Heir to a Fallen Star

Chapter 1

The heavy iron door of the tavern slams shut behind you, cutting off the howling wind and the freezing rain of the lowlands. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of roasting meat, stale ale, and wet wool.

You’re drenched to the bone, your boots caked in mud, and the mysterious velvet pouch hidden in your tunic feels heavier than ever. As you look around the crowded room to find a quiet corner, the tavern suddenly goes dead silent. Every eye in the place turns to look at you—except for a cloaked figure in the back corner who purposely looks away, sliding a hand toward a gleaming dagger on the table.

The bartender quickly slides a foaming, oversized goblet across the scarred wood. You drain the crisp, cold ale in a few massive gulps, the sting of the alcohol burning away the chill of the storm.

SLAM.

The empty goblet hits the counter like a gavel, echoing through the tense silence. You pivot on your heel, locking your eyes onto the cloaked figure in the back. Tap... tap... tap... your fingers rhythmically strike the counter, a deliberate, metered challenge that echoes through the room.

The tension in the tavern is thick enough to cut with a knife. The cloaked figure freezes. Slowly, they release the hilt of the dagger, but they don't back down. Instead, they pick up their own cup, raise it slightly in a mock toast to you, and take a slow, deliberate sip.

Suddenly, a massive, scarred hand claps down onto your shoulder from behind. You spin around to find the bartender—a towering man with a broken nose and an apron stained with old fluids—glaring down at you.

"We don't want no trouble tonight, traveller," he rumbles in a low, warning voice, his grip tightening on your shoulder. "Pay for the ale, find a seat, and keep your eyes to yourself. Understand?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the cloaked figure slipping out of their booth, quietly heading toward a dimly lit side exit.

The tavern gasps as your hood falls back, revealing damp, golden locks cascading down your back. In one fluid, seamless motion, you shrug off your heavy cloak, draping it over the barstool, while your hand slips down to your thigh holster.

THWACK.

A flash of silver cuts through the dim tavern air. Before anyone can even blink, your dagger is buried deep into the wood of the side exit, vibrating with lethal force. It’s wedged perfectly over the latch, jamming the door completely shut. The cloaked figure freezes inches from the exit, staring at the trembling blade blocking their escape.

Your full, pouty lips twist into a wicked grimace. Pivoting sharply on the heel of your lace-up leather boots, you lock your piercing grey eyes onto the towering bartender. His jaw has gone completely slack, his grip on your shoulder loosening in sheer shock.

"Well, where’s the fun in that?" you snark, your voice dripping with playful defiance.

The silence in the room is absolute now. The bartender looks from you, to the dagger in the door, and back to you, a mixture of anger and sudden respect flashing across his rugged face. He slowly raises his hands and steps back, raising an eyebrow. "Fair point, lass. Just don't break the furniture."

Behind you, the cloaked figure realizes they are trapped. Slowly, they turn around, pulling back their hood to reveal a sharp-featured elf with a jagged scar running across his cheek. He looks at the dagger blocking his path, then looks at you, a dangerous, amused smile spreading across his face.

"Impressive throw," the elf calls out across the room, his voice smooth but laced with venom. "But you've just trapped yourself in here with me. What is it you want, gold-locks?"

You slide onto the barstool, the wood creaking slightly beneath you, and casually pat the empty seat right next to you.

"Come take a seat, pointy," you say, your voice carrying across the quiet room.

The elf's face twists, his amusement instantly hardening into something far more volatile. Under the dimly lit tavern lamps, he looks genuinely dangerous. Long, dark curls frame his strong, sharp features, casting shadows across the jagged scar sitting just beneath his moss-green eyes.

A sudden chill runs down your spine. For the first time tonight, Iris, you feel a genuine shudder of apprehension. You're intrigued by him—fascinated, even. He is undeniably handsome, but you aren't someone easily distracted by something as juvenile as admiration. Still, the air between you suddenly feels incredibly thin.

"What if I don't want to?" he asks, his voice dropping into a deep, intimidating baritone that echoes with a quiet threat.

You stiffen. You are not a person used to defiance. Forcing your voice to remain steady and laced with cool authority, you reply, "It was not a request."

For a fraction of a second, the corner of his mouth twitches, as if a rogue smile is trying to break through his defences. But it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced once more by his dark, stone-like expression. He doesn't look away from your grey eyes as he begins to move.

Slowly, he walks toward you. Every single step is agonizingly intentional, the soft thud of his boots rhythmic and predatory. The rest of the tavern patrons seem to hold their breath, backed away as if watching two predators circle each other in the wild.

He stops just inches from the empty barstool, towering over you, the scent of rain, leather, and something metallic clinging to him. He doesn't sit. Instead, he leans down slightly, his moss-green eyes locked onto yours, close enough that you can see the faint gold flecks in his irises.

"You've got a lot of teeth for someone so small, Iris," he murmurs, his voice a low purr meant only for your ears. Your blood runs hot—how does he know your name?

Before you can answer, his hand moves. Not toward his weapon, but toward the velvet pouch hidden beneath your tunic, his long fingers stopping just a breath away from touching your chest. "Are you going to tell me what's in the bag, or do I have to take it?"

Holding his intense, moss-green gaze, you refuse to flinch. Every instinct scream’s at you to pull back from his sudden proximity, but you force your body to remain completely still, projecting a cool, unshakable calm. You are a fortress, entirely unaffected by his intimidation tactics.

You look down at his hand, hovering just a breath away from your hidden velvet pouch, and then look right back up into his eyes, setting an undeniable boundary.

"You can try," you reply, your voice smooth, steady, and dangerously quiet. "But you might lose those fingers. Which you’ll need should you try to resist my proposition."

The elf’s eyes narrow slightly, his posture tensing as he processes your threat.

You lean in just a fraction of an inch closer, making sure he hears every syllable. "You have something of mine. So, like I said... take. a. seat. Or I will make you."

For a long, agonizing heartbeat, neither of you moves. The air between you practically crackles with friction. The fact that you know he has something of yours clearly catches him off guard—a subtle shift in his eyes betrays his surprise. He realizes you aren't just some arrogant tavern brawler; you know exactly who he is, and you came here specifically for him.

The dangerous edge of his expression doesn't fade, but the menacing posture shifts. With a slow, deliberate grace, he finally pulls his hand away from your tunic.

He pulls out the heavy wooden barstool next to you, the legs scraping loudly against the floorboards, and slides into it. He leans back, crossing one leather-clad leg over the other, draping an arm casually over the bar. He’s close—so close you can feel the heat radiating from him—but the immediate threat of violence has transformed into a high-stakes psychological game.

"You've got nerve, I'll give you that," he murmurs, his moss-green eyes scanning your face, trying to read your next move. "Fine. I'm sitting. Speak quickly, gold-locks, before I decide those pretty fingers of yours are more trouble than they're worth. What 'proposition' could a thief possibly have for me?"

A sharp, genuine scoff escapes your lips, the sound cutting through his dark aura.

"Thief? Me?" you mock, a sarcastic edge to your voice. "Last time I checked, you're the one with your band of hooligans that raided my apothecary and took a very valuable artefact. And I need it back."

As the words leave your mouth, you suddenly reach deep into your tunic to retrieve the velvet pouch.

His moss-green eyes instantly dart to your hand. For a split second, his stone-like composure cracks. You catch the subtle, sharp inhale he takes as your fingers disappear into your clothes—a sudden tension gripping his jaw. You feel a sudden surge of realization. Do I really have such a strong effect on him? He tries to mask it immediately, reverting to his unaffected stare, but the tell was there. You've thrown him off balance.

THUD.

You dump the heavy velvet pouch onto the scarred bar counter. The distinct, muffled clinking of precious stones echoes between you. Without breaking eye contact, you casually raise two fingers to the bartender, gesturing for two more ales.

"I've got twenty-five rubies here," you say, leaning in slightly, your grey eyes locking onto his. "It surpasses what you'd get for my artefact on the black market. I want a trade."

The elf looks down at the pouch, then back up at you. The mention of your apothecary and the rubies has clearly shifted the math in his head. The dangerous, mocking smile returns, but this time, it’s intrigued. He reaches out with one long, scarred finger and hooks the string of the pouch, dragging it a few inches closer to him, though he doesn't open it yet.

The bartender hastily slides two fresh, foaming chalices of ale toward you both, eager to please anyone throwing around that kind of wealth, before quickly backing away again.

The elf wraps his hand around his ale, his knuckles brushing against yours for a brief, electric second before he lifts the cup.

"Twenty-five rubies," he muses, his deep voice humming against the rim of his glass. "A king's ransom for a little apothecary shop. You're full of surprises, Iris." He takes a slow sip, his eyes burning into yours over the foam. "But there's a problem with your generous trade. That 'artefact' isn't just sitting in my pocket. And my 'hooligans' aren't exactly known for sharing. If I take these rubies, I'm turning my back on my own crew."

He leans in closer, his dark curls brushing against his cheek, his voice dropping to a seductive, dangerous whisper. "So, tell me... what else am I getting out of this deal besides a pocket full of red stones and a target on my back?"

"What else you get," Iris says, a slow, knowing smile finally gracing her lips, "is your life. Because if you don't help me get it back from your little crew, I won't just stop at jamming doors."

She leans in until they are practically breathing the same air, the scent of his leather and rain mixing with the sharp tang of the ale. She lets her gaze drop to his lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto his moss-green eyes. "Besides, I think you'll find that having an apothecary of my calibre owing you a favour is worth far more than a few disgruntled hooligans."

The elf doesn't pull away. If anything, his gaze intensifies, his chest rising and falling in a slightly heavier rhythm. He lets out a low, rough chuckle that vibrates right through the space between you.

"Threats and favours," he murmurs, his eyes darkening with amusement. "You really are a dangerous creature, Iris."

He finally reaches out, his long fingers unknotting the velvet pouch. He spills a few of the raw, blood-red rubies into his palm, watching the dim tavern light catch their facets. He rolls them around for a moment before clenching his fist tight around them.

"My name is Kaelen," he says, finally giving up his anonymity. He drops the stones back into the pouch and slides it into his vest. "And you have a deal, gold-locks. But you're wrong about one thing—this isn't a trade. It's a heist. My crew keeps the artefact locked in a vault at the old foundry down by the docks. It's heavily guarded, and if they catch us, twenty-five rubies won't buy us out of what they'll do to us."

He drains the rest of his ale in one go, slams the cup down, and stands up, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. He looks toward the door where her dagger is still firmly wedged, then back down at her.

"We leave through the back. Now. Before my crew realizes I didn't come back alone." He extends a hand toward her, his palm open, waiting. "Are you ready to break into a den of thieves, apothecary?"

You finish your ale in one swift go, slamming the empty goblet onto the counter right next to Kaelen's. Sliding a few extra coins across the wood toward the bartender, you give him a sharp nod. "For your trouble," you say, a hint of your signature snark returning. The bartender sweeps the coins away instantly, nodding back with a newfound respect.

Turning back to the elf, you look at his open palm for a beat before placing your hand firmly in his. His grip is warm, strong, and calloused—the hand of a fighter. He pulls you up from the stool with effortless grace.

As you release his hand, you smoothly snatch your cloak, swirling it over your shoulders to block out the chill of the room. You stride past Kaelen, the heels of your leather boots clicking purposefully against the floorboards. Heading straight for the jammed side exit, you grasp the hilt of your dagger. With a sharp, practiced jerk, you yank it free from the heavy wood, checking the edge before slipping it back into your thigh holster.

Kaelen watches you with a raised eyebrow, clearly approving of your efficiency. "Right then," he mutters, gesturing toward a narrow, shadows-draped hallway near the kitchens. "This way."