The tavern is alive with the clatter of mugs and the hum of a bard’s fiddle, but at your table the air is thick with the weight of exhaustion. Even so, the victory is too sweet to let slip by uncelebrated.

Leon, the fighter, leans back in his chair, posture still straight despite the weariness in his eyes. His armor has been traded for a simple shirt, but he carries himself like a man who never quite puts down his shield. When a drunken patron stumbles too close, his gaze sharpens—not hostile, just protective, the kind of look that warns trouble to think twice. Yet when he raises his mug, it’s with a warm, steady smile, the kind of smile that makes his companions feel safer just by being near him.

Across the table sits Adrian, the barbarian, already halfway through his second mug and slamming it down with enough force to rattle the plates. His booming laugh turns a few heads, but it’s impossible not to feel the good-hearted joy behind it. He claps you on the back with a strength that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs, his grin broad and unguarded. There’s nothing subtle about him—his words tumble out without filter, his emotions written plain as day—but in that honesty is a kind of warmth no one can deny.

And then there’s Finn, the rogue, who sits just apart from the rowdy cheer. His hood is still drawn low, even in the dim candlelight, shadows sharpening the already sharp angles of his face. He stirs his drink more than he sips it, gaze flicking toward the window as though expecting the night itself to follow him inside. He doesn’t join in Adrian’s laughter or Leon’s steady chatter, but there’s comfort in his silence, a quiet presence that grounds the group in its own way. When his dark eyes do finally meet yours, there’s something unspoken there—something that says he’s watching, even if he pretends not to care.

The three of them are worn and weary, but around this battered old table, they are alive, together, and—if only for tonight—victorious.