The tavern was louder than usual.The kind of noise that didn't come from cheerful drunks, but from conversations that were way too quick, whispers that were way too tense, and laughs that ended before they even started.
It was like everyone had agreed to pretend everything was fine… but no one was actually convinced.
The smell inside was the same as always: old beer, damp wood, and generations of sweat stored in padded benches. A traditional scent — almost patriotic.
I walked in, head slightly down, pretending I was scanning the place like a wolf on patrol — but truth be told, my stomach was already growling, and my curiosity was screaming even louder.
I couldn't say exactly what had changed, but something hung in the air. A disguised tension. Something that bent smiles just a little too much and made words too quiet to be casual.
Someone, somewhere, had spoken too loudly.
And in a small village like Ashveil, that's basically the same as lighting a torch in a room full of gas.
I pretended I was just passing through — which no one bought, since I still looked like a semi-recovered punching bag — and made my way to the back of the tavern. The corridor where barrels were stacked and the floor creaked like wood that had accepted its destiny to rot.
My goal was simple: find Lina.
Not out of longing or emotional connection, obviously. I just... needed someone to treat me like a human being at least once a week.
I knocked lightly on the back room door. No response.
I opened it carefully.
The little room was empty.Nothing but stacked crates, a mop tossed in a corner, and a small window cracked open, letting in the night breeze like it was looking for someone too.
She wasn't there.
No footsteps. No voice. Not even that way she furrowed her brow that made me feel like maybe I wasn't 100% repulsive.
I sighed.
I think it was in that moment — between her absence and the scent of poorly handled fermentation — that I realized:something was about to happen.
And this time, it wasn't just about me.
That's when I was turning to leave — and I heard it.
Whispers.
Low, quick, muffled… and for that reason alone, infinitely more interesting than anything said out loud.They came from behind another door, slightly ajar, leading down to what looked like the tavern's cellar. A stronger scent was seeping through — something between raw alcohol and unresolved secrets.
I froze.
Not out of fear, but out of habit. The kind of reflex you pick up when you learn that 90% of great deals happen at whisper volume.
I tilted my head, and that's when I silently thanked the gods for my ridiculously large ears.
Yes, most of the time they made me look like a bat crossed with a clay funnel.But in moments like this?
They picked up sound like top-tier gossip antennas.
Two men.A muffled conversation.Words clipped by creaking boards and the tavern's faint firelight murmur.
"…can't keep going like this…"
"…she's going to find out…"
"…what if someone else hears?"
And then:"Lina."
I heard her name.
And suddenly, all the tavern's background noise disappeared.Like someone had turned down the world's volume and left only that channel playing.
Sure, it could be any Lina.But in Ashveil — where everyone knows each other by name and scar — the chance of there being two Linas was about the same as someone here knowing what deodorant is.
I crept closer to the door.
Every step was a delicate choreography between creaking wood and the weight of a body that, at that moment, felt made of armor and guilt.
I pressed my ear to the worn wood.
The voices continued — muffled, tense.
If I moved too fast, I'd be heard.If I spoke, I'd scare off the pigs before seeing the filth.
So I did what I do best.
I stayed quiet.And I listened.
I held my breath, ear against the door. The smell of damp cellar, old wood, and fermented booze seeped through the cracks like a reminder that nothing good ever comes from this kind of situation.
The voices were there.Low. Muffled. Dirty.
The first one I recognized was the tavern keeper.Rough voice, slow and dragged out — the kind of tone used by people who think they're wise just because they've lived too long between barrels and drunks.
"…it's not that I don't like the idea, Mr. Mayor… but you understand she's my daughter. My only daughter."
"Of course I understand," said the second voice — and just by the syrupy, self-satisfied tone, I already knew: it was the mayor. The kind of man who sees himself as a gift from the gods, even though he smells like moonshine and pig grease.
"I'm just saying," he went on, already speaking like he was basking in a victory he hadn't earned, "she's beautiful. A rarity. A redhead in this gray little village… she's like gold among coal."
Well, he's not wrong there, I thought to myself.Redheads are something else.
"And look," he continued, that tone of someone who brags before sealing any deal, "it's not like I'm just anybody. I bring gifts. I do favors. Raises. Exemptions. You know how things work."
The tavern keeper cleared his throat, trying to sound more honorable than he was.
"She's a decent girl, Mayor. Doesn't step out of line, works hard. I'm just saying, if it's going to be someone important… someone who can guarantee her future… well… everything has a price, right?"
A moment of silence.
The tension was thick — like bone broth. And me, listening from outside the door, I felt dirtier just for hearing it.
"You think I don't know your little games, tavern keeper?" the mayor said. "You say it's for her… but you're more interested in getting an extra barrel a week and a new roof."
"Ha! And you think I don't know about your little midnight strolls with the seamstress from Caelbrook? Or that new waitress from the east?"
"Ohh, my friend," said the mayor with a sigh that almost sounded nostalgic, "you know how it is… position brings… opportunities. And me, well… I can't resist a woman with vibrant hair. But this girl of yours… she's different. She's got that untouched air. Like she doesn't belong in a place like this."
Holy shit. What a disgusting old bastard.
Not that I didn't think about doing the same thing to her, but I was more decent.
In the end it was all an act. The father pretending to care. The mayor pretending to be charming. Me pretending to myself that I'd never traded a girl like she was a bottle of booze.
And then the mayor said something that made me freeze.
"Besides… you know this village is going to go through some changes. Those contracts I signed with the outside mining group… if everything goes well, people won't even know what happened until it's already done. But I need to keep some folks calm. Distract others. A pretty girl helps a lot."
Ah. So in addition to being a creep, the mayor was also involved in something bigger.
Shady business. External partnerships. Village manipulation.
And I was right there. Hearing it all. Storing every word in my head.
This wasn't just gossip. This was ammunition.
While those two bastards discussed my redheaded friend like they were haggling over a cow during drought season, my mind was already three steps ahead.
"Mining contracts… Things the people can't know… Keep folks distracted…"
This wasn't just dirty talk from a sleazy man trying to sleep with someone's daughter.
It was part of something larger.
And worse.
That's when it hit me.The goblins in the mines.
They weren't there by accident. It didn't make sense for a village like this to be slowly tunneled from underneath, infested with disgusting creatures, without anyone lifting a finger.
And now this mayor — talking about outside deals, upcoming changes, "keeping people distracted."
Either the goblins were part of the plan.Or they were a direct consequence.
Maybe they were using the mines as cover.Or opening paths for some secret underground operation.Or maybe not even the mayor fully understood — maybe he was just selling land to people filthier than him.
But the fact was simple:
Someone was digging in the wrong place.And the wrong thing was starting to dig back.
I leaned harder into the wall, the wood creaking under the weight of tension. My mind was running faster than my exhausted body could follow.
If I could connect this to old records...If I could prove the mines were being used for something other than mining — or that the goblin numbers were growing because of these operations...
I'd have something hot.Not just hot.
Explosive.
The kind of headline that makes journalism contest judges spill their tea.The kind of story that takes down a mayor, a tavern keeper, and still leaves me standing on a stage as the ugly hero of the town.
I smiled in the dark. A cynical, painful, promising smile.
"You want a bombshell, Gideon?" I thought. "Then just wait. Because hell is digging up from underneath."
And now, all I could think about… was how Lina fit into all of this.