Tonight’s storm was worse than anything I had ever known. The winds lashed at my face with stinging rain, as though I had offended the heavens themselves. The road before me blurred beneath sheets of water, and the howling gusts swallowed every sound—except for one.

A slow, deliberate creaking.

Chains, shifting in the wind.

At a crossroads, I hesitated, searching for shelter, and then I saw it—a distant glow, flickering through the storm, somewhat off the beaten path. Desperation overrode caution. I trudged forward, my boots sinking into the mud, my breath ragged against the relentless gales. With every step, the wind seemed to wail louder, a shriek in my ears, as if something—or someone—was trying to turn me away.

Then, through the veil of rain, I saw the sign.

A worn wooden plaque, barely clinging to its post, emblazoned with the image of a strange crustacean, its claws dulled with time. Encircling it were faded letters, just legible enough to read:

“The Rusty Pincer.”

The glow of lanterns spilled from within, carrying the warmth of voices and laughter. It stood in defiance of the storm, a beacon in the darkness. I hesitated only a moment longer before gripping the handle. The old oak door groaned against the wind’s protest, then relented, swinging open with a heavy sigh.

I stepped inside, the tempest roaring behind me, and the door shut with finality.

I had no idea what awaited me on this stormy night… but somehow, I knew I had come to the right place.

—

A small pedestal stood beside the entrance, its surface worn smooth from years of use. A guestbook lay open, ink smudged by countless hands. Out of habit—or perhaps an instinct for courtesy—I scrawled my name into the margins. A stranger to this land, I had no intention of offending my unseen hosts.

The storm had left me drenched and shivering. My soaked jacket clung to my skin, heavy with rain, and my boots squelched with every step. I stripped them off and set them neatly in the foyer, hoping they would dry before the night was through.

It was only then that I truly took in my surroundings.

The architecture struck me as strange. I could not see the main floor of the tavern without rounding a corner, though the edge of the bar peeked into view, along with the warm glow of a raging fire. The fireplace, carved from beautiful white stone, seemed almost out of place—too pristine for a roadside tavern battered by wind and rain. Intricate carvings ran along its surface, barely catching the light, whispering of craftsmanship beyond simple utility.

As I traced the delicate patterns with my gaze, movement flickered at the edge of my vision.

A barmaid rushed past me, skirts swaying, her expression set in practiced indifference. She barely spared me a glance before vanishing around the corner, disappearing into the heart of the tavern.

I hesitated, caught between the instinct to follow and the unshakable sense that I was standing at the threshold of something more than just a warm refuge from the storm.

But I had already stepped inside.

And the Rusty Pincer had already taken notice.

As I rounded the corner, I found… an empty bar.

For a fleeting moment, the room was devoid of patrons, of movement, of sound. There was only a single man standing in the center, methodically polishing a glass.

He struck me as out of place.

His clothes were neatly pressed, his suit immaculate despite the worn, lived-in feel of the tavern. A perfect tie sat snug against his collar, and a pair of spectacles rested neatly in his breast pocket, untouched. His hair was styled with meticulous care, each strand in its proper place. His nose and upper lip were sharply defined, lending him an air of quiet authority—yet it was his eyes that held me fast.

A potent green.

Deep and knowing, brimming with secrets that whispered from the depths of an ancient well. I could not tell if they studied me, judged me, or simply saw straight through me.

Instinctively, I drew up a stool to the bar.

The moment I settled into place, the noise of the tavern crashed in around me. Laughter, the clinking of tankards, the scrape of chairs against wood. I turned in surprise—every table and booth was filled with figures of all kinds. Barmaids weaved between the chaos, balancing trays of drinks and steaming plates, their steps precise despite the frenzy. The warmth of the fire had returned, its glow stretching across the walls, flickering against the gleam of countless bottles lining the shelves.

Had they always been there?

I turned back to the bar—only to find the bartender now directly in front of me.

He set the glass down with a practiced ease and met my gaze.

“What’s your poison, friend?”

“…” I sat in confusion, taking in the sights and sounds around me.

“Ah, the silent type, are you? No matter, allow me to make a recommendation.”

With an effortless grace, he reached for a bottle perched high on the top shelf. Its label had long since faded, its glass clouded with age, yet the liquid within sloshed thick and dark, catching the dim glow of the lanterns. He slid a glass across the bar with a practiced flick of his wrist and began to pour.

“That’s some storm outside, isn’t it? You’re practically soaked through…” He paused for the briefest moment, glancing up at me before offering the smallest of smirks. “First one’s on me, traveler.”

Before I could reply, a quiet meow cut through the hum of the tavern.

My attention snapped to the source—a cat.

Not just any cat. The largest, fluffiest, most orange-furred creature I had ever seen, sprawled lazily atop the bar as though it owned the place. Its thick coat gleamed in the firelight, save for its white belly, which rose and fell with slow, indulgent breaths. But what caught my eye were the scars of an old life—one ear missing, its tail reduced to a small, twitching nub.

The cat nudged an empty glass forward with its paw, a silent demand.

The bartender sighed, a mixture of exasperation and amusement flickering across his face as he reached for another bottle. This one, at least, bore a label—an old, peeling image of a cat’s pawprint. He uncorked it with a soft pop and poured a measure into the waiting glass.

“One of these days, you’re going to regret all this drinking,” he murmured, though it was clear this was a conversation they had had many times before.

To my utter astonishment, the cat—this massive, battle-worn beast—sat up, sniffed at the glass, and began to lap at the drink as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Then it looked at me.

“Mrrph.”

A sound, half grunt, half lazy indifference.

As if to say, “What are you looking at?”

As if I were the strange one here.

The bartender clicked his tongue in disapproval, his green eyes flicking toward the cat.

“Hey, what have I told you about being rude to customers?” he scolded, voice half-playful, half-serious. “Don’t mind Ol’ Bourbon, he’s just a mangy drunkard.”

I must have looked as confused as I felt because the man elaborated, pouring himself a drink as he spoke.

“The cat. He’s an asshole when he drinks too much. Gets a little too much liquid courage, if you catch my drift.” He smirked slightly, as if recalling past offenses. “Don’t take it personally. He hates me too.”

As if to prove the point, Bourbon let out a sharp, chirping sound—not quite a meow, but something far more disdainful. Then, with exaggerated sluggishness, he slumped over the rim of his glass, tucking himself around it as if guarding his prize. His golden eyes drifted shut, tail nub twitching once before going still.

“Slovenly beast,” the bartender muttered, straightening his tie with an air of forced dignity.

I studied him as he worked.

There was something odd about him, something that felt… off, but not in an immediately obvious way. His movements were graceful yet somehow restrained, as though he were holding back, or perhaps bound by something unseen. The flick of his wrist was smooth as he slid a freshly prepared cocktail down the length of the bar, where a passing barmaid snatched it up without a word before vanishing into the crowd.

Effortless. Precise. Yet distant.

He did not move like the others who worked here—who wove through the tavern with the chaotic ease of those accustomed to the dance of a busy bar. Instead, he remained planted at his station, an anchor amidst the storm of movement. Even his presence was a contradiction: poised yet awkward, charming yet detached.

A man wrapped in paradox.

And yet, for all his contradictions, one thing was certain.

The Rusty Pincer belonged to him.

Or perhaps… he belonged to it.

I flagged down a passing barmaid, hoping to inquire about a room for the night.

“Rooms?” she echoed, barely slowing her pace as she balanced a tray of drinks. “Just pick one and fall in it if you need to sleep. We got plenty of room, and the Boss doesn’t turn anyone away.”

She jabbed a thumb toward a rickety staircase tucked into the far corner of the tavern. The wood was dark with age, the steps worn and creaking under the weight of the occasional patron who ascended into the shadows above. The lanterns lining the main floor cast their glow only so far, leaving the upper landing shrouded in darkness.

The barmaid was gone before I could ask anything more, vanishing into the sea of patrons like a phantom.

I turned my gaze back to the stairs.

The offer was oddly informal—no mention of payment, no keys, no room assignments. Just pick one. The way she said it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, sent a prickle of unease down my spine.

Still, the thought of a dry bed was tempting.

But before I could make up my mind, the bartender’s voice drew my attention back to the bar.

“A word of advice, friend,” he mused, setting down a freshly polished glass. His sharp green eyes flicked toward the stairs, then back to me. “Doors up there tend to open both ways. Best to knock first.”

He smirked—just slightly—before returning to his work.

I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant.

But I had the distinct feeling that sleep, if I chose to seek it here, would not come easily.

I finally picked up the glass that had been set before me, turning it slowly in my hands. The liquid within was dark, almost opaque, catching the lantern light in sluggish ripples. I stared into it, as if the answer to where exactly I had found myself might be lurking beneath its surface.

Hesitantly, I took a sip.

A wretched bitterness assaulted my tongue, sharp and earthy, like drinking the very roots of some ancient, stubborn plant. For a moment, I regretted my decision. But then, just as quickly as the bitterness came, it was replaced by a slow, creeping warmth—one that started in my chest and spread outward, sinking deep into my bones like a fire lit from within. The sensation was… comforting, despite the initial offense.

Across the bar, the bartender was watching me with obvious amusement.

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” he said, grinning as he leaned on the counter. “Miles better than the swill some of these heathens drink.”

I wasn’t sure if nice was the word I’d use, but the warmth was undeniable. I swirled the drink again, eyeing it warily.

“You seem like a discerning customer, so I’ll keep things like that coming,” he continued, gesturing toward my glass. “That particular vintage is made from the finest burdock and mugwort, aged in our cellar for… quite a while.”

His smirk deepened, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“My own special blend.”

The way he said it made me wonder if I had just ingested something more than simple spirits. But the warmth remained, pleasant and steady, and I found myself taking another sip.

Whatever this place was, whatever he was—one thing was certain.

I wouldn’t be leaving just yet.

The bartender clapped his hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the murmur of the tavern like the crack of a judge’s gavel.

“Now, in the Rusty Pincer, we have a little tradition,” he declared, his voice carrying an unmistakable air of ceremony. “The sharing of stories.”

His grin widened as he leaned in—far too close. His sharp green eyes gleamed, brimming with mischief, as though he were about to let me in on a great, forbidden secret.

“And so tonight, my dear friend, I shall provide a tale unlike any you have heard before.”

I instinctively pulled back, but he only leaned closer, his face nearly brushing mine.

“Tonight, we shall speak of the hubris of gods and mortals!!!”

The room seemed to hush. The clamor of the tavern dulled to a murmur beneath the weight of his words.

“Of the beginning of the end!!!”

The firelight flickered, casting strange shadows along the stone walls.

“The very uprooting of the foundations laid at the dawn of time!!!”

The intensity in his voice sent a prickle of unease down my spine. His words carried a weight, a conviction, as if he weren’t merely telling a story but remembering something that should have long been forgotten.

Then, just as suddenly, he stopped.

The firelight settled. The noise of the tavern returned.

He straightened his tie, exhaled, and pulled up a stool in front of me, his expression calm once more.

“It started when the gods first drew breath…”

And with that, the tale began.

The Legend of the First Contention:

In the time before time, when there was no up nor down, no light nor darkness, the Divines existed in the Void Eternal. They had no forms nor faces, and each was alone in their brilliance, nameless yet vast. They drifted, caught in the nothingness, and all was still. It was a time when all things were but echoes of thought and whispers of existence.

From this formless eternity arose the First Thought—a flicker of awareness. It was a moment when one Divine became aware of another, a recognition that sparked the First Contention. This recognition was the seed of existence, for in that instant, each Divine knew fear for the first time. Fear of being forgotten, fear of drifting alone in the endless Void. And from this fear, a desperate truth emerged: Perception was power.

The Divines discovered that as they beheld each other, they gave each other existence. Their sight alone kept them from fading into oblivion. A frantic struggle ensued as each Divine vied to remain in the gaze of the others. To be seen was to exist, and to be forgotten was to perish.

What began as a struggle for remembrance soon escalated into a war—a clash of wills and presence known as the First Contention. They fought not with weapons but with their very essence, casting light and shadow, song and silence. Each Divine sought to carve their existence into the awareness of the others, and in this chaotic dance, reality began to take shape.

From their clashes were born the first sparks of creation. When one Divine sought to be known, their very thought bent the Void and created a flash of light. Another, in retaliation, fashioned a shadow to obscure that light, and thus darkness was made. Still others created storms of chaos or pillars of order in their attempts to outshine one another. Their conflicts tore at the fabric of the Void, and from the remnants of their skirmishes emerged the first elements—light and dark, fire and water, stone and air.

The fighting continued until the Void was no longer empty. Mountains rose where Divines collided, seas boiled into existence from their cries, and the stars themselves were the remnants of shattered sparks. The Divines, now bound to a newly formed material plane, felt themselves constrained by this creation, their infinite nature now given form and substance.

But a profound realization dawned on them as they surveyed the world born of their conflict. Their power no longer came only from each other’s gaze. There were now new beings, unformed and fragile, rising from the remnants of their battles—creatures with eyes to see, ears to hear, and minds to remember. In the ashes of the First Contention, life had taken root.

The Divines, no longer purely ethereal, realized the beings that emerged from their fighting could perceive them. These fledgling creatures, the first mortals, could sustain them with belief, worship, and stories. And so, the gods saw a path to immortality beyond the fleeting gaze of their divine peers.

A great council was held among the Divines, now taking on shapes and names to distinguish themselves. They recognized that their new existence hinged not just on their own perception but on the minds of the mortals they had inadvertently created. Thus, a silent covenant was made: the Divines would shape the world, nurturing these mortal creatures, offering them guidance, stories, and blessings. In return, the mortals would give them purpose, faith, and remembrance.

The Divines scattered across the world, carving their stories into mountains, whispering their names to the winds, and imprinting their symbols in the night sky. They became the gods of the new world, each one knowing that to be forgotten would be to fade. But so too did they learn another profound truth—that through mortals, they could grow greater than ever before, their power only limited by the imaginations of their followers.

And so, the world was forged in the fires of the First Contention, where gods battled for existence and, in doing so, birthed a realm of matter and meaning. It was a world where perception still held sway over power, where to be worshipped was to be strong, and to be forgotten was to face oblivion. The Divines continue their dance, but now, their eyes turn not only to each other but also to the world they created, and to the mortals who give them form and purpose.

In every prayer whispered in the dark, in every song sung to the heavens, in every tale told by a campfire, the gods are sustained. And the First Contention, though ended, echoes still in every corner of the world, as each being—divine and mortal alike—fights to be seen, to be known, and to be remembered. Belief is the currency of the gods.

—

Before he could continue, a horde of patrons descended upon the bar, voices rising in a cacophony of demands for more libations. The moment of quiet tension evaporated, swallowed by the rush of orders, clinking glasses, and the impatient tapping of coins against wood.

For a moment, the bartender looked—overwhelmed? No, not quite. But there was something in the way his gaze flickered across the scene, calculating, measuring, as though assessing an impending storm.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.

A faint green flicker danced around his fingers, brief and subtle, barely more than a trick of the light. His mouth moved silently, forming words I could not hear. And then—

He moved.

Faster than before.

Unnaturally so.

His motions became effortless, fluid, as if he had practiced this dance a thousand times over. Glasses appeared beneath his hands the moment they were needed, catching streams of golden ale and dark spirits without a single drop spilled. Bottles practically leapt into his grasp, uncorking themselves as though eager to serve. A cocktail shaker spun through the air in an elegant arc, only to land precisely where it was required, its contents mixed to perfection.

To the untrained eye, it might have simply looked like the skill of a master bartender. But I had seen him hesitate before, the brief moment of overwhelm before his fingers sparked with green.

This was something else.

This was something more.

And as I watched, a thought crept into my mind—a whisper of a suspicion, impossible to ignore.

Whoever this man truly was, he was not just a bartender.

The rush faded as quickly as it had come, the clamor of impatient patrons dissolving into the usual hum of the tavern. The bartender exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the moment. Then, with an almost lazy motion, he plucked a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a practiced flick of his fingers. The end flared in the dim light, casting a brief, warm glow over his sharp features before he took a slow, measured drag.

A blonde barmaid slumped against the counter beside him, exhaustion written in every line of her posture.

“Can I take my break now?” she asked, her voice heavy with fatigue.

He nodded, barely sparing her a glance as he waved her off. She didn’t wait for further permission, pushing off the counter and disappearing into the storage room behind him—the entrance tucked neatly between the bar and the kitchen. The door swung shut behind her with a quiet click, and for a moment, the bartender stood in rare stillness, cigarette smoke curling lazily above him.

Then—

Creaaaaak.

The unmistakable sound of a door opening behind me.

I tensed, my grip tightening around my half-finished drink as footsteps crossed the floor, quick and deliberate. Before I could fully turn to see who had entered, the figure was already at the bar, slipping behind the glass rack where the shelves cast deep shadows.

They leaned in close to the bartender, murmuring something in low, hurried tones.

I tried to get a better look—tried to focus through the dim light and the shifting reflections of glass and lanterns. But no matter how I strained my eyes, the details refused to settle. The figure was little more than a silhouette, shifting and indistinct, like a person half-remembered in a dream.

Only one thing stood out.

A wagging finger.

The gesture was unmistakable, sharp and reprimanding, punctuating whatever words they spoke. The bartender remained quiet, listening, his cigarette idly burning between his fingers.

I did not know who—or what—this figure was.

But something told me they were not a mere patron.

The bartender’s expression darkened as the figure continued their quiet, insistent lecturing. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thin plume of smoke before finally turning toward them.

His voice dropped into a sharp whisper, words tight with irritation. I couldn’t make out everything he said, but his tone made it clear—he wasn’t taking their reprimand lightly. The figure, however, remained unmoved, their wagging finger continuing its silent rebuke.

The argument escalated.

The bartender’s posture stiffened, his hands twitching at his sides as though he longed to throw something—or someone—across the bar. His words grew more clipped, more forceful. His green eyes flashed with something raw, something close to anger.

Then, finally—

“SO WHAT IF I DID?!”

His voice cut through the tavern like the crack of a whip, silencing the nearby tables. The warmth of the fire, the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses—all seemed to pause for a breathless moment.

The figure stilled.

Then, as though the very walls of the Rusty Pincer had come alive, a voice boomed through the room.

“MY STUDY. NOW.”

The sound came from nowhere and everywhere at once, a command that carried the weight of authority beyond question. The bartender’s expression twisted—something between defiance and resignation—before he exhaled sharply, tossing his cigarette into the sink with a faint hiss.

Without another word, he stepped out from behind the bar, straightening his tie, and stalked toward a door on the far side of the tavern.

A door I hadn’t noticed before.

Slightly ajar, spilling dim golden light onto the wooden floor.

The figure followed, their steps silent, their form still frustratingly obscured in the tavern’s shifting glow.

And then, as quickly as they had come, they were gone.

The door shut behind them with a quiet but unmistakable click.

I flagged down a passing barmaid, catching her just before she disappeared into the crowd.

She gave me a knowing smile, the kind reserved for someone who had asked a question with an answer far too complicated for a simple explanation.

“Oh, sweetie, don’tcha worry,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “The Boss is just straightening him out. They’ve got this weird agreement about conduct. He’ll be back out soon enough, no worse for wear.”

I frowned, not entirely satisfied, but before I could press further, she patted my shoulder in a motherly sort of way and continued.

“In the meantime, pet one of the cats, talk to some patrons, and if you need anything else, just let me know, okay, hon?”

And with that, she was gone, slipping into the kitchen with the same ethereal ease all the staff seemed to possess. One moment there, the next—vanished, as though she had been nothing more than a trick of the tavern’s dim light.

A lazy stretch drew my attention back to the bar.

Ol’ Bourbon let out a long, exaggerated yawn, then meowed pointedly, his wide amber eyes flicking from me to his empty glass. His tail nub twitched impatiently.

I sighed.

Stepping behind the bar—something I was fairly certain I was not supposed to do—I grabbed the pawprint-labeled bottle from before and poured a generous amount into the cat’s waiting glass. Bourbon perked up immediately, ears twitching with satisfaction as he lowered his head and began to lap at the liquid.

He let out a deep, satisfied purr in response, the vibrations rumbling beneath my fingertips as I ran a hand over his thick fur.

As I absently scratched behind his one remaining ear, I noticed something else—movement. More cats, emerging from the edges of the tavern, weaving between tables and slipping beneath booths.

Unlike Bourbon, they all seemed quite occupied, their little missions ranging from begging for scraps to perching atop the rafters like silent observers.

I figured I could catch up with them later.

For now, I had a drink, a warm fire, and a purring drunkard of a cat to keep me company.

As I leaned against the bar, absentmindedly running my fingers through Ol’ Bourbon’s thick fur, my gaze drifted around the tavern.

That was when I noticed it.

The doors.

At first, they seemed unremarkable—just part of the rustic charm of the place. But the more I looked, the more I realized just how many doors there were. Some were obvious, like the heavy wooden entrance or the one the bartender had disappeared through. Others, however, were more subtle—fitted into alcoves, half-hidden behind hanging tapestries, or tucked away in corners I could have sworn were empty just moments before.

And then there were the ones that didn’t seem like doors at all.

A bookcase against the far wall had a gap just wide enough to suggest something beyond it. A thin sliver of light peeked from beneath a section of paneling near the stairs. The kitchen door swung open for only a second as a barmaid passed through, revealing another door just beyond it.

The more I followed the patterns of the architecture, the more labyrinthine the entire structure seemed to be.

My feet carried me away from the bar, weaving through the tavern floor.

I noticed the alcoves first—small recesses carved into the walls, each lined with little perches, walkways, and platforms. The cats used them with expert efficiency, darting from ledge to ledge, moving through the tavern unseen except when they wished to be noticed. Some led into darkness, places I couldn’t see beyond. Others seemed to open into unseen rooms, the cats slipping through cracks in the walls with ease.

The Rusty Pincer wasn’t just a tavern. It was a puzzle.

A twisting, shifting thing that breathed as much as the storm outside.

The storm.

A sharp gust rattled the windows, the wind howling through unseen cracks. I turned, wandering toward one of the few uncovered panes of glass, and peeled back the curtain.

The storm had worsened.

Rain came down in heavy sheets, hammering against the ground with relentless force. The wind swirled in chaotic bursts, carrying with it leaves, branches—things unidentifiable in the dark. Thunder rolled low and long, like some distant beast stirring in its slumber.

Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the road I had traveled. The crossroads from earlier was already vanishing beneath pooling water, the path nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding fields.

It struck me then—how strange it was that I had even found this place.

No sign had pointed me here. No other travelers had arrived, despite the clear warmth and shelter it offered. The Rusty Pincer had been waiting.

For me?

For someone?

I let the curtain fall back into place.

I had pondered the nature of this place since the moment I stepped inside.

Now, I was beginning to wonder if this place had been pondering me all along.

As I finished my quiet survey of the tavern, the low creak of a door caught my attention.

I turned just in time to see the study door slowly swing open, spilling its dim golden light onto the floor for a brief moment before the bartender slunk out.

He looked… disheveled wasn’t the right word—his suit was still pristine, his tie still perfectly in place—but there was something unmistakably ruffled about him. The way his shoulders hunched ever so slightly, the way his movements lacked their usual effortless grace. Whatever conversation had taken place behind that door had clearly left its mark.

Without a word, he pulled out another cigarette, lighting it with a single flick. The flame briefly illuminated his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features, the furrow in his brow.

He reached for a bottle, pouring himself a drink with one hand, the other tapping the cigarette against the rim of an ashtray.

“Where does he get off lecturing me…” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. “Just making sure this establishment maintains a certain quality of service.”

His grumbling trailed off as he turned slightly—only to find me watching him.

For a moment, he froze, caught in his own moment of vulnerability.

Then, as smoothly as flipping a page in a book, the mask slid back into place.

His posture straightened, his usual smirk returned, and the air of easy confidence draped itself over him once more. He lifted his glass with a lazy sort of flourish, his green eyes twinkling with mischief as he turned back to me.

“Now, where were we, my dear traveler…”

As if nothing had happened at all.

The bartender took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling a ribbon of smoke as he rolled his shoulders, shaking off whatever weight still clung to him. He tapped the ash into a tray, then swirled the drink in his hand, his expression smoothing back into one of practiced ease.

“You know,” he mused, “it occurs to me that you may not be a particularly seasoned drinker. No offense, of course—just an observation.”

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the bar, swirling his glass lazily. “Spirits are far more than just something to dull the senses, my dear traveler. They carry history, culture—an entire lineage of craft passed down through generations. Some poor fool toiling away in a distillery somewhere would take great offense at you treating their life’s work as a mere means to an end.”

I wasn’t entirely sure where he was going with this, but it was clear he was trying to redirect the conversation—steering it away from his argument, away from whatever had rattled him behind that study door.

“Take absinthe, for instance,” he continued, snapping his fingers. A fresh glass appeared in front of me as though by magic—or perhaps it was magic, at this point I wasn’t entirely sure. The liquid inside was a vibrant green, shimmering slightly in the low light. “Once banned in certain parts of the world, all thanks to a bit of hysteria and some rather poetic myths about hallucinations and madness. ‘The Green Fairy,’ they called it. Can you imagine? An entire drink turned into folklore.”

He smirked and tilted his head toward the shelves. “Or brandy—born from necessity, perfected by time. Did you know it started as a means of conserving wine? Some enterprising merchants figured out that if they distilled it, it was easier to transport. Turns out, people enjoyed it more that way, and now it’s the drink of kings.”

He gestured toward another bottle. “Mead—perhaps one of the oldest alcoholic drinks in existence. Some say it dates back to the dawn of civilization, when honey was first fermented by accident. The drink of warriors, poets, and gods. Though personally, I think the gods have much worse taste than mortals give them credit for.”

He took another drag from his cigarette, the smirk never quite leaving his lips. “And of course, there’s whiskey—ah, whiskey, the great equalizer. The drink of philosophers and cutthroats alike. A well-made whiskey can tell you a thousand things about the land it comes from. Every drop carries the soil, the water, the air—distilled into something far stronger than its humble beginnings. Like people, really.”

He paused, watching me carefully as I took all this in.

“Point is,” he said, setting his glass down with a soft clink, “there’s a story behind every drink. And if you know how to listen, well…” He gestured toward the bottles lining the bar. “They might just tell you one.”

I had the distinct feeling he wasn’t just talking about alcohol anymore.

He was trying to bury something—to drown whatever had just happened in a flood of trivia and practiced charm.

But beneath it all, something still simmered.

Something unspoken.

The bartender took another slow drag of his cigarette, watching the smoke curl toward the rafters before exhaling with deliberate satisfaction.

“Me, I’m not picky,” he said, swirling the last of his drink in his glass. “But I do prefer a bourbon, though I deny any attachment to the furry Philistine’s tastes.”

He cast a pointed glare toward Ol’ Bourbon, who barely lifted his head from his glass. The cat let out a low, unimpressed grunt before going right back to drinking.

“No, there’s a fairly special batch that I keep in my quarters,” the bartender continued, leaning an elbow against the counter. “Only a few casks were ever made, you know. It’s certainly something special…”

For a brief moment, his voice held something almost wistful, as if recalling a rare, distant memory. Then, just as quickly, the moment passed, and his smirk returned.

“That being said, anything is better than the swill they sling from the kitchen.” He grimaced, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. “I’m fairly certain they just take dirty dishwater and call it ale. Swear to me that you won’t ever consume that stuff. I mean it.”

I hesitated.

“Swear it.”

His green eyes locked onto mine, serious despite the absurdity of the request.

I sighed, lifting a hand in reluctant surrender. “Fine. I swear.”

His smirk widened.

“Ah, so our first deal.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to something softer, something laced with amusement. “Feels special, doesn’t it?”

I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

But somehow, I got the distinct feeling that I had just agreed to something far more important than I realized.

The bartender flicked his cigarette into the ashtray and stretched his arms with a practiced ease, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the last remnants of his earlier irritation. His smirk returned, sharp and self-assured.

“Everything on these shelves behind me has been tailored to the finest tastes,” he declared, gesturing broadly to the endless array of bottles lining the back wall. “I can make any—and I mean any—cocktail you could ever desire.”

His gaze flickered toward me, green eyes gleaming with an almost predatory amusement.

Then, he stared—not just looked, but stared—straight into my soul, as if rifling through the pages of my very being, searching for something hidden even from myself.

I swallowed.

“Let me guess,” he murmured.

He was already moving before I could respond.

With a flourish, he snatched up a glass, the motion so fluid it barely seemed intentional—more like the glass had simply appeared in his grasp. His other hand reached for a collection of ingredients, fingers plucking bottles and jars from the shelves with practiced precision. A sugar cube clinked into the glass, followed by a splash of bitters, deep red swirling like ink in water.

His movements were hypnotic, almost too fast to follow. He twisted his wrist, flipping another glass in his palm before filling it with crushed ice and a generous pour of rye whiskey. A third glass—where had that come from?—received a rinse of absinthe, its sharp, herbal scent cutting through the air.

“Behold,” he announced, pressing the finished drink toward me with a satisfied grin. “The oldest cocktail. The Sazerac.”

I looked down at the glass. The amber liquid shimmered in the firelight, a single curled lemon peel resting atop the surface. The scent was rich—complex, layered with an almost medicinal sharpness beneath the whiskey’s warmth.

I had barely touched it, yet somehow, I already felt a little dizzy.

The bartender folded his arms, watching me expectantly.

“Well?” he prompted. “Are you going to drink, or just admire my handiwork?”

The bartender leaned back slightly, a self-satisfied smirk playing at the edges of his lips as he watched me regard the drink. Then, as if catching himself, he lifted a finger and added,

“Well, I should clarify—oldest according to some records.”

He tilted his head slightly, swirling a fresh drink of his own between his fingers.

“There are always disputes about these things, you know. Some say the Old-Fashioned came first, others claim the Sazerac has the older soul. Then you have your historians arguing over whether the ancient Persians or the Chinese were the first to figure out how to mix a little honey with their fermented brews and call it something new. Honestly, people get very territorial about who invented what. But…” he tapped the rim of my glass lightly, “this one? This one has style.”

He gestured toward the drink with an air of finality, as though daring me to challenge its authority.

“Go on, traveler. Give it a sip. Let’s see if you have the taste for history.”

I glanced down at the Sazerac once more. The golden liquid seemed to shimmer in the firelight, the scent of absinthe curling upward like an invitation—or a warning.

I lifted the glass and took my first sip.

The taste was sharp—bitters and rye whiskey clashing before mellowing into something rich and smooth, the absinthe rinse leaving behind the faintest whisper of anise. It was complex yet deceptively simple, bold yet balanced.

Before I could even react, he clapped his hands together, grinning.

“Yes, yes, very good, isn’t it?” he said, as if I had already agreed. “I should know—made it a million times. Some things never go out of style.”

He leaned on the bar, twirling the empty cocktail shaker in his hands like a practiced street magician.

“Simplicity is often the spice of life, my fair traveler. People always want to overcomplicate things—new techniques, fancy garnishes, cocktails with names longer than a royal decree. But when you strip it all away, what matters is balance. A few key ingredients, perfectly mixed, standing the test of time.”

His green eyes flicked toward me, amusement dancing just beneath the surface.

“You see where I’m going with this?”

I wasn’t sure if he was still talking about drinks anymore.

The bartender leaned against the counter, rolling his glass between his fingers as he continued.

“See, once you start making up standards and rules beyond the basics, next thing you know, you’ve got a book the size of the moon, and no one knows what end is up or down.”

He gestured broadly, as if conjuring an invisible tome before snapping his fingers and shaking his head.

“You notice how the most enduring traditions kept it simple? Don’t kill, don’t steal, don’t be an ass. That’s it. That’s all you really need.” He exhaled through his nose, a humorless chuckle following. “And yet, mortals seem to be incapable of grasping even those simple truths.”

With a dismissive wave, he turned back to his work, slinging cocktails down the bar for waiting barmaids. His motions were fluid, effortless, as though each drink assembled itself the moment it left his hands.

Then, just as he was about to move on, he hesitated.

The bartender shook his head, chuckling under his breath before muttering something I couldn’t quite catch.

Instead of explaining, he reached up, his fingers brushing along the back of a sleek, smoke-colored cat perched on one of the overhead beams.

I blinked—I hadn’t even noticed it before.

“The Grey Ghost,” he said, as the cat stretched languidly beneath his touch before immediately leaping away, vanishing into the rafters the moment I laid eyes on her.

He smirked.

“Thief of scraps, avoider of hands, and basically untouchable if she doesn’t want you near her.” He dusted off his sleeve where she had perched, watching where she disappeared into the darkness above.

“So far, I am the only staff member with that honor.”

He turned back to me, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s very regal, isn’t she?”

One of the barmaids swept the floor near the bar, her broom swishing softly against the wood as she glanced up with an amused smirk.

“Most of the cats are characters,” she remarked, nodding toward the various felines that had made themselves at home among the tavern’s patrons. “The Boss loves his animals. We practically have a menagerie in here.”

The bartender scoffed, flicking the ash from his cigarette with theatrical disdain.

“If this were my place, all the fleabags would be banished to the basement.”

A sharp hiss cut through the air.

I turned just in time to see Ol’ Bourbon, the furry Philistine himself, glaring up at the bartender, his tail-nub twitching in barely contained fury.

The bartender whirled on him, finger pointing accusingly.

“Just because you’re the Boss’s favorite doesn’t make you any less of a furry tyrant!”

Ol’ Bourbon growled low, his muscles coiling as he prepared to pounce.

The bartender’s eyes widened slightly, his voice turning urgent.

“Oh no you don’t—this suit cost more than all your nine lives are worth!”

In a blur of motion, he grabbed the pawprint bottle and swiftly refilled the cat’s glass.

Ol’ Bourbon hesitated, eyes flicking between the bartender and the now-full drink. With a final, haughty flick of his tail, he dismissed his attack, choosing instead to lower his head and lap at the liquor like a victorious king accepting tribute.

The bartender exhaled, straightening his tie with exaggerated care.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath. “This place is run by animals, and I’m the unreasonable one.”

The bartender sighed as he picked up the pawprint-labeled bottle, giving it a quick shake. The remaining liquid barely sloshed at the bottom, dangerously close to running dry.

His eyes flicked toward Ol’ Bourbon, who was still leisurely lapping at his drink, tail-nub flicking with satisfaction. The bartender narrowed his gaze.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered. “I’m going to go refill this, lest the mangy dictator ruins my suit.”

He turned on his heel and disappeared behind the bar, vanishing into the staff area with the bottle in hand.

It was only then that I noticed something else.

A staircase.

Tucked just behind the bar, barely visible unless one was looking for it, a set of worn wooden steps descended into what had to be the cellar. The flickering lantern light from above barely reached the bottom, leaving the lower half swallowed in shadow.

I hadn’t noticed it before.

Had it always been there?

The bartender had moved toward it without hesitation, his steps confident—as if he had walked it countless times before.

I found myself staring after him, a strange curiosity prickling at the edges of my thoughts.

Just what did the Rusty Pincer keep beneath the tavern?

A soft whisper tickled my ear, sending a jolt down my spine.

“It’s the cellar, hon,” a voice murmured, playful and amused.

I turned sharply to find a barmaid standing far too close, her smirk full of mischief.

“You’re so curious. I like that.”

Before I could respond, she took my hand with an almost exaggerated gentleness, her fingers lingering just a little too long.

“You and me should get out of here after my shift?”

I blinked. The storm outside still howled, and the night already felt endless. I hesitated, trying to gauge whether she was serious.

She cackled, throwing her head back with laughter.

“Yeah, right! That’s like a million years away!” she teased, patting my shoulder. “You’re sweet, though!”

Before I could come up with any kind of response, the bartender returned from the basement, sighing dramatically as he stepped back behind the bar.

“Lyra, back to work, you harlot!!!”

With surprising precision, he snapped a rolled-up towel at her, hitting nothing but air as she barely dodged it, grinning all the while.

“Yes, sir,” she cooed, giving him a sarcastic little salute before disappearing back into the crowd.

The bartender pinched the bridge of his nose before shaking his head, his frustration melting into something more casual as he turned back to me.

“Don’t trust the staff here. Except me, of course.”

He leaned an elbow on the bar, voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial.

“They’ve all got baggage. They may look cute, but they’d fleece you in minutes. Luckily, I’m here to warn less-than-savvy clients like yourself.” He gave me a knowing look.

“No offense, I mean. Some of these gals have been at this for a very long time.”

His smirk was back, but there was something else behind his words—something deeper, something old.

I had the distinct feeling that “a very long time” meant exactly what it sounded like.

The bartender drummed his fingers against the bar, watching me with an expression that danced between amusement and scrutiny.

“Besides, you’re too smart to fall for just a pretty face, right?” he mused, tilting his head slightly.

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off with a flick of his wrist.

“No, don’t tell me. You’re more of a cerebral type, aren’t you? No—wait.” His eyes narrowed slightly, as if seeing something beyond my skin, beyond the surface of me.

“Power. Power is your poison.”

He leaned back, exhaling dramatically as if this realization exhausted him.

“Gods, you’re so hard to read. It’s like you’re so many people at once. Layers upon layers. Threads woven so tight I can’t see where one ends and another begins.”

He squinted at me for a moment longer, as though he were trying to peel back some invisible veil—then suddenly scoffed, shaking his head.

“Fine then. Keep your secrets.”

I hadn’t even gotten a word in.

Before I could decide whether to be amused or irritated, I let my gaze drift back over the tavern floor, watching the staff as they moved between tables.

The barmaids clearly listened to the bartender—obeyed his commands, acknowledged his presence—but they didn’t fear him. They teased, rolled their eyes, smirked behind his back. They treated him as an authority, yet one they refused to take entirely seriously.

It was bizarre.

The organizational structure of this place was baffling.

No hierarchy, yet rules existed. No apparent ownership, yet someone was in charge. The Boss had authority, that much was clear—but so did the bartender, and yet… not quite.

The bartender’s smirk deepened as he watched my expression shift, reading me like an open book.

“No, you’re wondering who runs this place, aren’t you? I can tell the look.”

Without waiting for a response, he pointed toward the study door—the very one he had been summoned into not long ago.

“The Boss is in charge. No surprise there. This is his establishment, and as such, nothing happens here without his permission.”

His finger shifted, now gesturing toward the kitchen, where the clatter of pots and the occasional sharp bark of orders could be heard through the thick wooden door.

“There’s a head chef in there—name of Cliff. Mean bastard. Would literally kill his staff if they messed up the tavern grub.” He paused, then added in a far more casual tone, “You should get some, by the way. Depending on the specials, I’m partial to the seafood boil myself.”

His hand swept out over the main floor.

“Lyra’s the head barmaid—don’t ask me how, considering she’s usually the worst offender when it comes to breaking rules. And the bar?” He rapped his knuckles against the countertop with a sense of ownership. “My little kingdom.”

A flick of his eyes toward Ol’ Bourbon, still lounging lazily beside his emptied glass.

“Co-opted, of course, by the furry fascist.”

Bourbon huffed in response, clearly unbothered by the accusation.

“And that’s about it. We have a couple of other bartenders that fill in now and then, sometimes some special guest performers—” he waggled his eyebrows slightly, “—but that’s about it. Just a normal tavern.”*

He barely got the last words out before his composure cracked, a chuckle escaping as he shook his head.

“Oh, who am I kidding?” He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, his grin sharp with amusement.

“You’re already certain something is strange here.”

“Now then, you’ve had a long day, and I reckon this storm isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

He turned toward the back of the bar, pulling aside a heavy curtain to peek behind it. To my surprise, there was a window back there, its glass distorted by the torrential downpour outside. Rain hammered against it, and another sharp gust rattled the frame.

He let the curtain fall back into place, shaking his head.

“LYRA, come take our guest upstairs, please.”

Before I could react, a familiar hand clasped around mine.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Lyra purred, wasting no time as she dragged me toward the staircase.

I barely had a chance to look back before we were already ascending into the dimly lit upper floor. The wooden steps creaked beneath our weight, and as we reached the landing, Lyra started knocking on random doors.

Thud, thud, thud.

The first door: “Occupied, sod off!”

The second: “Come back with ale or not at all.”

The third: Silence.

She tried the handle. Locked.

Finally, she wrenched open a door near the end of the hall and unceremoniously shoved me inside.

The room was modest—simple, but not unpleasant. A bed against one wall, a small dresser, and a wooden table with a single chair. A single candle burned in a brass holder, flickering slightly from the draft of the still-open door.

Lyra leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“You want some company for the night?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Before I could even process what was happening—

“LYRA!”

The bartender’s voice boomed from downstairs, dripping with exasperation.

Lyra cackled, stepping back into the hallway.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going!”

She winked at me before pulling the door shut behind her, leaving me alone with nothing but the sound of the storm outside.