced himself still. "Tch." He shifted his gaze, using the edge of his vision to count what he could.

  The man chuckled lightly, continuing to wipe the glass as if nothing unusual was happening. "No need for the hostility. You're our guest, after all."

  "Some hospitality," Arvey muttered. "I don't even know, where I am."

  "My bar," the man said in an amused voice. "A safe place, at least for now. How do your injuries feel? They should be better."

  Arvey tested his ribs by filling his lungs. The sharp pain from before had dulled to a hard ache, which meant someone had treated him or used something on him.

  Then, his expression darkened. "Where is Kozlo?" he asked in a low voice.

  The man behind the bar glanced up from the glass. His eyes moved once across Arvey's face, then down to Arvey's hands, then back up. "Don't worry about your friend, you are alive," the man said. "Your bird is safe."

  Arvey’s hands curled into fists. "I want to see him. Now."

  The man behind the bar sighed and lifted two fingers loosely without looking away. A door behind the shelves opened a moment later, then two men stepped through with a small iron cage between them.

  Kozlo stood inside it with his feathers puffed out wide. His talons gripped the perch so hard that the wood had fresh marks in it. While the men carried him forward, he snapped his beak and shouted, "ARVEY KILL YOU!"

  The cage swung violently because Kozlo threw his weight against the bars, making the metal rattle. Then Kozlo saw Arvey in the chair and jerked forward against the bars with gleaming eyes. "ARVEY!" he screamed in a shrill voice. "KILL ARVEY! FIGHT!"

  Arvey's shoulders dropped as relief hit him. Kozlo was alive, loud, and making everything worse. The cage got set on the table with care, though one of the men shoved it down harder than before. Kozlo shuffled along the perch, flattening his feathers while his eyes locked on Arvey's face.

  Arvey looked at him and exhaled through his nose. "Bad timing, Kozlo" he said. "Count the men first." He lifted his gaze toward the bar again. "Fine," he said in a quiet voice. "What do you want?"

  The man set the polished glass down on the counter. He rested both hands on the bar and leaned forward a little. "Good, start from the beginning," the man said. "Who are you?"

  Arvey paused, keeping his expression unreadable. "Why does it matter?" he countered, leaning back slightly.

  The man looked past him. "Let's narrow it down," he said in a level voice. "What did you have to do with Seryn's death?"

  The name hit Arvey fast. He kept his face steady while his chest tightened once, then eased with effort. "I saved her from goblins," Arvey said in a hard voice. "She died in my arms. She did not die because of me."

  The man behind the bar looked toward the right side of the room. He did it only for a second, though it was enough. Arvey tried to turn his head toward that line of sight, but the hand behind him clamped harder and forced him back forward.

  The man at the bar looked back to him. "Fine, I believe you," he said.

  Arvey filed the answer away at once. Belief without pressure meant they already had some piece of the story. That made every lie from this point more expensive.

  "Then answer mine," Arvey said. "Who are you really?"

  "Not yet," the man said. "Where do you come from?"

  Arvey paused for a moment, before speaking. "People like me don’t have pasts that are worth telling."

  The man smirked. "Oh, but I disagree. Every survivor has a past worth knowing. You seem resourceful. You don’t carry yourself like a desperate man. That makes me curious." He smirked slightly, eyes scanning Arvey. "And yet, despite knowing you're weaker than me, a mere Tier 3, you speak without fear. That makes you either stupid or you know you're in possession of something valuable enough to protect you for a while." He took another glass up, before adding. "That's interesting for me."

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Arvey tilted his head a little against the hand holding him. "He guessed my Tier, he wants me reminded of it."

  "Strength has nothing to do with knowledge," Arvey said in a calm voice. "You want my story. I want answers. We trade. Curiosity isn't cheap."

  The hand on his head stayed firm. The men around him did not move. The room held was still for a moment, then the man behind the bar smiled without showing teeth.

  "A trade," he repeated. "You bargain from a chair while my man can crush your skull with ease."

  "You could still kill me anytime you want, after our trade is done," Arvey said.

  The man chuckled, setting his glass down. "Clever. Fine. A trade then. Tell me something of value, and I’ll answer your questions."

  "I don't come from the Abyss," he said.

  The effect landed at once. The man's cloth stopped moving. His fingers pressed lightly into the stem of the glass, then loosened again. He recovered fast, though not before Arvey caught the pause.

  Arvey kept his own face blank, though his pulse had picked up under the collar. "Seems like I piqued your interest," he remarked.

  The man let out a loud laugh, shaking his head. "Alright, fine. You have my attention. What do you want to know?"

  Arvey did not waste the opening. "Let’s start with your own question. Who are you?"

  "Draven Duskstone," he said. "One of the rulers of our beloved Duskmire." The man continued polishing glasses. "And you?"

  The answer landed harder than Arvey expected. Surprise tightened his throat before he forced it loose. He had expected a broker, a gang leader, maybe a rich fence with armed men, but not a ruler of an entire city.

  "Arvey," he said after a beat.

  Draven watched the reaction settle across his face and chuckled knowingly. "Didn’t expect one of the rulers to be working in a bar, did you? Expected a throne for a ruler?" he asked in an amused voice. "Maybe banners? Maybe guards in polished armor?"

  Arvey said nothing. He did not need to. Draven had read enough already.

  "Duskmire runs on two layers," Draven continued. "The Cult owns the open streets. They collect taxes. They patrol. They punish. Their enforcers wear their marks in plain sight so every fool remembers who rules above ground."

  He lifted two fingers, holding one above the other. The cloth hung from his knuckles while he spoke. "Below that layer sit five rulers who stay out of the light. We hold our own districts, routes, debt, blades, safe doors, paid mouths, stolen cargo, and quiet work, everything."

  Arvey listened, taking in all the information he can get. "Five rulers ...," he thought.

  He leaned forward a little, then felt the grip tighten and stopped there. "On my way here," he said, "I fought goblins in the woods. They called their leader a Chief. Would that happen to be you?"

  Draven grinned and shook his head once. "No. Goblin chiefs come and go. They breed, fight, kill, split, gather, and die. Someone always puts on a title when enough bodies stand behind him. But the Chief is also one of the 5 rulers."

  He reached for another glass from beneath the counter, then started cleaning it with the same measured motions. "There are connections in this city," he said. "There are also walls inside those connections. Each ruler protects his own slice first. Remember that."

  Arvey held the line of thought for a moment. Draven had separated himself from the goblins, though not strongly enough to rule out contact. The phrasing mattered.

  He shifted his attention. "Then tell me about the Pit," he said. "Tell me about the Cult."

  Draven's face lost some of its ease. He placed another glass on the counter and folded the cloth once before setting that down too.

  "The Cult serves its gods," he said in a quieter voice. "At least, they call them like that. They speak of order, balance, duty, and cleansing. Their enemies are the devils, claiming they pull the world into the Abyss."

  Arvey could hear the scrape of Kozlo's claw against perch. The sound was faint, though it cut through the room because nobody else moved.

  "Religious fanatics with armed structure," Arvey thought. "Bad combination. Worse in a city."

  Draven kept speaking. "They recruit through fear. They tighten laws after every incident. They take people in the night when a district grows noisy. Then they tell the rest of the city that sacrifice preserves peace. That is how they stay fed."

  Arvey felt the muscles in his jaw harden. The memory of the ritual site came back in sharp pieces, then settled beside the image of Seryn dying in his arms.

  "If they think you interfered in their matters," Draven continued to speak, "they will come after you."

  Arvey frowned. "No one saw me."

  Draven smirked, shaking his head. "That's what you think. One of their scouts was watching from a distance. He slipped past my men and made it back."

  Cold pressure settled in Arvey's stomach. He kept his face blank, though his fingers had curled against the armrest before he forced them open. One scout was enough.

  "Then I am a target over a ritual I did not understand," he said in a low voice.

  Draven held his gaze. "That’s the problem with people like them. You don’t have to understand their plans to get caught in them."

  Draven tapped two fingers on the bar. "Your turn," he said. "How did you enter the Abyss?"

  The hand on Arvey's head pressed down again, reminding him of the position he was in. Arvey drew one slow breath, before speaking. "I was a slave," he said in a steady voice. "I escaped. I fell into the Abyss water during the escape."

  For the first time, Draven laughed openly. The sound filled the room and bounced off the shelves. One of the men to the right let out a rough breath that might have been a laugh too. "Enough," Draven said, still smiling. Then he gave a small command with one hand. "Speak the truth."

  The man behind Arvey let his mana flare at once. Pressure crashed into Arvey's skull through the hand gripping his head, sending a violent pulse through his neck and behind his eyes. Panic hit him so fast that his chest locked for a beat.

  "It's the truth," Arvey blurted out in a choked voice. "It's the truth!"

  Draven's smile faded by degrees. He watched Arvey's face for a long moment, then gave a slight signal.

  The pressure on Arvey's skull vanished instantly. Air rushed back into his lungs in a hard pull, leaving his throat dry and raw. Draven looked at him, then at Kozlo, then back to Arvey again.

  "The water in the Abyss corrodes what enters it," Draven said. "Only creatures born to it survive it, and most of those never leave it."

  Arvey swallowed against the dry pull in his throat. Memory moved through him in a fast, ugly surge. Cold pressure. Weightless panic. The feeling of dragging himself up while every nerve screamed. "Kozlo saw me right after," Arvey said. "He found me when I came out. Ask him."

  Draven looked at the cage. "Can the owl understand that much?"

  Kozlo snapped his beak once, "Kozlo understand!" The sound made the nearest guard shift his stance.

  "Enough to know whether I am lying," Arvey said.

  Draven looked at Kozlo. "Is that true, owl?" he asked.

  Kozlo bobbed his head once. Then he did it again with more force, feathers flattening tight against his body.

  The room went quiet. Even the man behind Arvey eased the pressure on his head without seeming to notice that he had done it. Draven stared at the owl, then rubbed one thumb across the edge of the counter.

  "That should be impossible," he said in a low voice.

  "It's the truth," Arvey replied.

  Draven's gaze moved back to him. The ease had not returned to his face, which meant the answer had crossed from curiosity into problem.

  "Fine," Draven said at last. "I believe you."

  The grip behind Arvey loosened further, though the hand stayed ready. Arvey rolled one shoulder carefully to bring blood back into the muscles. He did not waste the small freedom.

  "Then we are done circling," he said. "I told you the truth. Now tell me what I need to know. All of it that matters right now."

  Draven leaned both palms on the counter. He looked less entertained. A small line had formed between his brows during the last few minutes, which told Arvey this conversation had shifted away from routine.

  "You ask for much," Draven said.

  "I woke in your chair," Arvey replied. "My friend came in a cage. Your men held my head like I was a criminal. Then you told me the Cult may be hunting me. I am asking for the minimum."