In the corner of the tavern, a woman sat alone, downing rum. Every time she set her glass down, her left hand trembled faintly. Greta Valm stared at her palm, then slowly clenched it into a fist. The tavern was filled with noise—sailors shouting, dice clattering, someone singing a clumsy sea shanty. But all of it felt like sounds from a distant world. (*Tonight, too.*) She closed her eyes. Immediately, the smell of flames came rushing back. The death cries of her comrades. The stench of burning flesh. The clash of metal echoing in the darkness—. The night from three years ago never let her escape. Greta downed another shot of rum. The liquid burned her throat. That pain was the only thing that let her feel the present. The burn scar on her left arm throbbed, or so it seemed. Unconsciously, she gripped the sleeve of her grimy leather armor tightly. The wound was old. But the wound in her heart was still bleeding. [whispers] You're drinking too much today. Before she knew it, the tavern keeper was standing beside her table. Kurt Heizen. A man with black hair tied back and amber eyes that always seemed to be appraising something. He was tall, at least 183 centimeters. When he was behind the counter, he was always cracking jokes, but the occasional glimpse of his profile suggested he was more than just a tavern master. He took her empty glass away, his gaze fixed on Greta's face. [gentle] How about some water? [cold] I don't need it. She answered curtly. Her voice was hoarse. Kurt shrugged and started to head back to the counter. Greta threw words at his back. [serious] Kurt Heizen. I heard you used to be in Feldmark's military intelligence. Kurt's feet stopped. The light air he'd had moments ago vanished from his eyes as he turned around. His amber eyes narrowed, fixing on Greta. ……Who told you that? [cold] Rumors around the port. They say you know all sorts of secrets. The tavern's noise suddenly felt distant. Kurt slowly came back and sat down across from Greta. The old chair creaked. [sarcastic] So, what do you want to know? [serious] I want you to find Raul Dies's whereabouts. Kurt's expression changed. He looked like someone had pressed on an old wound. He was silent for a while, then slowly shook his head. Don't do it. [cold] May I ask why? [serious] Nothing good comes from digging up the past. The one who gets hurt is the one doing the digging—you. He sighed and tapped the back of his neck lightly. [cold] I've washed my hands of the information broker business. I'm living quietly as a tavern master now. I don't want any trouble. His voice was cold. A remnant of his intelligence days flickered through. But Greta didn't back down. Silently, she reached out with her left hand and rolled up the sleeve of her leather armor. From her elbow to her wrist, the skin was melted and twisted, revealing a burn scar discolored a dark reddish-black. The skin rippled as if solidified melted wax. It had been there for three years, still harboring raw pain. Kurt gasped. His amber eyes widened slightly. [gentle] The night I got this, everyone but me died. Greta's voice was quiet. A cold stillness, suppressing all emotion. [gentle] Twenty-two people. They were all my comrades. She pulled her hand away from the scar and looked straight at Kurt. Her sharp gray eyes held him unwavering. An old sword scar cutting diagonally across her left eyebrow stood out in the dim tavern light. [serious] The Feldmark Army's 14th Ranger Company. We were wiped out in a night raid. I was the only survivor. Kurt listened in silence. His fingers unconsciously traced the wood grain of the table. The ring finger of his right hand was missing from the first knuckle. [whispers] Raul Dies… He was our comrade. And yet, he guided the enemy in. Greta's voice trembled, just a little. But she immediately clenched her fist and forced the emotion down. [serious] I want to know why he did it. And then—I'll find him. Kurt exhaled deeply. Then his gaze stopped on Greta's short, reddish-copper hair. Carelessly cut hair. Next, he looked into her gray-green eyes. His expression changed completely. The look of annoyance from before vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating eyes of an intelligence agent. He seemed like a different person. [cold] …You have Vestan blood, don't you? Greta didn't answer. But her silence was the answer. Kurt nodded slowly. The corner of his mouth twisted slightly. [whispers] This is getting interesting. He tapped the table twice with his finger. An old habit. Probably from his army days. [serious] Fine. I'll gather information for you. Greta looked up. For the first time, a small light flickered in her gray-green eyes. [cold] But I'm taking a commission. Twenty silver coins. [cold] …That's steep. [sarcastic] Jobs that dig up the past never pay well enough. He stood up and took a small iron box from behind the counter. He unlocked it and pulled out an old notebook. Likely an intelligence log. As he flipped through the pages, he looked up at the ceiling as if trying to remember something. [serious] Raul Dies… The last I heard, he was spotted up north… in Feldmark's jurisdiction. But that information is over half a year old. [serious] I need fresh information. [sarcastic] Don't rush me. Information is earned on foot. Besides, you know it too. This story won't end as just a simple revenge drama. His amber eyes stared intently at Greta. There was a strange certainty in them. [cold] Your eyes aren't just those of an avenger. They're deeper—the eyes of someone who wants to know something. Greta didn't answer. But she felt something tighten deep in her chest. She felt for the leather pouch of silver coins with her left hand and placed it on the table. [serious] This is all I have now. I'll earn the rest with work. Kurt picked up the pouch, checked its weight, and nodded. [serious] Fine. The port town of Arvin is a place where all sorts of people wash up. Ex-soldiers, deserters, smugglers… Someone's bound to know something. With that, he stood up and grabbed a bottle from the counter. A bottle of rum. As he poured it into Greta's empty glass, he chuckled softly. [gentle] This one's on me. Drink up and calm down. Greta took the glass and took a single sip. The warmth of the alcohol slowly spread through her chilled body. (*This is fine.*) She murmured in her heart. The first step of revenge. It had just begun. Outside the tavern, the night wind blew through the port of Arvin. Ships moored at the wharf creaked, and the scent of the tide seeped into the cobblestone alleys. About forty-five thousand people lived in this city, a free port belonging to no nation, a gathering place for mercenaries, merchants, criminals, and exiles. There were plenty of deserters from the Feldmark army, too. A unique legal system called the Free Port Law protected them from national pursuit. For fugitives from countries with no extradition treaty, Arvin was a safe haven. Greta was one such fugitive. She emptied her glass and stood up. [serious] Let me know when you have information. I'll look for work at the Trader's Guild. Kurt nodded from across the counter. He was already writing something in his notebook. Probably the first step to reactivate his old information network. [sarcastic] Don't push yourself too hard. That burn scar still hurts, doesn't it? Greta didn't answer and pushed open the tavern's heavy door. Outside, the cold night air bit into her skin. Nights in the port town were always damp, and the sea breeze stung her burn scar. But even that pain felt comforting now. (*Raul…*) She stared into the dark alley and called the name of her former comrade in her heart. A traitor. But once, he had been the man she trusted most. Why did he sell out his comrades? Why did he invite the night raid? Until she knew the reason—. Greta turned up the collar of her leather armor and began walking down the cobblestone alley. Her tenement house was about ten minutes south of the port. An old building on the outskirts of the craftsmen's district. From the window, you could see the mouth of the Brünne River. It was a moonless night. But in her heart, a flame had ignited for the first time in three years. It wasn't hope, but a darker, hotter emotion. But that was fine. As long as that fire didn't go out, she could move forward. A single shadow disappeared into the dark night of Arvin. Watching her back, Kurt gazed outside from the tavern window. His amber eyes narrowed coldly. [whispers] A Vestan survivor, of all people, trying to catch Raul's tail… This could turn into quite a storm. He read a scribbled note in the margin of the old notebook in his hand: "The Ashen Vow." It was a memo written over ten years ago. Kurt closed the notebook and let out a deep breath. [cold] Fate really is a cruel bastard. The tavern's noise enveloped him again. But his ears no longer heard any of it. In his mind, memories of a far northern plateau, a burned-down settlement, were resurfacing. What had he known back then, and what had he chosen to ignore? The sign of "The Dawn Key" swayed slightly in the night wind. Today, another secret had quietly piled up in this tavern.