The flames of the torches flicker as the door creaks, revealing a hooded figure. The noise of conversation ceases. Everyone looks. The wood creaks beneath his heavy boots, and the grating sound his crutch makes on the floor as he moves.

His cloak, soaked by the storm outside, drips slowly, marking the floor with shadowy footsteps. No one recognizes him—yet everyone feels his presence like a cold blade on their neck.

He walks to the counter. Slowly. Imposingly.

The hood falls. Long, disheveled hair, scars slashing his pale skin like maps of forgotten battles. His eyes—a vivid blue—do not belong to this world. And then Ivar finally says in a low, somewhat hoarse voice:

“A large mug of wine; and hurry. I’m thirsty.” The barkeep freezes; a name escapes through trembling teeth.

"It's Ivar…Ivar the Boneless…" And like an ancient whisper, the name ripples through the hall.

The king hunter. The exile. The living legend.