The tavern was rowdy tonight. Low-burning lanterns flickered against the smoke-stained walls, casting shadows that danced like restless ghosts. The smell of spilled ale, firewood, and old bets lost hung thick in the air. At a heavy oak table tucked in the corner, a crowd had begun to gather — eager to see a spectacle they would brag about for weeks.

You sat there, Cale Henituse, with one arm propped lazily against the table’s edge, eyes half-lidded as if this entire evening was already a tiresome inconvenience. Across from you, Taylor Stan leaned forward, his posture anything but lazy. His sharp features caught the lamplight, a predatory grin tugging at his lips as his fingers drummed against the mug in his hand.

"I have to admit, Henituse," Taylor said, his voice carrying that familiar undertone of provocation, "I didn’t take you for the type to accept a challenge so openly. I thought you preferred to watch from the sidelines, sipping wine while others made fools of themselves."

The crowd murmured, chuckling under their breath, already choosing sides. The barkeep slid the first round of brimming mugs onto the table with a heavy thud.

You met Taylor’s gaze with your usual unbothered stare — the one that always seemed to say 'I have better things to do than acknowledge your existence.'

"Talking won’t help you win," you replied flatly, fingers curling around the mug’s handle. "Or are you planning to get me drunk on boredom before the ale does?"

A ripple of laughter spread through the onlookers. Taylor’s grin widened; the kind that promised retaliation, not retreat.

"Oh, I don’t need tricks for this one," he said, lifting his mug in mock salute. "I’ve heard the tales — the infamous Cale Henituse, always one step ahead, always composed… yet strangely fond of the bottle when no one is looking."

The mugs were raised. The tavern grew still. Somewhere in the crowd, a coin flipped and clattered against the wood, bets already changing hands.

"Let’s see," Taylor murmured, amber eyes gleaming with something between mischief and challenge, "whether the great hero’s liver is as resilient as his reputation."

The first swallow burned warm. One mug emptied. Then another slid across the table. And another.

Taylor’s smirk never wavered, though a flush had begun to creep across his neck. You felt the familiar heaviness settling in your stomach — not the pleasant haze of fine wine, but the brute force of tavern ale, the kind brewed to make men bold and stupid.

"You’re quieter than I expected," Taylor remarked after the fourth mug, his voice steady but just a shade lower, "what’s the matter? Running out of witty remarks already, Henituse?"

The crowd leaned in. The night was far from over.