Esau
The Black Kettle Tavern squatted like a mildewed toad in the shadow of the Elf-King's Citadel, a catch-all for desperation and dirt in one of the Royal Family's major garrison cities.
The air inside was a curdled mix of sour ale, cheap oil smoke, and the unwashed wool of men who dealt in shadows.
This was where the General, a high-ranking official paid to maintain order, conducted his true business.
It was the nexus of the city's underbelly, a place where black market deals, illicit trades, and dangerous whispers coalesced in the filth of the world he was meant to control.
He lounged in the foulest corner, one arm slung over his chair back, the other propping his head on his knuckles.
His mug rested on his knee, half-full, warm, and untouched—even his worst habits drew a line somewhere.
Across from him, the merchant lord, Mr. Rowe, face slick with sweat, silk sticking to his neck, had been droning on since he sat down, his distress a frantic, high-pitched whine.
"...I swear on my mother's grave, general, that beast shredded my carts like straw—barrels smashed, spices lost, my men scattered like chickens.
Six dead. Six drivers, just gone. I froze up, I couldn't move. If the Royal Guards hadn't fought it off, I'd be meat in the mud, too. Light as my witness."
The General let his boot tap the sticky floorboards, his heel keeping time while his eyes drifted across the room cracked beams, sour ale stink, half the drunks pretending not to eavesdrop.
The merchant kept squeaking, his voice climbing like a kicked rat every time he received no answer. "...and the reward! I paid double, triple, even! Half my convoy lost but—"
The General shifted just enough to let the candlelight catch his grin.
He didn't say a word, letting the man squirm in the silence. His thumb traced lazy circles around the rim of his mug, tapping it once when the merchant's voice cracked.
The merchant finally wheezed his way to the part that mattered: Protection. Royal guards. Gold to buy back his sleep at night.
The General lifted his eyes, slowly as dawn creeping up on a thief.
"Protection, huh?"
He knocked back the last stale mouthful, just to shut him up for one blessed heartbeat, then set the mug down by his boot.
"Alright. Here's the deal you get my boys on your walls, your caravans, your miserable spice wagons.
Bandits steer clear. Swamp monsters eat someone else's mule." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice dropping enough that the merchant had to lean in, too.
"But favors breed favors. I keep you safe you give me something back. Fair?"
The merchant nodded so hard his neck might give out. "Anything. Whatever you ask!"
The General raised an eyebrow.
"Anything? You sure about that word? Because I'm generous but I hate being lied to." He drummed his fingers on the wood, the soft rhythm making the merchant flinch every time his nail clicked the grain.
He pointed at the oversized ginger-head. "So tell me if my men can't get the weapons and gear they need, how are we supposed to provide any protection?"
Then he added, his voice sharpening, "And another thing why are the Rune-claws attacking you?
They only go after anything with arcane energy.
Mr. Rowe, are you smuggling arcane goods?"
The merchant lifted both palms, stammering.
"No! I swear, it's just bad luck I don't traffic in Arcane, I swear on my sons—"
The General chuckled, no humor in it. "You peasants really love swearing on corpses. I should start counting how many graves you lot bury under your lies."
He grabbed the merchant's collar, tugging him halfway across the table just enough to hear the chair legs shriek on the floor.
"Last chance. Who's moving Arcane through your trade routes? Talk now or watch your spices rot in the swamp with your bones."
Before the merchant could answer, the doors slammed open behind him.
Wind and rain blasted into the room, carrying the stench of the storm.
The General closed his eyes tightly, clenching his fist, fighting the sudden, sharp frustration.
"General!"
His soldiers moved on instinct steel out, pistols cocked at the soaking-wet palace rider.
The General shoved the merchant back in his chair like tossing a sack of grain. "Stay."
He stood, his coat falling around his boots like a drawn curtain.
The messenger knelt quickly, a smart move. "Forgive me, General. Urgent news from Kingston: the Pirate King has been captured. Your brother and his crew is already on the move."
The name hit, and the General's hands tightened on instinct. A cold tremble crawled up his arms, and the air suddenly felt too thick to breathe.
He barged out of the tavern, the pouring rain soaking him instantly. Stepping outside, the sky broke open.
The deeper he moved into the clearing, the harder the rain hammered down, as if matching the fierce pulse in his chest.
The cold droplets splashed against the cobblestones, mirroring the chaos in his mind.
He whistled sharp through his teeth, weaving a twist of Arcane into the note, bright enough to crack the sky open.
Alexi answered. His Nyx Griffin. Four wings folded in tight as the beast hit the mud, its feathers like a stormcloud come alive, eyes glowing gold in the dark.
The General's hand rested on its beak, and the mental channel clicked into place. So the old man let himself be captured. Fine.
Let's go... and witness the moment his soul decides to leave him.
He swung up onto its shoulders, the mane rough under his fingers. His Captain jogged up, rain dripping from his brow. "General—orders?"
The General glanced down, a half-grin carving his mouth.
"Keep this snake in his chair till I'm back. If he runs, burn everything he touches. And I want scouts on my brothers if they sniff Kingston before I do, break their legs."
Someone stepped out of the tavern broad shoulders, dreadlocks, a coin flipping between his fingers.
It caught the General's eye, a brief, sharp flicker of curiosity, but he spared the man no second glance. He clicked his tongue once.
Alexi launched them skyward. Rain whipped his face raw, but it didn't matter. The storm was always his first.
The wind tore at his coat as he leaned close, his cheek pressed to Alexi's warm ruff.
"Steady now, brother." His voice was soft, almost sweet, lost in the roar of the wings.
He leaned closer and added, "With Father in captivity, both my brothers and his loyalists will rush to his aid.
This could spark a war."
Alexi tilted his head, one golden eye flicking back at him, unafraid. The General stroked his neck, careful not to ruffle him wrong.
"With Father in chains, my idiot brothers will come crawling to 'rescue' him."
He smiled.
"Good. Let them. I've waited years to gut that line clean."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a rasp.
"When they rise, I'll be the one to put them down. The Yeager name ends with me."
Alexi's growl rattled the General's bones—not rage, but promise.
"Good boy," the General murmured, pressing his lips to the hollow behind its ear. The sky split open around them, stars wheeling like startled prey.