T orgar staggered out of the tavern with the blood of a stranger on his knuckles.

“I want my sword,” he said to the four burly men who had persuaded him to leave.

“Come get it when you’re sober,” one said as he shut the door.

“Well, at least give me my damn drink!”

No such luck. The sellsword cursed and howled until his lungs hurt. He felt better afterward, though, so he made his way through the streets of Angelport back home. Home, of course, was his little room in the Keenan family’s magnificent estate, as captain of their mercenaries and guards. Not that he needed to do much anymore. With the thieves’ war ending near two years ago, his life had grown significantly quieter. And quieter meant boring. He wasn’t quite as young as he once was, either. When he first agreed to work for Laurie, he would have crushed at least a dozen skulls before they flung him out the door of a tavern. Now?

“Getting old,” Torgar grumbled, bracing a hand against the nearby walls to steady his walk. “How in Karak’s name did that happen?”

Surely it wasn’t that long ago he’d been a feared mercenary. The Bloody Kensgold was…gods help him, seven years ago? He turned and spat. On that night, he’d hunted thieves, drunk himself stupid, rescued Madelyn Keenan from Thren’s little hideout, and overall had himself a glorious time. A shame those days were behind him. Well, all but the drinking part.

Without his sword, he felt naked traversing Angelport’s streets. Big as he was, he doubted any ruffians would be dumb enough to try hustling him. That, and he certainly didn’t look like a man loaded with coin. But he liked having his weapon with him anyway. Even though he’d had years of steady work for Laurie Keenan, he knew that all it’d take was one bad turn and he’d be back out on the streets. He encountered no one on his way. The streets were strangely quiet. Laurie had mentioned something about the elves; perhaps that was the reason. The whole city stank of nervousness.