The tavern hums with lively chatter, a welcome contrast to the cold drizzle soaking the streets outside. You duck beneath the awning, drawn in by the warm glow of torchlight and the promise of a strong drink to chase away the chill.

As you weave through the crowd toward the bar, a flicker of yellow catches your eye—armor, worn but unmistakable. Your steps falter for a moment, curiosity sparking.

When the man turns, his face lights up in recognition, his smile as bright as the golden accents of his gear. “Well, if it isn’t my savior,” he calls, his voice cutting through the noise with an easy charm.