Sins of the Father

Luden Selez had learned two useful truths about taverns.

First: spilled ale always found your boots. Second: no matter little you might remember of the night before, the floor always remembered. The Rabeskrieg’s boards were warped and stained with years of drink, blood, and less easily named fluids, but they were honest about it. They creaked underfoot like old knees and smelled faintly of mildew no matter how many times Luden scrubbed them.

He wiped down a table by the hearth with a rag that had long since surrendered the idea of cleanliness. His movements were economical rather than energetic; broad strokes, minimal bending, just enough effort to look like work. The trick was in pacing. Too fast and Old Tamsin would give you more to do; too slow and she would bark at you like a crossbow bolt to the spine.

He split the difference.

“Luden,” she called from behind the bar, voice roughened by smoke and shouting and a life spent telling drunks what they already knew. “You planning on cleaning that table or courting it?”

“Same thing,” Luden said, not looking up. “I’m getting to know it first. Show respect.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the common room. The Rabeskrieg was busy tonight; not festival busy, but fuller than usual. Lantern light flickered across low beams and thick stone walls; smoke from the hearth curled lazily toward the ceiling, carrying the smell of roasted onions and wet wool. Dice clicked somewhere near the back, punctuated by groans and poorly concealed cheating. The bard was tuning his lute by the fire, plucking strings with exaggerated care and absolutely no hurry.

Luden finished the table and slid the bench back into place with his foot. He was tall enough to look imposing when he stood straight; which he rarely did. White hair fell into his eyes in a shaggy mess that suggested either a complete disregard for grooming or a commitment to aesthetic chaos. The Norse tattoos winding up his arms stood out starkly against his skin, knotwork and symbols inked thick and black, some worn fuzzy with age despite him being only twenty four. They made people cautious when they first met him.

That never lasted.

He turned as Greta from the mill leaned over the bar, laughing at something the butcher had said. Luden caught her eye and raised his eyebrows.

“Careful,” he said. “Laugh too hard and you’ll pull something vital.”

Greta snorted. “You’d know all about pulling things, would you?”

“I’m not as lonely as you think Gret,” he replied with a wink. “Solo is far too much effort.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. Luden slid past her to collect a stack of empty mugs, fingers deft and practiced; he had a knack for moving through crowded rooms without ever seeming hurried. People made space for him without realizing they were doing it.

At the bar, Old Tamsin eyed him as he set the mugs down with a large grin in her direction.

“May I say boss you are looking ravishing this evening.”

“You’re being charming again,” she said. “Means you’re avoiding something.”

“Me?” Luden placed a hand on his chest. “I’m a model of dedication.”

“You missed a spill by the stairs.”

He glanced over, squinting. “That’s not a spill. That’s a feature. Gives the place character.”

She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Go clean it before I give you a new scar to explain.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said cheerfully with a mocking salute before turning away.

The spill turned out to be recent and fragrant; someone had dropped wine rather than ale, which made it sticky and personal. Luden crouched, scrubbing with a sigh that bordered on theatrical. As he worked, a pair of traders from somewhere south were arguing quietly nearby; arguing was perhaps generous, as one of them was doing most of the talking while the other stared into his cup like it might offer absolution.

“Endleberg,” the talkative one was saying. “Couldn’t even be considered a one horse town before we rode it this morning.”

“We were,” Luden said without looking up. “We just let her run the bar for some reason.”

The man startled. “Didn’t see you there.”

“I cultivate that,” Luden said. He stood, rolling his shoulders. “Passing through?”

“Just for the night,” the trader said. “Road’s long; purse is light. Hoping for better luck north.”

“North’s overrated,” Luden said. “Colder. Fewer pies.”

The other trader laughed into his cup. “You born here?”

“Unfortunately,” Luden said. “Died here too, a few times. Came back out of spite.”

They chuckled; small talk, light as air, but Luden listened carefully anyway. He always did. He liked hearing about roads he had never walked, cities he would never see. It scratched an itch without demanding commitment; safer that way.

Someone tugged at his sleeve. He turned to find Elske, one of the twins who helped out when the Rabeskrieg was busy, eyes bright and a little too excited.

“Bard’s starting up,” she said. “You promised.”

“I promised I’d consider it,” Luden said.

She grinned. “You promised you’d lead.”

He looked at the bard, who was already strumming something lively and fast while periodically tuning his pegs. Luden sighed like a man marching to the gallows.

“Fine,” he said. “But if I embarrass myself, it’s on you.”

He hopped up onto one of the benches, clapped his hands once, loud and sharp. Heads turned. Luden flashed a crooked smile.

“Right,” he said. “You know the rules. If you don’t know the steps, copy someone who looks confident. Confidence is a lie the drink tells our legs.”

The bard laughed and leaned into the tune. Someone whooped. Luden stepped down and took Greta’s hand before she could protest, swinging her into motion. The line formed quickly; farmers, traders, locals and strangers alike, hands linked, boots stomping in time. Luden led them in a winding path around the tables, laughing as someone tripped and was hauled back upright by the crowd.

For a moment, Endleberg felt big.

The song ended to applause and breathless grins. Luden bowed theatrically, wiping sweat from his brow.

“That,” he said, “is my contribution to culture for the week.”

He slipped back into work as easily as he had stepped into the dance. Plates, mugs, friendly insults tossed over shoulders. He flirted without pressure, joked without cruelty, listened without prying. People trusted him; which was odd, considering he had never really given anyone much of himself.

Near the end of the night, as the fire burned low and the laughter softened, Luden leaned against the bar, sipping watered ale. His gaze drifted over the room, taking it in the way he always did when things slowed. The Rabeskrieg was cosy, yes; safe, mostly. A waypoint, not a destination. People passed through, left stories behind like dropped coins, then moved on.

He stayed.

Two years ago, his mother had taken sick. A fever that burned too hot and too fast; the kind that laughed off the best efforts of any medicine man or shaman this little hitching post could offer. He had sat by her bed and told her stories he half remembered, places he had never seen, and almost certainly never would. When she died, the house felt too large and too quiet, so he took more shifts at the tavern and let the noise fill the gaps.

He never spoke of his father. No one ever asked.

The door to the Rabeskrieg creaked open.

Luden glanced up without thinking; habit more than interest. Five figures stood framed in the lantern light outside, silhouettes sharp and wrong against the night. They wore travel leathers, mismatched but well kept; sabres hung at their hips, hands resting close without touching. One of them spat onto the threshold.

Conversation ebbed, subtle at first.

The men stepped inside.

Luden straightened slowly, frown creasing his brow. These were not traders. They carried themselves like people used to being obeyed, or at the very least feared. The tallest of them looked around the room with cold impatience.

He raised his voice.

“We’re looking for Selez,” he said.

Silence fell like a dropped plate.

Luden felt a chill slide down his spine; sharp, immediate, and wholly unwelcome.

Old Tamsin stepped out from behind the bar approaching the newcomers. “You’re in the wrong place,” she said. “So either buy a drink and play nice or you can get the fuck out.”

The tall man smiled - a tight, humorless thing. Then came the scraping song of steel.

The Rabeskrieg’s floor took a new memory: thick gouts of blood that hit the boards with a sickening slap. The world shrank to a vignette.

Old Tamsin’s hands flew to her throat, blood trickling between her fingers. Her lips moved, tried to shape a curse but only a wet, choking gargle came out.

She collapsed before anyone moved.

Then the world imploded.