Chapter 5 - You Need a Tavern

Mira wiped down the bar with slow, deliberate strokes, her massive hands nearly swallowing the rag. The Old Stag Inn smelled of stale beer, cheap stew, and bad decisions—none of them hers.

She’d worked in enough taverns to know when a place was dying, and this one had been rotting for years.

Behind her, the innkeeper—fat, lazy, and two drinks past his limit—let out a wheezing chuckle. It was only noon.

“Why’re you always cleanin’, Mira?” he belched and took another swig straight from a bottle that should’ve been in the storeroom. “Ain’t like the drunks care.”

Mira’s grip tightened on the rag. She turned, looming over him, her massive frame casting a shadow across the bar. “They might not care, but I do.”

The innkeeper waved a hand dismissively. “Pfft. Workin’ too hard. We ain’t some fancy noblemen’s lodge. Just pour the drinks, take the coin, and let the rest sort itself out.”

That’s the problem, she thought.

The man had no ambition. No pride.

The inn could’ve been something great—should’ve been—but under his care, it was little more than a leaky-roofed pit stop for travellers too tired or too drunk to keep moving.

She looked around.

Sticky tables. Crooked chairs. A pair of mercenaries arguing over a spilled drink, ready to come to blows while no one lifted a finger to stop them.

Mira had spent years keeping places like this in order. She knew how to run a tavern, how to make it more than just a watering hole.

But here? She was wasting her time.

The innkeeper let out another belch and slumped forward onto the bar.

That was it. The last straw.

Mira untied her apron, tossed it onto the counter, and turned toward the door.

“Where ya goin’?” the innkeeper slurred.

“Somewhere better,” Mira said without looking back.

She stepped out into the cool air—a refreshing change from the musky inn. She took a deep breath and started walking. She didn’t know where she was headed yet, but she knew one thing—she was done working for men who had no fire left in them.

It was time to build something of her own.

====

Mira heard the rumours about the new Adventurers’ Guild in Breezevale—how a former adventurer had turned an abandoned inn into a proper hall, how it was drawing in talent, how it had heart.

She had to see it for herself.

By midday, she found herself at the entrance of Beacon Hall. It was bustling with life —adventurers gathering in groups, merchants hawking supplies nearby hopeful for some business from the passing adventurers.

But as Mira stood with arms crossed, surveying the scene, she saw something missing.

A trio of adventurers sat on crates, passing a shared bottle between them. Another leaned against a wall, already looking too drunk to hold a sword properly. A small scuffle broke out near the training yard behind, fuelled by too much drink and too little sense.

Mira let out a short laugh.

No tavern.

A place like this needed more than just quests and coin. Adventurers needed a hearth to gather around, a proper hall where they could drink, celebrate, and tell stories without wrecking the guild’s front steps.

And she knew just the person to run it.

====

“Welcome to Bea—whoa!!”

Pip had been waiting at the entrance, ready to greet the next batch of adventurers. But he staggered back at the sight of the towering woman who just ducked through the door.

She didn’t even notice him.

She wasn’t just broad-shouldered—she was built like a siege weapon, and she moved like someone who’d broken up more bar brawls than she’d poured drinks.

As she strode into the guild, conversation faltered. Whether it was out of respect or intimidation, she didn’t seem to care.

She found Arlen hunched over a cluttered desk, half-buried in paperwork.

For a guild this size, she figured he had to be the one calling the shots.

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She planted both hands on the desk. It wasn’t a slam—but it was loud enough to draw silence.

Arlen blinked up at her, startled by the sheer presence looming over him. Her frame cast a long shadow across the sprawl of commissions.

Put her in plate and hand her a war hammer, he thought, and no one would question her being an A-Rank Berserker.

“Can I help you?” the Guildmaster asked, trying to sound more composed than he felt.

The woman straightened. “Not unless you’re willing to part with a few square feet of your floor.”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“Name’s Mira,” she said, thumbing toward herself. “I heard what you’re building here, Arlen Bright.”

A short pause to make sure she got the name right. “But you’re missing something.”

“Missing—?”

“A real hall. A place for adventurers to rise and rest. You need a tavern,” she cut in, matter-of-fact. “You’ve got bodies and brawlers, but no place to sit, drink, and feel human again.”

Arlen leaned back, intrigued. “You’re saying we need a bar.”

“I’m saying you need me,” Mira said. “I’ve run rough inns and rowdy halls. Cooked for caravans, kept order in chaos. What you’ve built here is more than just jobs—it’s the beginning of a home.”

She looked around the guild hall again for effect. “But a home needs a hearth. Somewhere folk can celebrate. Remember who they are after they come back from whatever hell they’ve marched into.”

There was a brief silence.

Arlen studied her—this gargantuan woman with fire in her voice and weariness in her stance.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t waver.

Just stood there, solid as stone.

“You’re not wrong,” he said at last. He’d watched adventurers take their hard-earned coin and celebrate on the street outside, right in front of the guild. He’d meant to speak to them about it. But someone always had to man the counter.

“I usually ain’t.” Mira said proudly. Despite himself, Arlen chuckled.

He looked around the guild layout. The storeroom downstairs was already packed, but the upper floor? Still dusty and half-forgotten, aside from his own quarters. Perhaps he could move the storeroom there.

“Think you’ll need more than a few square feet. Reckon these rooms could suit?”

Mira peered through the hallway for a quick inspection. “Plenty to get me a cooking pit and a place to keep the booze,” she said with a grin. “Don’t trouble yourself about stock—I’ll source my own and keep out of your hair.”

Arlen let out a long, slow breath. Then, finally, he stood—

—and he was at least two heads shorter than the former barmaid.

“I’ve got a few conditions. This isn’t just some roadside alehouse or a lord’s mess hall. This is Beacon Hall. We represent something now—especially to Breezevale.”

“Say your piece, Guildmaster,” Mira replied, one brow raised in challenge.

He ticked his points off with his fingers.

“First—no serving to anyone too deep in their cups. I don’t care how much coin they flash. You cut them off before they become a problem.”

Mira raised a brow. “I don’t pour for fools. Never have.”

“Second—keep the peace inside. If things break out, they get handled fast. I don’t want brawlers cracking tables and dragging each other through the alleyways.”

She flexed a thick arm. “Anyone steps out of line, they’ll wish the floor swallowed them first.”

“Third—no outside suppliers with shady ties. You want to bring in your own stock, fine. But I won’t have contraband, poisons, or questionable brews—not under my roof.”

Mira scoffed. “I cook with my own hands. And I don’t need back-alley vendors to fill a pantry.”

“Fourth—keep the books. I want a record of what comes in and goes out. Food. Drink. Coin.”

She gave him a look. “Thought you’d trust me.”

“Not yet,” Arlen said plainly. “And this tavern’s part of the guild. That makes it my responsibility too.”

Mira paused, then nodded. “Fair. I’ll keep ledgers. Not neat, but readable.”

“Fifth and last,” Arlen added, eyes steady.

“You don’t take disrespect.”

That one caught Mira by surprise.

“Not from adventurers, not from townsfolk. You keep your head high—and anyone who forgets who you are gets reminded quickly.”

Her smirk softened. “You’re learning how to lead.”

Arlen didn’t blink. “Then help me lead it right.”

A long beat passed. Then she held out her hand—wide, calloused, and firm.

“You’ve got a deal, Arlen Bright.”

Their handshake was solid as iron. Arlen swore he heard one of his knuckles pop.

“What are you going to name it?”

She glanced over her shoulder—adventurers sharing stories, ribbing each other, boasting of close calls and bad decisions.

Still alive.

Still proud.

“They come back to collect pay. To drink. To remember who they are.”

She looked back at him.

“Trail’s End.”

And with that, Beacon Hall had its first tavern.

====

Over the next few days, Mira singlehandedly tore down the unwanted walls, dragged lumber into place, and assembled her own counters from salvaged planks. The noise was constant—hammering, sawing, the occasional shouted curse—but it never disrupted guild business.

If anything, it became part of the rhythm of Beacon Hall.

Adventurers wandered past out of curiosity. Townsfolk lingered near the entrance, whispering rumours about the new tavern being built inside the guild itself. No one quite believed it—until the transformation became impossible to ignore.

By the sixth morning, the left wing of Beacon Hall, once a series of guest rooms turned storeroom, had evolved. It blended naturally into the guild’s reception area, as if it had always belonged.

New tables had sprouted near the tall windows, with simple but sturdy stools tucked neatly beneath. The backbar, handcrafted by Mira, stood proudly with shelves of wooden tankards, clean cutlery, and two fresh barrels mounted on blocks—each fitted with spigots waiting to pour.

An unfamiliar scent woke Arlen up earlier than the usual morning sun on his brow.

He could tell what it was—warm bread, golden and crusted fresh from the oven, mingling with the rich, peppery aroma of simmering stew. Beneath it all was a note of sage, sharp and comforting in equal measure.

He blinked groggily as he stepped downstairs into the newly transformed space.

“Rise and shine, Arlen Bright,” Mira said from behind the counter, grinning wide. Her hair was tied up in a neat bun, and her apron—one of her cleanest—was already dusted with flour. “It’s gonna be a big day.”

Arlen rubbed his eyes, still adjusting to the sunlight streaming through the windows. “Can’t believe you pulled this off in just five days.”

“You may not know it, Guildmaster,” Mira said, arms crossed, towering as always, “but I’m more than one person.”

Without another word, she ladled a generous helping of steaming stew into a thick ceramic bowl, slid a warm wedge of fresh bread beside it, and placed it in front of him.

The smell alone jolted his senses awake—rich red meat, soft potatoes and carrots with herbs layered in every bite.

It was a far cry from his usual breakfast of dry toast and boiled eggs.

He sat down at one of the new tables and took a spoonful. Flavour exploded on his tongue.

“This is…” he started.

Mira leaned on the counter, expectant.

“…real food.”

“Welcome to Trail’s End, Arlen Bright,” Mira beamed with confidence and iron will.

“We open at sundown.”