Crossroad wine

Unaware of the unseen forces now moving against him, Orion walked the streets of Ellsmere without a care. It was his first time among human society, but social interaction was not foreign to him—not in theory, at least.

"It's just like Grandfather said," Orion mused as he observed the bustling streets, drinking in the sights and sounds of the city.

Ellsmere stood as the final bastion before the Death Forest, a frontier city that had grown prosperous despite its proximity to untamed danger. The ever-present threat of beast waves had done little to stifle its spirit. If anything, the looming peril only sharpened the ambitions of those who called it home.

The city was a thriving hub of trade, renowned for its dealings in exotic beast materials. Adventurers and mages from across the empire converged here, seeking fortune and glory within the perilous depths of the Death Forest. The markets overflowed with treasures wrested from the jaws of monstrous creatures—fangs gleaming like polished ivory, shimmering scales harder than steel, pelts of creatures imbued with ancient magic. Every trader had a story, and every purchase carried the weight of danger survived.

A decade of relative peace and unwavering imperial protection had transformed Ellsmere from a fortified outpost into a bustling metropolis. Grand buildings now lined its streets, standing testament to the wealth that had flowed into the city. Its stone walls, once simple defenses, had been reinforced with the latest magical enhancements, ensuring its survival against even the most formidable threats.

Orion had read about Ellsmere in the Order's library, studying maps and historical records, but seeing it firsthand made him realize just how outdated his knowledge was. Much had changed, and he would have to navigate this world with an open mind.

Yet, he wasn't worried.

With the lessons imparted by his grandfather and the rigorous training under his sister's guidance, he moved through the city with practiced ease. Though raised outside human society, he had been well-versed in noble etiquette and the intricacies of social maneuvering. It was one thing to read about it, and another to experience it—but Orion was nothing if not adaptable.

For the entire dat, he wandered Ellsmere's streets, observing its people, its rhythms, its hidden corners. He learned which districts catered to nobles and which were ruled by the working class. He memorized the locations of merchant hubs, training grounds, and places where adventurers gathered to exchange news and sell their spoils. He noted the guards' patrol routes, the unspoken hierarchy among the city's inhabitants, and the undercurrents of tension that ran beneath the surface.

And on this particular evening, he found himself outside a place that had drawn his attention more than once.

The most renowned tavern in Ellsmere: *Crossroads Wines.*

The sign above the entrance was grand yet worn with time, its elegant script dulled by years of exposure to the elements. It was a place where hunters, traders, mercenaries, and the occasional noble gathered to exchange stories, make deals, and drown their sorrows. A place where information flowed as freely as the ale.

Orion pushed open the heavy wooden doors, stepping into a world of light, sound, and scent.

The tavern's interior was alive with motion. The scent of spiced meats and roasted vegetables mingled with the rich aroma of aged ale and the faint, lingering tang of sweat and leather. The crackling hearth cast flickering shadows across rough-hewn tables and sturdy wooden beams, illuminating faces weathered by battle and hardship.

At the far end of the room, a bard plucked a lively tune on his lute, his melody weaving through the air, binding the disparate voices into a single, raucous harmony. Tankards clashed together in boisterous toasts, and laughter spilled over like the frothy ale sloshing onto the floor.

As Orion stepped inside, a hush rippled through the crowd.

For a fleeting moment, conversations stilled. Eyes turned toward him, drawn by something they could not quite name. He was only fourteen, but his presence demanded attention.

His towering frame, unnatural for his age, made him appear older—sixteen, perhaps seventeen. His chiseled features, framed by long, crimson hair, were striking, but it was his eyes that truly unsettled those who met his gaze. Deep red, like embers smoldering in the darkness, they seemed to gleam with an intensity that belied his youth.

Orion ignored the scrutiny. He had long since grown used to the weight of stares.

He moved with purpose, weaving through the tavern's patrons, the murmur of voices swelling once more in his wake.

"Who's that?" someone whispered.

"Some noble brat, no doubt."

"Too young to be in a place like this."

"Look at him. Not just any noble."

A group of hunters in the corner watched him with thinly veiled disdain. Hardened men and women, their bodies marked by old wounds and their expressions lined with suspicion. They had seen his kind before—pampered aristocrats playing at adventure, ignorant of the realities of the world beyond their palatial estates.

One of them, a grizzled man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, scoffed under his breath. "Dandy nobles don't last long out here."

His companion, a woman with short, raven-black hair, leaned forward, scrutinizing Orion's every move. "Maybe. But he doesn't carry himself like the others."

Orion continued unbothered, his attention fixed on the table he had chosen. A solitary spot near the edge of the room, where the flickering torchlight barely reached. He preferred to observe before engaging.

Yet, as he moved, he could feel it—an undercurrent of something deeper than idle curiosity. There was wariness in the way some patrons glanced at him. Not the usual resentment toward nobles. Something else. Something sharper.

It was not lost on him that his entrance had been noticed by more than just drunkards and hunters.

From the upper level of the tavern, where the wealthier clientele resided, a figure sat in shadow, watching. Two actully, both wearing black masks, draped in a cloak so dark it seemed to drink in the surrounding light. Her presence was quiet, their aura unreadable, but Orion could feel the weight of her gaze upon him, which lasted just for seconds.

And then, just as suddenly as the silence had come, the tavern resumed its normalcy. Conversations picked up, the bard's melody continued, and the night carried on.

Orion sat back in his chair, his fingers idly tracing the rim of the empty tankard before him. He had come here for a reason—to listen, to gather information, and to understand the city in ways no book ever could.

But something told him that, before the night was over, he would learn far more than he had intended.

And that he was not the only predator in this den of wolves.