Entering his house, Nolan shook off the dampness that still remained on his clothes. He put on his usual clothes: a simple cream-colored shirt, slightly worn brown pants, and his long jacket, which he quickly tied. Once ready, he grabbed a leather pouch containing a few coins, slipped a thin dagger into his belt—an old habit—then headed for the exit.
He slammed the door behind him, the wood creaking slightly as usual, and took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. Without waiting, he set off for the city center, hands in his pockets, his thoughts still heavy with the previous day's dream.
The atmosphere in the city was lively, joyful. The morning here was never silent: the laughter of children running through the alleys, the smiles exchanged between neighbors, the crunch of wagon wheels on the wet cobblestones, the friendly disputes between merchants and buyers over the price of a vegetable or a piece of fabric, the calls of the hot bread sellers, and the barking of dogs following their owners.
Delicious smells floated in the air: fresh bread, grilled meat, ripe fruit. All of it painted a vivid, colorful, and lively picture. Nolan, though a little tired, couldn't help but smile. This simple bustle, this unpretentious everyday life, was what he loved. Not the prophecies. Not the threats from another world. Just the human warmth, the organized chaos of community life.
His gaze fell on the local inn, "The Golden Shield," whose sign flapped gently in the morning breeze. The smell of brioche bread and hot coffee made him quicken his pace. It was time to fill his stomach.
Upon entering the Golden Shield Inn, Nolan was immediately enveloped by the vibrant warmth of the place. The intoxicating scent of freshly baked bread, fried eggs, and morning stew mingled with that of polished wood and lightly spiced beer. The atmosphere was already set: laughter erupted here and there, voices rose in song, sometimes accompanied by a lute player sitting in a corner. It was a place of sharing, simplicity, and joy.
The long wooden tables were occupied by villagers of all ages: workers preparing for their day, adventurers passing through, women sharing the latest news, children nibbling on overheated pieces of bread. A fire crackled gently in the hearth at the back of the room, and beams of golden light filtered through the windows, dancing on the walls. Nolan, still a little shaken by the previous night, crossed the room calmly. He spotted an empty table near a slightly foggy window, offering a view of the bustling street. He sat down quietly, resting his elbows on the warm wood of the table, and let his gaze wander outside for a moment, watching the bustle of life.
He breathed in gently, soothed by this familiar routine. Here, in this bubble of warmth and life, the night's dream seemed almost distant... but not forgotten.
A waitress called out to him, asking what he wanted for dinner. She was an elderly woman with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, a face marked by time, with hollow cheekbones and a lively gaze despite the years.
Nolan looked up at her and replied in a calm voice,
"I'd like some meat, stew, and some nice fresh bread, please… And something to drink."
The waitress nodded, gave a polite smile, and said,
"Right away, sir."
Without wasting any time, she turned and walked to the back of the inn to deliver the order.
Nolan continued to observe his surroundings, his gaze calm but attentive. A few tables away, regulars were gambling, frantically rolling dice, loudly demanding rematches after each defeat. Others, seated more peacefully, were telling each other stories, true or embellished by the wine, amidst a tumult of laughter and sweeping gestures.
A little further away, some fellows, probably travelers or workers, were arm-wrestling directly on the tables, sometimes knocking over a tankard or two in the process. Their shouts and peals of laughter shook the air until the inn's workers, visibly exasperated, intervened to call them to order or throw them out.
Nolan, however, remained silent, almost detached from this commotion, as if he belonged to another world.
The waitress brought the order with a certain pride, placing a lavishly garnished tray in front of Nolan: a generous piece of perfectly grilled meat, still steaming hot, a thick and fragrant stew swimming with tender vegetables and morsels, a freshly baked loaf of bread, golden and crisp, and a mug of cold drink with condensation beading around the edges.
Nolan stared at the meal before him for a few seconds, appreciating the rustic yet careful presentation. A slight smile touched his lips. He took a bite of the meat, juicy and flavorful, then dipped a piece of bread into the stew. The flavors blended so perfectly that he momentarily forgot the hustle and bustle of the inn.
He ate calmly, savoring each bite as if this meal were gradually erasing the shadows of his strange dream. Outside, the morning light filtered through the window, illuminating the suspended dust particles, and on his face, for the first time in a long time, one could read a form of simple, almost forgotten serenity.
Suddenly, the inn door burst open with a crash, letting in a rush of fresh air accompanied by the crisp clatter of metal boots on the wooden floor. All eyes turned toward the entrance.
An imposing man had just appeared, dressed in reinforced silver armor that gleamed in the inn's dim light. His breastplate bore the emblem of a stylized eagle, the symbol of a military order known in the region. He had long red hair tied back in a low ponytail that fell over one shoulder, and his piercing black eyes gave his gaze a strange, almost regal intensity.
With a steady step, he raised a glass of ale, already half-drank, as if he had brought it with him from another tavern, and cried in a loud, vibrant voice tinged with a noble accent:
"Good morning, my dear companions!" A brief silence preceded a burst of laughter, greetings, and raised tankards. Some clearly already knew him, others hated him observed this flamboyant and self-assured character.
Nolan, for his part, looked up from his plate slightly, intrigued. He chewed slowly, taking in the individual with his gaze. There was something about this man... a sparkle in his eyes, a weight to his presence. Not just a simple adventurer. No, something more...
The man in silver armor crossed the room with a slightly unsteady gait, swaying slightly despite his imposing build. He walked unashamedly to the inn's reception area, under the mixed looks of amusement, weariness, and concern of customers accustomed to this kind of scene. He pulled out a chair with a sharp creak, almost collapsed onto it, then raised his now-empty tankard high.
"By the gods, get me another refill!" he roared, laughing like a maniac. His laughter was raspy, distorted by alcohol, and clearly lacked the clarity a sober mind could have provided.
He leaned forward on the counter, speaking to the waitress as if to an old imaginary friend:
"You know... hic... it's the perfect day to die singing and drink yourself to death, right?!" The waitress, who had obviously seen him like this before, rolled her eyes and sighed.
"Him again..." she muttered before handing him another full mug, looking resigned.
All around, conversations were slowly picking up again, some customers chuckling at the scene, others shaking their heads with a mixture of compassion and exasperation.
Nolan, still at his table, watched the man out of the corner of his eye, without moving. This kind of entrance, even if grotesque, didn't seem like a simple coincidence to him. Something was wrong. This wasn't just a drunk... He could feel it.
The knight set down his tankard, stood up with unsteady but theatrical steps, fixed his dark gaze on the room, then raised his fist toward the inn's ceiling.
Durtran strummed the first notes of his guitar, lively, rhythmic chords. The tables became drums, pounded by the customers' joyful fists. And then, in a hoarse but powerful voice, the knight intoned:
---
"Oh wind of the plains and rivers of fire,
I have seen war, I have defied the heavens,
My sword sings in the tumult of kings,
And my heart beats stronger when the world loses its faith!
Pour me the mead, pour me oblivion,
I have scars where others have creases,
But I recount my battles, my vanished loves,
Between two sips and a wild song!
Chorus:
Hey! Bang the table, raise your voice!
Sing for those who are no longer here!
Hey! Drink for those we will see again,
When the drums of heaven roar our laws!"
---
The customers beat the rhythm enthusiastically, some began to sing the refrain in chorus. The inn vibrated with a new warmth, intoxicated by the moment. Nolan, however, remained silent, one hand around his mug, his eyes narrowed. This song... there was something ancient about it. A melody that belonged to another time.
The knight, carried away by euphoria and the music, threw his empty tankard behind him without even looking, miraculously landing it in an empty barrel. He shouted at the top of his lungs, his fist raised:
"Olé! Olééé!"
The customers joined in, banging tables and stamping their feet:
"Olé! Oléééé!"
The atmosphere was at its peak. Chairs were pushed back, benches moved, and a few customers began to get up to dance on the inn's worn wooden floor. A swirl of laughter, clumsy but sincere steps, and arms raised toward the ceiling.
The knight approached a woman with lively eyes, dressed simply, but whose grace did not go unnoticed. He extended his hand, bowing elegantly but a little unsteadily from the alcohol.
"Would you grant me this dance, fair lady?"
She stared at him, gave a hint of amused smile, and accepted without saying a word. Together, they began to dance to the frenetic rhythm of Durtran's guitar, their footsteps echoing on the floor as the entire inn beat to the same rhythm.
Nolan, from his table by the window, watched the scene with a mixture of distance and lightness. He wondered, half-amused, if this noisy, exuberant world would ever leave him alone.
As the inn vibrated to the rhythm of songs and dances, amidst hearty laughter and the clinking of glasses, Knight Grace Vinderhald's gaze was drawn to a calm, isolated figure. Amid the jubilation, only one man remained silent: Nolan, absorbed in his meal, his face impassive, almost distant.
Their eyes met. For a brief moment. Enough.
Grace abruptly broke off his dance, letting go of the hand of the young woman he was twirling with.
Grace (with a stretched, intrigued smile):
"Forgive me, fair lady... but I see a mystery that deserves more attention than your pretty steps."
He turned, his heavy armor clinking softly, and walked confidently toward Nolan's table. Without even asking, he pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him, setting down his half-empty tankard with a dull clatter.
Grace (in a warm, confident voice):
"Hello, young man. My name is Grace Vinderhald."
Nolan barely looked up from his plate, slowly chewing a piece of meat, observing this strange, flamboyant, and probably drunk man who had just disturbed his composure.
Nolan (in a neutral, slightly cold tone):
"...Nolan."
Grace (tilting her head, amused by the brevity of the response):
"Just Nolan? No title? No clan? No fame to tell?"
Nolan (giving him a meaningful look):
"I don't need one."
Grace remained silent for a second, a wry smile tugging at her lips. He understood that this young man wasn't speaking to fill the void. He carried something... a fatigue, a gravity that few dared to face.
Grace (softening her tone slightly):
"Well... you know, Nolan, men like you, silent and alone amidst the noise... they're often the ones you have to observe. The ones who have seen things. Made choices."
Nolan didn't answer right away. He raised his cup to his lips, took a sip, then looked Grace straight in the eye.
Nolan (calm but firm):
"I'm just trying to eat lunch."
Grace burst into a hearty laugh, without mockery.
Grace:
"And you do it very well, Vinderhald's word! But if one day the urge takes you to trade silence for a few words... I'm often at this inn, between two battles or two songs."
Grace, still sitting next to Nolan, watched him for a moment, a little more serious, as if trying to probe the young man's soul despite his impenetrable calm. Then, in a burst of genuine curiosity, he asked:
Grace (smiling slightly, his tone calm):
"What do you enjoy doing most in life, Nolan?"
Nolan didn't look up right away, finishing a mouthful of stew-soaked bread. Then, in a steady, almost mechanical tone, he replied:
Nolan:
"Dungeon hunting, going home, eating, sleeping... and repeating."
Grace raised an eyebrow, surprised by the brutal simplicity of the answer.
Grace (laughing slightly):
"Well... a cyclical life."
He crossed his arms on the table, suddenly looking more intrigued.
Grace (with a hint of interest in her voice):
"Dungeon hunter, you say?"
Nolan then turned his head towards him, his eyes shining with a light that was hard to define.
Nolan:
"And you?"
Grace tilted her head back slightly, her gaze lost in the inn's wooden ceiling, a nostalgic smile playing on the corners of her lips.
Grace:
"Me? My hobby is winning battles... Drinking until I forget the scars, and singing epic melodies of ancient wars. Legends of men fallen with honor, kings gone mad, monsters brought down with blood."
He picked up his still-full tankard and raised it slightly.
Grace (with a twinkle in her voice):
"And always... with a good drink." »
He took a silent sip, his eyes closed for a moment, as if tasting a memory rather than the drink.
Nolan (calm, a little amused):
"A poet in armor, then."
Grace (genuine laughter):
"A poet with a two-handed blade and a very strong liver, yeah!"
A brief silence fell, but it wasn't awkward. On the contrary, a tacit respect had grown between the two men, as different as they were. A silence between two souls who have seen more than they say.
Grace leaned further against the table, scanning the room, still animated by the festive atmosphere but focused on his discussion with Nolan. He fixed his gaze on the young man's curiously.
Grace (with a quiet smile):
"I've never seen you around here before, Nolan. Where are you from?"
Nolan took the time to answer, his eyes fixed on the last bites of his plate.
Nolan (in a neutral tone):
"I'm from here. And it's normal that you've never seen me. You're a knight."
Grace let out a soft laugh, a little hoarse but genuine, shaking her head.
Grace (amused):
"You're not wrong. My duty as a knight requires me to stay most of the time in the capital, Xianpang. The walls are high there, but the air is always tense." »
He raised his tankard and took a long sip, letting the foam cling to his red beard.
Nolan turned his head slowly toward him, looking slightly interested.
Nolan:
"You belong to an eagle company, I see... Dawnwing, eh?"
Grace lifted his breastplate slightly to reveal the insignia etched into the metal: a golden wing spread above a rising sun.
Grace (proudly):
"Exactly, indeed. Dawnwing. We're the first to respond to distress calls, the last to retreat."
He picked up his tankard again, raised it a second time before bringing it to his lips, as if toasting his own declaration.
Grace (smiling gently):
"But I must admit there's something charming about the tranquility of this city." Less shouting, less trouble… more singing."
Nolan nodded silently, his gaze wandering out the window for a moment. The sky was now completely clear, and the laughter around them continued to echo, as if out of step with the depth of their exchange.
Nolan slowly chewed the last piece of meat, savoring the taste as much as the moment, before glancing amusedly at Grace.
Nolan (curious):
"Are you an apprentice knight or a confirmed knight?"
Grace gave a slight smirk, almost flattered by the question. He straightened his back proudly.
Grace (confidently):
"I'm the company's first corporal. Only one person ranks above me."
Nolan raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. He gently placed his fork, crossing his arms on the table.
Nolan (intrigued):
"A person of your rank... here getting drunk, singing, and dancing? Instead of living in a vast palace, surrounded by wealth?"
Grace burst into a loud laugh that turned a few heads, then patted Nolan on the shoulder with spontaneous complicity.
Grace (warm):
"Oh, you don't need to address me formally anymore, my friend. And frankly... these palaces are deadly boring. No excitement, nothing unexpected. Just endless corridors, useless gilding, and people as empty as their wine cups."
He took a sip of beer, then continued with a softer smile.
Grace (pensive but smiling):
"I love mingling with the crowd, with this life full of noise, heat, and human awkwardness. Well, I have a palace, sure... but you see where I'm going with this."
Nolan looked at him for a moment, scrutinizing the features of this man who exuded both power and simplicity.
Nolan (honest):
"I see... People of your caliber are rare to come across in this society." »
Grace raised her tankard, swirled the golden liquid at the bottom, then slowly brought it to her lips.
Grace (calm but serious):
"What do you expect... Power dehumanizes. It gradually tears you away from who you were. But only the strongest... the truest, resist the transformation."
He drank, staring into space for a moment, as if reliving an old memory. Nolan, silent, felt a deep respect rise. In this hubbub of joy, two lucid minds had just found each other.
Nolan (smirking):
"To come here, you asked for a day off?"
Grace (chuckles softly, stretching in her chair):
"Even though I'm a knight, I'm still a nobleman, with a title, an inheritance, and a few handy privileges."
He swirled his tankard in his hand, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief, before adding casually:
Grace:
"I can do as I wish, as long as no pressing duty calls me... or no young lady cries for help, of course."
At that moment, a young woman passed by their table. Grace gave her a knowing wink, without forcing it, almost out of habit. The woman looked away, slightly amused, giving a small smile.
Nolan (mockingly, placing his hand on his chin):
"You always play the hero even when no one asks for it?"
Grace (with a burst in her voice):
"When you have the looks and the panache, it might as well be useful!"
The two men laughed softly. Nolan, though a little more reserved, was beginning to appreciate Grace's presence. There was a sincerity in her words, a rare lightness in her attitude, that of a powerful man who hadn't forgotten how to be alive.
Grace slammed her empty tankard down on the table, a bold smile tugging at his lips as he stood up.
Grace:
"How about we clear a dungeon together today? I have some time to kill, after all."
Nolan (crossing his arms, his eyes skeptical):
"Are you sure?"
Grace (brushing the question off casually):
"Don't worry, I won't touch the rewards. I just want to have fun. It's been ages since I've been in a dungeon..."
Nolan (raises an eyebrow mockingly):
"It's not the loot I'm worried about... it's you. You might die before you even get in, the way you're in." »
Grace (laughing, beating her chest proudly):
"Even when I'm drunk, I can take down hundreds of well-trained knights without the slightest effort!"
Nolan (giving her a sideways, sarcastic glance):
"You may have nothing in common with the nobles... but you have the same level of arrogance."
Grace (smiling, her tone amused and sincere):
"Probably the only thing they and I have in common."
A brief silence followed, filled with silent complicity. The tension between Grace's excess and Nolan's ironic calm seemed to create a strange alchemy. Nolan grabbed his cloak, stood up, then said neutrally:
Nolan:
"Very well. I know a dungeon nearby. Will you last until you get there?" »
Grace (placing her hand on her heart like a stage actor):
"My friend, I am Grace Vinderhald. Wine, war, and glory flow through my veins."
Nolan (with a sigh, but with a thin smile):
"Then let's see if either of us dies today."