The Roasted Boar was a cauldron of chaos, a sweaty, smoky den where the air reeked of ale, charred meat, and the unwashed bravado of adventurers. The tavern’s walls, scarred with nicks from thrown daggers and stained with spilled drink, echoed with the raucous laughter of mercenaries, the clink of tankards, and the occasional grunt of a bar brawl gone sour. It was the kind of place where dreams were either forged or drowned in cheap booze—and Liiza, a wide-eyed F-rank adventurer with barely a scratch on her leather armor, had just stumbled into its maw.
Her boots stuck to the floor as she pushed through the crowd, her chest puffed with the kind of pride only a first successful hunt could muster. Thirty gold coins jingled in her pouch—a pitiful sum to most, but to her, it was a glittering promise of bigger things. She clutched her adventurer card, the guild’s official stamp of her meager rank, like it was a holy relic. The photo on it was a disaster—her brown hair plastered awkwardly to her forehead, her green eyes squinting against the flash of the guild’s ancient camera—but it was hers. Proof she belonged.
She didn’t see the trouble coming until it was too late.
“Oi, what’s this? A wee lass playin’ at bein’ a hero?” A slurred voice cut through the din, and before Liiza could react, a meaty hand snatched the card from her grip. Bern, a burly adventurer with a beard like a bramble thicket and breath that could strip paint, waved it in the air like a trophy. His buddy, a wiry man with a face like a ferret, cackled beside him.
“Look at this mug!” Bern roared, holding the card up for the crowd to see. “She looks like she’s been chewed up by a troll and spat out backward!”
The tavern erupted in laughter, a chorus of jeers that stung worse than any goblin’s claw. Liiza’s face burned, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “Give it back,” she snapped, her voice Ascot voice trembling but firm. “That’s mine.”
“Oh, come off it, darlin’,” Bern sneered, his grin wide and cruel. “This ain’t worth the parchment it’s printed on. Might as well—oops!” With a theatrical stumble, he “accidentally” flicked the card straight into a stranger’s mug of dark ale on a nearby table. The black liquid sloshed over the rim, soaking the card as it sank into the sticky depths. The crowd howled with laughter, some slamming their fists on tables, others doubling over as if it were the funniest thing they’d seen all week.
Liiza froze, her heart pounding. That card was her identity, her proof of existence in the guild. Without it, she was nothing—just another nobody with a rusty dagger and a dream. She stared at the mug, the ale’s surface rippling mockingly. Did she dare fish it out, humiliate herself further by plunging her hand into some stranger’s drink? Or did she walk away, risking weeks of bureaucratic hell to replace it?
Before she could decide, a voice like a whip cracked through the noise. “Oi, you brain-dead oafs! You think dunking a girl’s card in piss-water is high comedy? I’ve seen goblins with better manners—and bigger balls.”
The tavern quieted, heads turning toward the bar where a woman stood, her presence a storm cloud in human form. Ravka, a seasoned mercenary with a reputation sharper than the twin daggers at her hips, leaned against the counter with a tankard in one hand and a glare that could melt steel. Her black hair was cropped short, framing a face carved from hard edges and harder experiences. Scars traced her jawline like battle maps, and her leather armor hugged a frame that spoke of strength and menace. She was a woman who didn’t just walk into a room—she claimed it.
Bern shifted uncomfortably, his bravado wilting under her stare. “Just havin’ a laugh, Ravka. No harm done.”
“No harm?” Ravka’s lips curled into a sneer as she straightened, her boots thudding against the floor as she stalked closer. “You’ve got the wit of a concussed mule and half the charm. Why don’t you fish that card out yourself, hmm? Or are you too busy pissing yourself at the thought of a real fight?”
The crowd snickered, the tables turning as Bern’s face reddened. His buddy muttered something about not wanting trouble, but Ravka’s amber eyes flicked to him, pinning him in place. “You, ferret-face. Shut it before I use your tongue to mop the floor.”
Her gaze shifted to Liiza, who stood rooted to the spot, torn between mortification and awe. Ravka tilted her head, sizing her up like a predator assessing prey. “And you, little mouse. You gonna stand there gawking, or are you gonna grow a spine and get your damn card back?”
Liiza swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t want to cause a scene.”
“A scene?” Ravka barked a laugh, sharp and biting. “Sweetheart, you’re already the main act. Might as well play the part. Go on, reach in there. Or are you afraid of a little ale on your dainty fingers?”
The taunt stung, but there was something in Ravka’s tone—a challenge wrapped in rough velvet—that sparked a flicker of defiance in Liiza’s chest. She squared her shoulders, meeting the mercenary’s gaze. “Fine. But if I get this sticky mess on me, you’re buying me a drink to wash it off.”
Ravka’s brow arched, a glint of amusement flashing in her eyes. “Oh, I like that. A bit of fire under all that blushin’. Tell you what, mouse—get your card, and I’ll buy you two drinks. One for the guts, and one for the sheer entertainment of watchin’ you squirm.”
Liiza hesitated only a moment before stepping forward, her jaw tight. The stranger at the table—a grizzled old man with a beard full of crumbs—grunted as she muttered an apology and plunged her hand into his mug. The ale was cold and slimy, clinging to her skin as she fished out the soggy card. She held it up, dripping and ruined, to a smattering of applause and chuckles.
Ravka crossed her arms, a smirk playing on her lips. “Not bad, greenhorn. Messy, but not bad. Come on, then. Park yourself at the bar. I owe you those drinks—and a lesson or two on how not to let drunkards walk all over you.”
Liiza wiped her hand on her cloak, her cheeks still flushed but her chin lifted. “I don’t need lessons. I can handle myself.”
“Oh, can you now?” Ravka drawled, her voice dripping with mock sweetness as she led the way to the bar. “Because from where I’m standin’, you’re about as intimidatin’ as a wet kitten. But don’t worry, love—I’ve got a knack for turnin’ strays into somethin’ fierce. Stick with me, and I might just make a lion out of you yet.”
Liiza bristled, but there was no denying the heat creeping up her neck at Ravka’s words—or the way the mercenary’s gaze lingered, bold and unapologetic. “I’m not a stray,” she shot back, sliding onto a barstool beside her. “And I’m not looking for a teacher.”
Ravka leaned in, her elbow on the counter, her smirk widening. “Maybe not, mouse. But you’ve got my attention now, and I don’t let interest go to waste. So, tell me—how does a slip of a girl with a face like yours end up in a dump like this, clutchin’ a card that looks like it was drawn by a blind orc?”
Liiza huffed, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “It’s my first hunt. Thirty gold. Not much, but it’s a start.”
“A start,” Ravka echoed, signaling the barkeep for two ales. “Cute. You’ve got dreams, I can smell ‘em on you. Big, shiny ones. But dreams don’t survive in places like this unless you’ve got teeth to match. Lucky for you, I’ve got plenty—and I don’t mind sharin’ a bite or two.”
Their drinks arrived, and Ravka slid one across to Liiza, her fingers brushing hers just long enough to send a jolt through her. “To first hunts,” Ravka toasted, raising her tankard. “And to learnin’ how to claw your way up without gettin’ dunked in disgrace again.”
Liiza clinked her mug against Ravka’s, her pulse quickening under the weight of that piercing stare. “To not needing your help next time,” she retorted, though her voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty.
Ravka chuckled, low and throaty, the sound curling around Liiza like smoke. “Oh, mouse, you’ll need me. And when you do, I’ll be right here—waitin’ to see just how much fight you’ve got in you.”
The air between them crackled, charged with unspoken promises and the sharp edge of challenge. Liiza sipped her ale, the bitter taste grounding her as she met Ravka’s gaze head-on. She didn’t know it yet, but she’d just stumbled into something far more dangerous than a tavern brawl—a game of power and desire, with a woman who played to win.
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