The bartender hit the wall with a wet crunch.
Glass shattered somewhere behind the counter. Mugs toppled. The room stilled for a heartbeat.
Groaning, the man slid to the floor, a trail of blood marking the wooden planks behind him. His lip split, nose crooked. One eye was already swelling shut.
Vale stood above him, fists still clenched, breathing slow and measured—ice beneath the rage.
The tavern was nearly empty now, most patrons having scattered after the earlier fight. A few lingered in corners, eyes lowered, pretending not to exist. No one was going to interfere.
It took days for the government officials to leave the premises of the tavern, but once they were gone, Vale wasted no time. He approached the bartender the same day, demanding answers.
"I saw you talking to Elias," Vale said, his tone calm—dangerously so. "You seemed familiar. You laughed together. Called him by name before he even ordered."
