The cold wind gave way to warmth — a chaotic blend of laughter, roasted meat, and the clinking of mugs.

As we stepped into The Magic Hat Tavern, the world shifted. Wooden chairs creaked, bards sang off-key, and the scent of cinnamon, sweat, and fire wrapped around us like a drunken embrace.

A red-bearded giant slammed his mug on the counter. "Another one!" he roared. The barkeep sighed. "Helndrik, mugs don’t regenerate on their own."

Our first drink landed with a heavy thud. It was time to relax… or pretend we could.

Hitomi raised her mug high. “To us! And to whatever madness comes next!” Brek smirked. Laima looked away, uncertain. Noctua scanned the room like a predator. Prometheus simply touched his necklace, fingers searching for answers.

But something stirred.

Noctua’s gaze locked onto a shadow in the corner. No face. No voice. Just a presence that shouldn’t be there.

The tavern fell silent. Flames flickered as if startled. The door creaked open. A gust of wind burst inside, snuffing out candles and lifting cloaks. Heads turned — drawn by something unseen.

They entered.

The Silver Claw moved like a machine. Armor clanked in perfect rhythm. Their presence was not loud — it was heavy. At their center stood a man with silver hair and eyes that seemed to cut through souls.

“We need a fourth team,” he said. “The Shadow Gorge does not forgive the weak.”

Prometheus froze. His fingers found the necklace again. The words echoed in his mind — not just the man’s voice, but the memory of his mentor: "This is your burden now."

Across the table, Hitomi toyed with a small pin — a gift from her father. "Your strongest weapon, my daughter, is your faith." She smiled, but her grip on the sword tightened.

And then came the question. Not from the man. Not from anyone. From within.

“Can I endure this?”

Noctua’s symbols pulsed. Laima looked down. Brek remained still, like carved stone.

The tavern held its breath.

A whisper from the corner: "The last team that entered the Gorge… never returned."

Prometheus glanced at Hitomi. Her smile was still there — but he saw the crack behind it. She saw his fear. He saw hers.

No words were spoken. Chairs creaked. They stood.

The tavern had stopped breathing. Voices faded. The fire hesitated. Even the air felt like it was listening.

The silver-haired man’s words lingered like a curse: “The Shadow Gorge does not forgive.”

Prometheus felt the bell at his waist grow heavier. The phrase echoed inside him — not just as warning, but as memory. A mentor’s voice, long gone: “This is your burden now.”

A grizzled man rose from his seat. “They say the last team came back empty. Not of supplies — of soul.”

Hitomi glanced at her sword. Her smile remained, but her grip betrayed her. Laima’s fingers trembled against her bow. Noctua stood still, eyes scanning for answers that no one offered.

“Only fools accept missions like this,” someone muttered. “They’ll be crow food,” another laughed.

Brek didn’t flinch. He looked at his blade — not for comfort, but for clarity. “It doesn’t matter what we feel now. What matters is what we do when the time comes.”

Then Hitomi spoke, voice light but not carefree: “Couldn’t it be something more… fun? Like a festival? Or an archery contest?”

Her tone danced. But those who knew her… knew. That smile was no longer joy. It was armor.