“Look, I’m telling you—it wasn’t just a scuffle. Yeah, most folks think it was just a barfight, sure. Loud one. Fast. One guy dead, another looked dead and wasn’t. Seen that a dozen times in this city.
“But this one…”
He taps his pipe on the table, leans in.
“…there was something off.”
It started like any other sodden night in Umbrafell. Lantern was half-full. Togar was already on his third scowl. I was tucked in with my cup, near the hearth, when the first one walked in—tall fellow, soldier type. Big shoulders. Looked like he’d rather fight than talk. Sat down without a word.
Then came the little green one—Felix, I think. Dressed like a lucky coin. Puts down this candy bowl and just… lets it sit there. Wouldn’t let anyone near it, but it kept getting lower. Not fast. Just enough to make you wonder.
Then that merc Aulrick shows up. He’s been through before—keeps to himself, usually. Not that night. Hung around the bar talking to Togar. Didn't join the others right away. Watched ’em, though. Like he was counting.
Then a pale woman—quiet, red hair like flame, eyes like storm clouds. She didn’t speak to anyone. Flashed some silver thing at the bar, sat with the rest.
Last was a man with a tracker’s build and a preacher’s words. Wore trail dust like a badge. Most of his gear looked worn, but his armor and mace gleamed—too new, too polished. He spoke about some “St. Cuthbert” like he’d just come from the man’s campfire. Calm voice. Real calm. Like the kind that settles over a place before something breaks.
All five of them end up at the same table.
They didn’t talk loud. No toasts. No introductions. Just a round of drinks and quiet looks. Like they were waiting for something.
Aulrick joined them after that. That’s when the bar got loud again—he opened a tab, and folks forgot about the quiet table.
But I didn’t.
Then Vinter stumbles in. You know Vinter. Breath like a corpse’s sigh, mutters about shadows and birds with teeth. Always harmless.
Three young idiots—Nalen and his bootlickers—decide to have a laugh. Start pushing him, poking.
That’s when Aulrick gets up, walks over, puts an arm around Nalen like they’re old pals. Says something low.
And Nalen just clocks him. Right in the face.
That’s when it all went sideways.
Soldier-boy—Longshanks, I think I heard later—throws a punch, misses wide. Red-hair steps between Vinter and one of the goons, staff raised, gives this low growl I felt in my gut.
Felix? Still standing on the stool, pointing like he’s giving orders to someone, or something, I couldn’t see.
And the preacher—Daxxon, right?—he just looks at the one with the dagger and says, “If you choose violence, your bell tolls tonight.”
Now that I remember clear. I’d only had one pint.
Then the knife comes out, and the thug lunges at Daxxon—and there’s this sound.
Like a bell. Deep. Not from anywhere I could point to. It was just there.
And then the man dropped.
No blood. No wound. Just dead.
Right then, Longshanks gives up trying to punch and pulls a blade. Runs Nalen straight through. Fast, clean, no hesitation.
Nalen crumples like a sack of potatoes.
A couple of the other regulars moved to step in—figured things had gone too far—but before anyone got close, Aulrick drops beside Nalen and lays a hand on his chest.
There’s this little flash—tiny, like a candle flicker. Most folks didn’t even notice it. But I did.
Then Nalen coughs. Moans. Gets up.
Aulrick just stands up, shakes his head, and goes, “Fainted.”
Fainted.
Like a man who’d just had steel in his gut decided to take a little nap.
They carried out the one who died—the dagger guy. Never moved again. No one touched him except his friends.
The fight ended there. Not a soul wanted to push things any further.
Lyra—yeah, heard her name later—disappeared sometime after that. Quiet as she came in.
The rest of ’em? Stayed. Drank. Partied like it was any other night.
Most people laughed it off. “Strangers got lucky,” they say. “Old Vinter got someone killed,” others mutter.
But me?
I saw what I saw.
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