The Last Drink

The Gilded Gryphon smelled exactly the same: stale ale, sweat, and sawdust. The boisterous cheers of new, fresh-faced adventurers, flush with the thrill of their first goblin-slaying quest, filled the cavernous hall. It was a sound Ronan, Nira, and Cyras had once been a part of. Now, sitting at a quiet corner table, the noise felt like it was from another world, a lifetime ago. The three of them, the surviving core of a legendary party, sat in a heavy, awkward silence, a half-empty pitcher of ale between them. Kael’s absence was a ghost at the table, a fourth presence that none of them dared to name.

Ronan stared into his tankard, swirling the dregs as if searching for an answer in their murky depths. “This is it, huh?” he said, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the tavern’s din.

Nira, who had been methodically polishing one of her silver arrowheads, looked up, her expression carefully neutral. “What do you mean?”

“This,” Ronan gestured vaguely at the table, at the three of them, at the familiar, scarred walls of the tavern. “Ashvale. The Gryphon. This is where it all started. And this is where our journey as a party reaches its end. Our last drink together.”

Nira’s hands stilled. She tried to maintain her calm, composed mask, but for a fraction of a second, a crack appeared in the cool green of her eyes, a flicker of profound sorrow. Cyras, who had been staring into the fire, nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, his voice quiet. “So, what are you two going to do after this? I’ll probably head back to the capital. With my share of the reward, I can finally enroll in the Eldoria Collegium. I hope to become an Apprentice Magister, perhaps even a full Magister one day. There is so much I still need to learn.”

Ronan let out a long sigh and leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. “Maybe I’ll retire. Stay here in Ashvale. It feels… right. Use the money to open up an orphanage. And for a living… maybe a carpentry workshop. I’m quite good with my hands.”

Nira’s eyebrow arched in genuine surprise, her attention finally pulled away from her task. “An orphanage? Carpentry? I never thought you had that side to you. I always assumed you would waste the reward away on booze and women.”

A wide, booming laugh—the first genuine sound of their old camaraderie they had heard in weeks—erupted from Ronan’s chest, turning heads across the tavern. “What do you take me for, pointy-ears?”

“LOWER YOUR VOICE, YOU BIG OAF!” Greta’s roar from behind the counter cut through the entire tavern like a bolt of lightning. She pointed a dripping ladle at him. “I don’t care if the whole world calls you the ‘Shield Hero’ now! This is still my establishment, and if you make that much noise again, I’ll throw you out on your ear myself!”

Ronan’s laughter immediately died, and he sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “Sorry, Greta.”

The moment of levity passed, leaving the quiet in its wake.

“Speaking of which, Catherine is being formally accepted as a Saintess in the Grand Cathedral of Eldoria,” Cyras added, changing the subject. “She’s no longer just a candidate.”

“Good for the kid,” Ronan grumbled, though his tone was fond. “She never fit this life. Too soft. I can still hear her sobbing some nights in the next room. My muscles might have shrunk from all the sleep I lost.” He yelped as Nira, without looking at him, reached under the table and gave his thigh a vicious pinch.

“So, what are you going to do, Nira?” Cyras asked, turning his analytical gaze to her.

Nira hesitated, her focus returning to the arrowhead in her hand. She polished a spot that was already gleaming, her movements slow and deliberate. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice quiet. “I haven’t thought about it yet.” A runaway without a home to return to, a warrior without a war to fight. Her entire identity had been tied to the party. Now, she was simply… adrift.

One by one, they stood. A nod from Cyras. A gruff “Take care of yourself” from Ronan. And then they were gone, leaving Nira alone at the table.

Later that night, Nira walked alone through the muddy, familiar streets of Ashvale. She found her way to a high rooftop, the same way she had on her first night in this town, and sat on the cold stone ledge, looking down at the scattered, flickering lights. A flood of memories washed over her—the smell of a damp cellar and the shriek of oversized rats; the impossible, terrifying grace of a dragon in the sky; the white-hot agony of facing Varic; the chilling, sorrowful silence of Isolde’s spire; the bewildering honor of Draem’s final battle. It was the most frightening, exhausting, and important time of her entire long life. It was the most precious memory she had. And she didn't want it to end.

Her thoughts, as they always did now in the quiet moments, turned to Kael. The quiet, weary man who had become the unshakable core of their world. The commander she had criticized, questioned, and ultimately abandoned. Her heart felt heavy, a cold stone in her chest. She had called her decision logical, a strategic necessity. But now, alone in the silence, she knew it for what it was. It was fear. She had been afraid. Afraid of the prophecy, afraid of what he might become, but most of all, afraid of a future where she might have to stand against him. They had all been afraid, and they had left him to face the judgment of the world alone. A betrayal, no matter how logical she had tried to make it.

The famously stoic Nira, the cold and pragmatic elf who never showed emotion, felt a strange, hot sting in her eyes. A single tear welled up, broke free, and traced a silent path down her cheek in the cold night air.