The tavern door swung open under a heavy push, and the noise inside fell silent for a brief moment.

A group of armored knights stepped in, carrying the cold wind and the smell of metal with them. And at the very front walked their leader.

Tobias Tress stood taller than anyone in the room—almost two meters, broad-shouldered, built like someone carved out of stone. He wore dark, finely forged armor: a steel cuirass with a muted finish, not shining but matte, edged with subtle engraving; on his shoulders rested imposing pauldrons that looked heavy enough to crush a lesser man, yet he moved in them as easily as in a simple shirt. His knees were protected by reinforced plates with a clean, strict pattern, and his forearms were wrapped in leather bracers with metal inlays. The rest of the armor was lighter, practical, made for movement rather than show.

On his back, secured in strong leather, hung a long sword—the grip wrapped in dark hide, the guard plain and unadorned, but its sheer size made it clear: this was a weapon not meant for just anyone. At his side rested a shorter dagger, more a tool than decoration. His long black hair was tied into a thick braid thrown over one shoulder, with a few loose strands brushing against his sharp-featured face. His eyes were dark and steady, carrying the quiet firmness of a man accustomed to danger and command.

The knights behind him, dressed more simply in lighter armor and cloaks marked with his crest, followed in a formation that showed unmistakable respect for their commander. The crowd instinctively stepped aside as they passed.

Tobi paused a few steps into the room, letting his gaze sweep across the tavern as if weighing threats, exits, and empty tables all at once. When he spoke, his voice was low and calm—not harsh, but commanding enough that those nearby heard every word:

“Table by the wall. I don’t want our backs to the room.”

He moved first without looking back—confident his men would follow. Reaching a heavy wooden table by the wall, he removed his gloves and set them down, pulled the chair slightly aside, and took a seat angled toward the hall, facing the door. The others settled around him, some already exchanging quiet remarks.

Tobi brushed a hand along his jaw, looked at his men, and said shortly:

“Food, ale, and news. In that order.”

A faint shadow of a smile touched the corner of his mouth—a tired man, hardened but very much alive, someone who commanded and protected, not merely intimidated.