Who itches to leave.
But he cuts to Ginger Beard. “I usually like to know a person’s name before I buy them a round,” he quips, loading his expression with false flirtation.
Ginger Beard, face smeared with the black of the volcanic forges, fixes his eyes on Ronyn. And he barks an over-bearing laugh. “Ha! We have ourselves a fuckin’ funny man, gents!”
The crowd erupts in clinking tankards and reactive shouts of men too exhausted to figure out why they’re shouting in the first place.
“Orrin,” Ginger Beard says, offering an open palm and slapping Ronyn heartily on the shoulder. “Welcome to Vyrhal. We’ll get you working the forge at first light. We’ve got a big order to see to. Now, loosen your purse strings, boy. I’m thirsty!”
And with that, the tavern detonates.
“A round of ale on me!” Ronyn declares through the ruckus, but his gaze lands on Jax.
She shakes her head incredulously, digging into her leather satchel and slamming three gold coins on the bar.
Ronyn grabs his amulet, wincing.Could I trouble you for a couple more coppers to buy into cards?
Jax rolls her eyes and smiles sarcastically. She flicks him two coppers from across the bar and returns to her amber liquor.
Because truthfully, Ronyn had no idea how he’d pay.
A sweating tankard of crisp ale is plonked down on the table before him.Orrin.
“You might be an outsider, but it won’t stop us from taking your money. Poker?”
Ronyn knows how this goes: locals bleed the outsiders dry.
But he knows something else, too: nothing disarms the locals more than a full belly and fat pockets.
“Not much of a card man, myself,” Ronyn counters.
Wonky chairs scrape across wooden floors in a rasp that sounds more like a warning, Orrin and his friends already dealing the first hand.
“We’re counting on it, sunshine,” Orrin winks with a thief’s grin.
Ronyn lets the name stick. Names are a kind of ownership, and he doesn’t mind pretending to belong.
For years, Ronyn made a habit of sneaking into illegal card games in Virellin’s Barrier District—counting cards and swiping extra coin from nobles who ventured across The Barrier for games they shouldn’t be playing.
“All right, then. Deal me in,” Ronyn grouses, dragging back a chair.
Ronyn settles into it like he belongs there. The cards are slapped down between tankards—grease-smudged, corners soft from too many hands and not enough washing. Orrin deals with the casual confidence of a man who’s been fleecing unassuming strangers here for years.
Ronyn pulls out the two copper coins and throws them on the table. “This enough to buy me in?” He says it like he has no idea how this works.
“It’ll do,” Orrin grunts, with a gleam in his eyes that says he already knows those coins will be his.
Silver and copper changes hands. Not much. Enough to sting if you lose. Enough to matter if you don’t.
Ronyn watches the table instead of his cards.
Orrin drinks fast. Loud. Likes the sound of his own voice.
The man to Ronyn’s left taps twice when he’s bluffing. Can’t help it. Fingers twitch like they’re itching for absolution.
Across from him, a quiet smith with a burn scar down his forearm never drinks during a hand. Smart.Dangerous.
Ronyn files it all away.
