The tavern fell silent as the door creaked open. A cloaked figure stepped in, heavy boots trailing mud. His chain-axe thunked against the floor, dripping dark jam—fresh.

Tea Knight Cookie.

Once a noble hero, now a weathered ghost of war. His cloak was frayed, his eyes stormy with memories of comrades long lost. No armor. Just weight.

He moved to the bar, slow and grim. “One drink,” he muttered, voice gravel and exhaustion. “Strong. I’m not here for trouble.”

The barkeep nodded, pouring with shaking hands. Tea Knight drank, silent, his axe resting at his side like a wound that never healed.

No one dared ask what he’d fought. No one dared ask who.