Opeka buzzed like a swarm of Mist Phantoms stirred from their reef, and Killyaen, the self-proclaimed Supreme Elf of this dusty corner of Solaria, was the one stirring the chaos.
The Black Stone Tavern hummed with the aftermath of Janko's "Cursed Cat" nickname, born from Killyaen's glow-in-the-dark barn prank and those stubborn black whiskers.
Killyaen leaned against a tavern table, polishing tankards with a rag and a grin that could charm a Silver Wolf. His olive skin bore no trace of yesterday's bruises, thanks to N'Nazmuz's forbidden curse—the thirty-kilogram weight he'd chosen to fuel his ambition to become the strongest male alive, which crushed his body but healed his scrapes overnight and kept his stamina sharper than a Mithrilgard blade.
Stronger and tougher than Janko, Killyaen had taken the big man's punches without fighting back, knowing fame demanded a toll. Today, his gold-flecked eyes sparkled with the promise of more trouble.
"Oi, Killyaen, don't get cocky just 'cause the village is laughing at Janko," Bera called from the kitchen, her voice cutting through the clatter of pots. Her dark curls, barely contained by her scarf, bobbed as she poked her head out, wooden spoon in hand. "You keep poking that Rhino, and he'll do more than bruise your pretty face."
"Pretty? Bera, my heart, you're too kind," Killyaen said, striking a dramatic pose with the rag, his gold-tipped braid swinging. His super-perverted demeanor dripped with exaggerated charm. "But Janko's the Cursed Cat now, not a Rhino. And I'm the Supreme Elf, untouchable!" He winked, dodging her half-hearted swat, the curse's weight making his sidestep a touch slower but no less cheeky.
The tavern door creaked, and Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith, sauntered in, his apron smudged with soot. "Heard the kids chanting 'Cursed Cat' at Janko's barn this morning," he said, grinning as he slid onto a stool. "Whole village is talking. Old Lady Mirna swears it's a sign of dark magic, says only a Spirit Stone could fix Janko's face now." He chuckled, sipping an ale Killyaen slid his way.
Spirit Stones—rare, glowing gems hoarded by Opeka's elite like Goran, the headwoman, or the village hall guard—were the stuff of village legend. Killyaen had never seen one, though he'd heard they hummed with Qi, power far beyond his grasp as a qi-blind youth. "Dark magic? Nah, just my artistic genius," Killyaen said, polishing a tankard with a flourish. "Janko's lucky I didn't paint his whole face like a Coralvite reef." The village's gossip, fueled by grandmothers like Mirna and kids giggling in the square, only made Killyaen's legend grow. But he knew Janko wouldn't take it lying down, and his cunning mind was already three steps ahead.Sure enough, Janko had a plan. By mid-morning, word reached Killyaen—via a snickering tavern patron—that Janko was rigging a trap. The big man, still scrubbing at his whiskers, had "borrowed" a sack of flour from the mill and planned to dump it on Killyaen from the tavern's rafters while he worked. A classic, if uninspired, revenge prank. Killyaen, however, was no ordinary target. His mind, as cunning as a Night Elf spy and twice as slippery, churned with ideas. Janko wanted a flour shower? Fine. The Supreme Elf would give him a show.Killyaen waited until Janko lumbered into the tavern, pretending to sweep the floor with exaggerated focus, the curse's weight making each stroke a workout. He'd spotted Janko earlier, sneaking into the rafters with a sack and a scowl, the black whiskers still stark on his red face. As Janko positioned himself overhead, Killyaen "accidentally" bumped a ladder against a beam, loosening a rope he'd rigged that morning. With a creak and a thud, the flour sack tipped—not on Killyaen, but straight onto Janko. A white cloud exploded, coating the big man like a snow-dusted Ice Phoenix.The tavern erupted in laughter, patrons choking on their ale as Janko sputtered, flour clinging to his whiskers, making him look like a very angry, very dusty cat. "Cursed Cat strikes again!" Killyaen crowed, dodging a flour-caked fist as Janko slid down the ladder, roaring. "Careful, Janko, you're shedding!" The patrons howled, and even Bera peeked out, snorting so hard she dropped her spoon. Killyaen danced away, the curse slowing his steps but not his grin, knowing he'd turned Janko's prank into another village legend.Goran, summoned by the chaos, stormed out of the storeroom. "Killyaen, you idiot!" he bellowed, grabbing Janko before he could tackle Killyaen. "And Janko, get out before you turn my tavern into a bakery!" Janko stomped off, trailing flour, his new nickname echoing in the laughter behind him.With the tavern still buzzing, Goran dragged Killyaen to the field out back for training. "You're not prancing out of this one," Goran growled, tossing him a wooden practice sword. "You're drilling Wind's Rebuke till you stop tripping over your own ego." The Storm Technique, a swordsmanship skill tailored to Killyaen's curse, used the thirty-kilogram weight as an anchor for powerful, wind-swift strikes.Killyaen, still buzzing from his prank victory, swung the sword with enthusiasm—too much enthusiasm. On his third pivot, he leaned too hard into the curse's pull, spun wildly, and crashed into Goran's practice dummy, sending it toppling into the grass with a sad thud. "Supreme Elf, my arse," Goran muttered, hauling Killyaen to his feet. "Again. Focus, or the curse'll bury you before Janko does."Killyaen, red-faced but grinning, tried again, his braid swinging as he moved. The curse's weight dragged at him, but its stamina boost kept him swinging. By late afternoon, his strikes were sharper, the blade whistling like a Storm Roc's cry as he pivoted with the curse's momentum. "Better," Goran grunted, a rare nod of approval. "Keep at it, or you'll be scrubbing dummies next."As the sun sank, painting the sky in shades of Lava Dragon flames, Killyaen trudged back to the tavern, sore but smug. The village square was alive with chatter—kids chanting "Cursed Cat" as they ran past Janko's glowing barn, grandmothers like Old Lady Mirna spinning tales of Killyaen's pranks as if he were a Void Cult trickster. Marko, polishing a horseshoe at his forge nearby, called out, "You're gonna need a bigger broom to clean up this mess, Supreme Elf!" Killyaen waved, his grin undimmed, the split-leaf amulet around his neck glinting faintly. The relic, found with him as a babe in Solaria's forest with a necklace inscribed "Killyaen," felt cool against his skin, a quiet hint of secrets he didn't yet grasp.Another day, another price paid—bruises, floury chaos, and a sore arm from training. But with Wind's Rebuke sharpening his blade and Opeka's laughter fueling his legend, the Supreme Elf was ready for whatever came next. Even if it was just another prank to keep the village on its toes.