The tavern's air was thick with smoke, laughter, and the smell of roasted boar. Tankards slammed, dice rolled, and the low hum of conversation filled every corner like a living heartbeat. Himmel and Texan sat at the head table surrounded by the seventy-seven soldiers — mercenaries, deserters, outlaws, and dreamers — the kind of men who had nothing left but a thirst for more.
Marth sat beside them, hunched but steady, his crutch leaning against the table. His missing limbs didn't dull the steel in his eyes. He swirled a mug in one hand and let the froth spill over.
Texan leaned close, voice dropping beneath the noise. "You still got that good eye of yours?"
Marth snorted. "Better than yours, pup."
"Then we need it," Himmel said. "We've got seventy-seven here, but not all of them are ours. Some still breathe for the Prince."
Marth's grin was sharp as a cleaver. "You want me to sniff out the loyal dogs?"
"Exactly," Himmel said. "Find the ones that bark too loud when the Prince's name comes up. The ones who toast too quickly. You know the type."
"I'll find them." Marth set his mug down and pushed himself to his feet, wincing but determined. "Give me a few hours. I'll be back with a count."
Texan clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't go dying before the report, Hopscotch."
Marth chuckled through a cough. "You'll be the first to know if I do."
He vanished into the sea of laughter and clinking mugs, his limp swallowed by the crowd.
While Marth blended into the noise, Texan's attention shifted toward the door.
The laughter from the tavern was still roaring, but Texan's focus had narrowed to a single figure by the door.
The First Prince's attendant.
He stood perfectly still—too still—like a statue given breath. The orc's armor shimmered faintly, layers of enchanted fabric shifting between shades of gray and silver, giving him the illusion of mist even while he stood in plain sight. His presence wasn't loud; it weighed. The kind of silence that fills a room without saying a word.
Texan didn't need Himmel to tell him who the man was. Level 5, elite rank, one of Illusorisch's loyal shadows. And, more importantly, the owner of that damn invisibility necklace that made him impossible to track once he vanished.
"Guess it's my turn," Texan muttered, downing the last of his ale and setting the mug aside.
Himmel didn't look up from his seat. "Try not to get yourself killed."
Texan smirked, "That's the plan," and walked straight toward the guard.
The orc's eyes tracked him the entire way. No expression. No acknowledgment. Just awareness—like watching prey wander into his range.
Texan stopped a few feet away, casual, leaning against a post. "Hell of a job, huh? Watching a bunch of sweaty bastards drink themselves stupid."
The guard said nothing.
"Not a talker? That's fine. I talk enough for both of us." Texan raised his mug slightly. "You want one?"
Still no reply.
He laughed softly. "C'mon, man. Don't tell me your orders include not having fun."
The guard's eyes flicked down at the offered mug. A pause, then, reluctantly, he took it.
It was enough.
Texan's grin sharpened slightly as the orc took a sip.
Sirens had a gift. Not a learned one—not forged or earned like magic—but one born of their blood. Charm.
To call it magic would've been wrong. Magic could be resisted, deflected, measured. Charm couldn't. It wasn't spoken; it seeped.
A siren's skin carried microscopic glands that secreted a biochemical vapor—an intoxicating, invisible toxin that entered through the lungs or pores. It wasn't always active; only when a siren willed it, or when their emotions ran too hot. And its potency was tied to one thing only:
Level.
Below level 3, the pheromone was dormant, instinctive—little more than a faint allure. But upon reaching level 3, something awakened. The glands ignited, synchronized with pulse and will, allowing a siren to project influence—raw, primal command.
At this stage, Texan could only issue simple suggestions. Words like walk, stop, give. Nothing complex. Nothing long-lasting. But even that made him dangerous.
And right now, he was about to test just how dangerous he'd become.
Texan started small—chatter, laughter, harmless talk. He told the guard about sea storms that could swallow ships whole, about the smell of salt wind and wet iron. All while the air began to thicken—imperceptibly at first.
The pheromones spread, curling through the tavern's stale smoke, threading toward the orc's face like unseen fingers. His breathing slowed. Pupils dilated. Shoulders eased a fraction.
Then—nothing.
The guard's nostrils flared, his hand dropping the mug with a clang.
His eyes sharpened like blades. "Something's wrong."
Texan froze mid-sentence. "What?"
"I feel it—someone's casting something." The guard turned sharply, scanning the tavern. His aura flared faintly, rippling through the crowd like heat. He was seconds from drawing his blade.
Texan raised his hands, voice quick. "Hey, whoa—don't look at me, man! I'm not even a caster! You think I could pull off a spell after this much ale?"
The orc's brow furrowed. "It's not you, then…?"
He looked away. That was the moment Texan needed.
He let the pheromones surge—a tidal wave this time, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. His skin glimmered faintly in the torchlight, like sweat caught in silver. The scent wasn't floral or metallic—it was something deeper, instinctive. It whispered to the lizard brain. Listen. Obey.
The guard's expression softened mid-turn. His weapon hand fell limp.
His breathing steadied.
His mind—opened.
Texan leaned in close without hesitation, he unclasped the shimmering chain from his throat and held it over his head. The artifact felt warm—alive—with a faint hum of invisibility enchantment thrumming through it. Texan pocketed it instantly.
The orc didn't blink.
Texan smiled faintly. "Good. Now…" He pointed toward the tavern's open door, where the mountains lay black against the starlit sky. "…go there."
The orc's eyes followed the gesture. His head tilted once. Then—he ran. No hesitation, no confusion—just raw obedience. His heavy boots thundered against the cobblestone as he vanished into the distance, sprinting toward the mountains as if his life depended on it.
For a moment, Texan stood still, chest rising and falling, the air still faintly shimmering around him.
Then the pheromones faded, like mist retreating with the tide.
From across the room, Himmel started clapping slowly.
"Well," he said, smirking, "I can't tell if that was genius or suicide."
Texan let out a shaky laugh. "Little of both, I think."
He held up the stolen necklace—the faint shimmer of its magic flickering like heatwaves in his palm. "At least we got a souvenir."
"Try not to put that on. Knowing your luck, it'll probably choke you."
Texan slipped it into his pocket instead. "You worry too much."
"I have to," Himmel said dryly, "because you don't."
While Texan wiped the faint sheen of sweat from his brow and pocketed the invisibility necklace, Himmel was already moving. He had been moving since the first drink hit the table.
Unlike Texan, who could bend hearts through blood and song, Himmel's weapon was thought itself — and tonight, he would use it like a scalpel.
He drifted through the tavern in silence, hood down, expression unreadable. The flickering lanternlight carved shadows along his grey skin, highlighting the faint scars across his jaw. Every step was deliberate, casual enough to appear unthreatening, but paced to catch attention at the edge of awareness.
He didn't shout. He didn't rally. He seeded.
At one table, he paused near two drunken level threes whispering about the prince's growing influence. Himmel leaned over their mugs as if refilling his drink and said under his breath — just loud enough for them to hear: "Seven's a lucky number."
The men blinked, confused, but nodded instinctively — drunk minds clinging to small certainties.
At another table, he passed a cluster of young recruits comparing the prince's rewards. He stopped beside them long enough to murmur, "Funny how kindness wins more wars than swords."
Then he was gone again, swallowed by the smoke and noise before they could ask who he was.
Each phrase was short, simple — a whisper threaded through the crowd. "Beaten, but not broken." "The First looks down, the Seventh reaches out." "Even wolves kneel to queens."
Little things. Harmless words. But spoken in the right rhythm, to the right ears, they carried weight.
By the third round of drinks, the mood in the tavern had changed. The laughter grew less rowdy, the talk more pointed. Hushed discussions bloomed between groups that hadn't spoken before. Doubt — beautiful, fertile doubt — began to take root in the room.
At the far end of the bar, Marth reappeared. The old orc limped through the haze, his single arm braced against the counter. His crutch thudded softly against the wood floor.
Himmel met his eye. No words passed, but Marth understood. He nodded once, slow, then disappeared again — off to count loyalties the way a blacksmith weighs metal.
Hours crawled by. The light outside dimmed from gold to rust.
When Marth returned, the tavern had fallen into a simmering silence between bursts of laughter. He eased himself onto a stool beside Himmel, lowering his voice.
"Seventy of 'em are with you," he said. "Six threes and one four ain't convinced. The rest?" He jerked his chin toward the shadows near the door. "Gone. Quietly."
Himmel exhaled through his nose, calm. "Good. That'll make what comes next easier."
Texan stood then, boots scraping against the wood floor. The crowd's murmur stuttered into silence.
The siren's dark eyes swept the room — a hunter's patience mixed with performer's timing. He didn't need his charm now; the crowd was already leaning forward, already his.
He climbed onto a table, mug in hand, the air thick with the smell of ale and expectation.
"When I first came to this city," Texan began, voice smooth as river stone, "I thought the First Prince was strength. Power. Future."
He raised the mug, letting the light catch the gold liquid within. "But what's power worth if it never reaches anyone but himself?"
Murmurs rippled through the soldiers. Some frowned, others exchanged wary glances.
"The Seventh Princess," Texan said, "didn't ask me to kneel. Didn't test me with riddles or promises. She gave. She trusted. She saw the weak and didn't step over them—she reached out a hand."
He stepped higher onto the table. "Where the First Prince gave me nothing but threats, she gave me a reason to fight!"
The soldiers stirred — not wild yet, but warm, ready to ignite. Himmel moved through them like wind through tall grass, whispering just enough to stoke the flame.
"She brought him up," one said. "She gave him power." "She's not like the others."
Texan's voice rose over the crowd. "So here's the truth: I never fought for the First Prince. I fought for her — the Seventh Princess! The one who gives before she takes, who builds before she burns!"
He slammed his mug down, foam spilling across the table like white fire. "If you want to fight for someone who'll remember your name when you're gone, then stand with me!"
Silence — for one long heartbeat.
Then the tavern exploded.
Chairs clattered. Mugs slammed. Seventy warriors roared their allegiance, the sound swelling and rolling through the night like a wave of iron. Even the walls seemed to hum with it.
Marth smiled behind his mug. "You did it, kid," he rasped. "You flipped an army in one night."
Texan laughed, voice hoarse. "Nah," he said, glancing at Himmel. "We flipped the board."
And from the shadow near the door, the faint shimmer of distortion — the invisible guard's lingering magic — faded away, leaving the two of them alone with their army.
The Seventh Princess had just gained seventy new wolves. And the First Prince would have no idea until it was far too late.