The Last Bite of Peace

There’s something unnatural about contentment.

I don’t trust it.

Give me rain in my boots, a crooked constable on my tail, and a corpse with a clue sewn into its lapel. That’s the kind of evening I know what to do with. But this? This warm air, good whiskey, and the best steak I’ve had in a decade? It feels like I stepped into someone else’s life. And they were kind enough not to notice I’d picked the lock.

The Bull and Barrel was too nice for a place in Graywatch. It had charm, soul, maybe even a soul or two literally bound into the woodwork, this is Graywatch, after all… but mostly it had peace. Real peace. The kind you could smell coming off the hearth and taste in the damn potatoes. Kolvar knew his trade. You didn’t question how a minotaur became the best steak chef in the city, you just thanked whatever god was listening and ordered medium rare.

The whiskey? Smooth. Warm. The color of old gold and bad decisions I wouldn’t regret until morning. Emberly, the half-minotaur waitress with the voice of a song and the arms of a blacksmith, kept my glass full with a grin that made it impossible to scowl. Not that I didn’t try.

Even Steven, with his stupid name and his stupid smile and his way of holding a conversation like it was a dance he actually knew the steps to, was... pleasant. Worse than pleasant. He was charming. Like a sunrise in a warzone, all golden and wrong. He laughed easy, didn’t talk too much, and listened like I had something worth saying. Bastard.

I’d gone nearly two hours without a single ghost catching up to me.

No Fessy. No blood-soaked alleys. No whispers about the girl I couldn’t save or the kid I might lose. No bone-deep ache in my chest where regret usually sits like a tenant who forgot to pay rent. Just warmth, and good food, and the sound of quiet laughter that didn’t feel forced.

It pissed me off.

I caught myself smiling at something he said, something ridiculous about naming his axe “Gertrude” because it felt like a Gertrude… and I wanted to punch a wall just to feel normal again. Because this? This wasn’t me. I was supposed to be neck-deep in city rot, or army shit, not soaking in comfort like it didn’t cost something.

Maybe the ghosts couldn’t find me here.

Maybe they were afraid of Steven. Or maybe this place, this strange little oasis stuck in the beating, bleeding heart of Graywatch, had its own kind of magic. A place where things didn't hurt quite as much.

I took another bite of steak, let the whiskey warm the edges of my throat, and gave up pretending I wasn’t enjoying myself.

For now.

My only complaint? I didn’t have a damn thing to complain about. And that, more than anything, was starting to worry me.

The plates were bones and grease now, the firelight low and lazy, dancing along the polished wood like it knew it had nowhere better to be. The mead in Steven’s mug had gone syrupy slow, and the whiskey in mine was just low enough to start tasting like goodbye. But neither of us made a move. That kind of silence is dangerous in Graywatch. It gets you remembering.

“So,” he said, running a finger along the rim of his mug. “Why’d you join the army?”

I gave a crooked smirk. “Family tradition, I guess.”

“Your old man was a general, right?”

“Mikael Blackthorn. The Blade of Aeriestrand. The man who turned back the Myrmidons of the southern coast, orchestrated the defense at Ridgefold, and personally put down the first Ashen Rebellion. Retired before I was born. Died before I could ask him why.”

Steven looked like he wanted to say something. I didn’t give him the room.

“He taught me to fight. Sword, fist, boot, anything sharp or blunt enough to remind the world I wasn’t gonna be some shy little flower tucked into a hillside cottage. Said it wasn’t about glory. Said it was about survival. That the world doesn’t care how smart or kind you are if you don’t have the steel to back it up.”

I paused. Sipped my whiskey.

“Maybe he knew something I didn’t. Maybe he saw it coming, that he wouldn’t be there to see me grown. Or maybe it’s just one of those stories I tell myself when it gets late and the ghosts get loud.”

Steven nodded, quiet. His voice dropped a little, thoughtful like the memory was still fresh enough to taste.

“My father was a farmer. Hands like roots. Mama was his second cousin, daughter of another farmer. Whole damn family was dirt and sweat and barley stew. When I was thirteen, I started growing faster than the crops. Taller than my brother. Stronger than my uncles. Scared the livestock just walking past.”

He chuckled.

“I knew I wasn’t made for plowing fields. I had this itch. Not wanderlust exactly, but this sense that something big was waiting. That I was meant to be part of something. I thought maybe it was the army, but then this mercenary, big bastard with a braid down to his belt, stopped at our farm. He was from Splitfang Company out of Riverstride. Just looking for a warm meal and a barn for the night.”

He smiled, slow and sheepish. “We shared a mug of my uncle’s homebrew, and by morning, I was packing my bag.”

“You joined a mercenary company because of beer?”

“Well,” he said with a grin. “That, and I wanted to chase something more. Something bigger. Maybe even…” He hesitated, looked away, then back at me with the kind of smile that could melt glaciers or land someone in trouble.

“I always figured I’d end up saving someone. You know… some noblewoman in peril. Or a village girl with nowhere else to turn. Thought I’d sweep in like some storybook knight and make it all right.”

I snorted. Couldn’t help it. “Steven, if you’re looking for a damsel in distress, you sure as hell took a wrong turn.”

His grin softened. “Yeah, I know. But I’m not so sure you’re not the one that needs saving.”

That hung there between us like smoke from the fireplace… sweet, dangerous, and too close to something I didn’t have words for.

Thankfully, Emberly showed up before I had to respond.

Her smile could stop traffic and her horns had a polished sheen that made me suspect she waxed them. She held a small tray like it was bearing the secrets of the gods.

“My mother’s from Drakemire,” she said, placing two shallow bowls on the table. “She doesn’t share recipes, but she made this one for us tonight. Said it was called tiramisu. Said it’s supposed to feel like floating in a dream.”

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I eyed the layered mess of cream and dusted powder with suspicion. “What’s it made of?”

She winked. “Magic. Coffee. And a whole lot of not-your-problem.”

Steven chuckled. “We’re the test subjects?”

“First to try it,” she said. “So if you die, I’ll know not to serve it to the baroness next week.”

I grabbed a spoon. “If this kills me, at least I’ll go with whiskey in my veins and steak on my breath.”

I took a bite…

Gods…

It was soft and sharp and smooth and sinful. Like coffee had decided to put on lace and dance on my tongue. I closed my eyes for a second, just to let the flavor sink into the cracks.

Steven was grinning at me when I looked up. He hadn’t touched his yet.

“Watching me eat now?” I asked.

“Just enjoying the moment.”

I rolled my eyes and took another bite, mostly to shut him up. The ghosts stayed quiet. And for once, I didn’t mind. The evening could’ve lasted forever, and I might’ve let it.

It was warm. Not just the fire-in-the-hearth kind, but the kind that settled under your skin, deep enough to make you forget the weight you carry. The food had been flawless, the company surprisingly easy, and the ghosts, those ever-present bastards, had taken the night off.

For once, I didn’t feel like a loaded weapon waiting to misfire. I felt… normal.

Then I felt it. That pressure beside my left elbow, like a shift in the room's weight. Not loud, not jarring… just there, like he always was. I didn’t need to look. The scent of his pipe hit next, earthy and floral and ever-changing. Murk never smelled the same twice. That was his thing. But I always knew it was him. Some combination of wet leaves, old books, and mischief. And just like that, the spell was broken.

The edge slid back into my bones.

A part of me: some fragile, flickering part wanted to scream at the little troll to get lost. To let me keep this moment just a bit longer. To let me pretend that I could have something resembling a night off. But that part got buried under the heavier part of me. The one made of discipline and duty and long-buried grief. The one that remembered why I put on boots every morning.

I didn’t even turn to look. Just spoke into the air beside me like I’d been expecting him all along.

“This,” I said to Steven, “is my colleague. Or my partner. Or... I dunno, maybe he’s just the imp that haunts my coat pockets.”

Before either of us could blink, Murk scrambled up into the empty chair with the ease of a man who’d never asked for permission in his life. He tamped the bowl of his pipe with a practiced thumb, blew a lazy puff of blue smoke toward the ceiling, and grinned at Steven like he was reading his soul.

“I’m Murk,” he said. “And Lena works for me.”

I snorted and lobbed the spoon at his head. He blocked it with the stem of his pipe like it was choreographed, and his grin widened.

“Ruining something, Murk?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

He gave a little shrug. “Found someone you need to meet. Someone with answers.”

“Can it wait?” I leaned back in my chair, one hand still curled around the last of my whiskey. “An hour? Two? Maybe ‘til the end of dessert and the slow, inevitable unraveling of this fragile thing we call joy?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, and was already on his way toward the exit, boots clicking against wood like he’d just wrapped up a one-man stage show. Stupid bastard bard…

Steven was halfway out of his chair before I could stop him, dropping coin onto the table without a second thought. That crooked grin he wore was still tucked behind his beard, but now there was something behind it, curiosity, maybe. Or the same pull I felt. The call of a thread that needed tugging.

I was the only one still sitting.

I stared at the dregs of my drink like it had betrayed me. My steak was finished. My glass nearly empty. And yet I wanted to stay right where I was, pretend that the world didn’t need me. That Graywatch, with its rot and ruin, could handle itself for one more night.

But I wasn’t made for this kind of peace. My father used to say some people are born with blood that runs toward fire. That we’re not the ones who get the happy ending, we’re the ones who fight for it so others can.

People like me don’t get to live lives. We get to protect them. I stood, slow and heavy, and followed the scent of mischief out into the night.

That same night swallowed me the moment I stepped outside, coat collar turned up against the drizzle and hat pulled low like a veil between me and the world. Graywatch was doing what it always did, spitting rain and secrets in equal measure.

Steven was already standing beside me, looking more like the barbarian stereotype he supposedly wasn’t. No horned helmet, thank the gods, but the broad-brimmed hat slouched low over his brow had its own kind of menace. His coat was heavy leather, lined with fur that still clung to the scent of the wild. And in one thick fist, he carried an axe that would’ve made most street toughs reconsider their life choices.

Gertrude, he called it. Which made me laugh the first time, but not now. Not with the way the torchlight caught the runes etched across her head and haft. Elvish, by the curve of the lines, likely old, likely dangerous. The blade hummed in the air like it was listening.

Steven grinned like he was enjoying the way I looked at the weapon. Not in fear. Just with the wariness of someone who’d made peace with things that could kill her.

“Let me,” he said, stepping forward to flag a cab.

The carriage rumbled up quick, wheels hissing on wet cobbles. Before the door was even open all the way, Murk leapt in like he owned the damn thing. He didn’t wait, didn’t ask. Just vanished inside like a shadow with opinions.

Steven opened his mouth, but I cut him a look that said don’t bother. He held the door anyway, the gentleman act still holding strong, and I climbed in behind the walking bad habit that was my partner. Steven followed, ducking to fit.

Murk leaned halfway out the window and muttered something to the driver, something low and soft that twisted the air like bad magic or a secret too expensive to say out loud.

The driver snapped the reins and the horses lunged forward into the mist. The cab peeled off into the night, wheels throwing up spray, hooves hammering the city’s bones. I didn’t know where we were going, but with Murk, that was just business as usual.

Even in Graywatch, a city that smelled like secrets soaked in wet stone, there were places where even I didn’t like the way the shadows leaned in. The cab wheels clattered louder as the street narrowed and the buildings started to slouch. The kind of neighborhood where curtains didn’t twitch because there weren’t any, and if you knocked on the wrong door, you didn’t get an answer… you got forgotten.

I rolled my shoulders as the horses slowed, pulling into a section of town that looked like it owed someone money and was out of excuses. I glanced at Steven. He was calm, too calm, watching the street like it might get up and try something. Which, around here, wasn’t entirely out of the question.

“You sure you wanna continue?” I asked, voice low, casual like I wasn’t testing him. “Could be this gets messy. Might be better if you stayed in the cab. Just in case.”

He turned toward me slow, like he was giving the question its due, then tilted his chin toward the axe strapped across his back. “Barbarian,” he said simply. Then, after a beat, added with a crooked grin, “Me and safety don’t hang out much. Why start now?”

I shook my head and snorted, but didn’t argue. The cab jolted to a halt in front of a building that looked like it had been condemned twice and still hadn’t gotten the hint. Two stories of regret stacked on cracked stone, the paint peeling like it couldn’t wait to escape. The windows stared out like they didn’t care what happened inside anymore.

Murk was already halfway out the door before the cab stopped rocking. He didn’t wait, didn’t ask. Just disappeared up the steps like a rat with a purpose.

Of course he left me to pay. I tossed a few silvers to the driver with a sigh and followed the smell of stale pipe smoke and poor decisions. Steven’s boots thudded behind me.

By the time we reached the second floor, Murk was shouldering through a door that looked like it had survived a siege and didn’t care to go through another. It creaked open slow, revealing a room full of bad lighting and worse memories.

Trash littered the corners. A cracked mirror leaned drunkenly against the wall. Everything smelled like old sweat, sour booze, and the kind of desperation that stains.

And there, in the middle of it all, was a gnome.

He was trussed up tight, like a roast the world had already given up on. Someone had gagged him, too, probably for everyone's benefit. He was wearing a suit that cost more than this room, more than this whole floor, and it looked like it knew it didn’t belong here.

Murk stepped back with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes and gave a little bow, all flair and mischief.

“Allow me to present Terry Tincturebottom,” he said, voice dripping with drama, “full-time cab driver, part-time degenerate gambler, and if losing money was a craft, a master artisan.”

I crossed my arms and gave him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “What is this, Murk?”

He wiggled his brows and tapped the brim of his hat. “This, my dear Lena, is the man who, until a few hours ago, was driving one of the black cabs.”

The room felt a little smaller after that. Steven muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like a prayer or a warning.

I stared down at the gnome. He stared back with wide eyes and a guilty conscience wrapped in silk. Suddenly, the city didn’t feel quite so big. The storm we’d been walking toward just got a face.

And I had a feeling things were about to get a hell of a lot darker.