The taproom of the Crossroads Inn reeked of stale ale and wet dog. Kaelen, a half-elf rogue in traveler’s leathers, leaned against the bar, nursing her drink and watching the door. Behind her, Theron—a broad-shouldered human fighter with a scar bisecting his weathered face—sat playing cards with locals, his greatsword propped against the table. Near the fireplace, Mirabel the dwarven cleric muttered prayers to Helm, her silver mace catching the orange glow of the hearth. And in the corner booth, scrolling through a leather journal by candlelight, sat Zephyr, the tiefling sorcerer whose violet eyes glowed faintly with suppressed magic.
They’d come to this remote mountain town following rumors of a “witness”—someone claiming to have information about the warlord Thrace’s supply lines. Twenty gold had secured them a meeting.
“You the mercenaries?” a reedy voice cracked. An elderly man with trembling hands slid into their booth, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly. His clothes were fine silk—expensive—but filthy, as if he’d slept in them for weeks. “My name doesn’t matter. Thrace will kill me if he knows I talked.”
Kaelen’s hand drifted toward her dagger. “Then don’t talk. Leave.”
“No, wait—” The man’s eyes were fever-bright, desperate. “He took my daughter. Two years ago. Said she was a spy, that she’d betrayed him. She wasn’t. She was just… curious. A scholar. She wrote letters asking questions about his supply routes, about the fortifications. Innocent questions. He executed her anyway. And then—” his voice dropped to a whisper, “—and then he came to me. Personally. Said it was a mistake. Offered me money. Promised me his ‘protection.’ He’s kept that promise. Kept me alive while everyone I loved… didn’t survive his mistakes.”
Theron set down his cards. The inn had gone quiet around them, though no one stared outright.
“You want revenge,” Zephyr said, not unkindly.
“I want him to pay for what he’s done. But not with my name attached. Not if I can help it. I’ll tell you everything. But you have to swear—”
The tavern door slammed open. Rain sprayed across the threshold. Six figures in crimson armor flooded in, their helms marked with Thrace’s iron fist sigil. Their captain—a scarred woman with a hook for a left hand—scanned the taproom methodically. Her gaze locked on their booth.
“Checking credentials,” she announced, drawing a curved blade. “The warlord’s business.”
The old man went white. His hand shot out and grabbed Kaelen’s wrist. “They know. They always know. He doesn’t need witnesses alive—he needs them dead, so no one can contradict his versions of history. Kill me before they take me. Please. At least make it merciful.”
The captain approached, her hook glinting. Behind her, her soldiers barred the door and side passages.
Kaelen’s mind raced. If they handed over the old man, they’d earn Thrace’s favor—and a hefty bounty for “retrieving a traitor.” If they fought, they’d be branded outlaws. If they let him die without a fight, they’d be complicit in a murder. And if they helped him escape… well, a warlord never forgot a slight.
Mirabel’s hand tightened on her mace. Theron stood, hand on his sword hilt. Zephyr’s fingertips sparked with arcane fire.
“Last chance to step aside,” the captain said, two strides away. “The rest of you walk free. I just need him.”
The old man gripped Kaelen’s wrist so hard it hurt, tears streaming down his weathered face. “My daughter’s name was Lira. Please remember her. Please make sure someone knows that Lira was innocent.”
The captain raised her hook.
💬 What do you do? Will you protect the witness, negotiate with the captain, flee with him, or something else entirely? Tell us in the comments! 👇