Shadows of Malachín

[Exelous]

The tavern was alive with laughter and raucous shouts, a cacophony of voices rising like a storm above the clink of glass and the scent of roasted fowl. Amidst the joyful throngs of Cadomyr's denizens, Exelous sat apart, nursing his tankard of ale while the firelight flickered. The walls of the tavern were adorned with trophies of victories past—framed shields and weapons hung above the bar, relics of proud warriors who had thrived under the gaze of the hunter god Malachín. Yet, all Exelous felt was the weight of his own failure.

He took a long drink from his tankard, the frothy ale burning his throat as it went down. It had been a while since he had turned to drink to soothe his wounds, but the memory of the One Above All tournament still seared his mind. Malchus, that pompous fool with his flashy rings of fire, had robbed him of an honorable victory. The crowd had cheered as Malchus conjured the flames, swirling them with a flourish that left Exelous seething. A warrior ought to triumph with skill and strength, not with artifacts that mocked the very essence of combat.

"Empty victory," he muttered under his breath, glaring at the remnants of foam at the bottom of his tankard. Exelous had trained for months for that tournament, honing his swordplay, conditioning his body as if it were a flawless blade. He had envisioned gliding through the ranks, the duality of his faith and prowess propelling him to glory. Instead, he felt robbed, like a hunter who had lost his prey to a mirage.

The fire crackled, and he glanced at the hearth across the room. The flames reminded him all too well of Malchus, twisting and turning, while he and his weapon had been reduced to mere footnotes in a shameful tale. In his heart, he carried the conviction that on any other day—under any other circumstances—he could have bested Malchus with little more than a flick of his wrist. If only the tournament hadn’t been sullied by those accursed magical rings.

"Drunk already, Exelous?" came a voice as rough as sandpaper. It was Hassan, that fellow regular whose laugh could fill a room and whose temperament could clear one just as easily. "I hear the Inquisitor has turned to the bottle after his fall."

Exelous scowled but resisted the urge to bristle. “It’s not the drink that brought me low, but the farce that was the tournament.”

Hassan plopped down across from him, slapping a heavy hand on the table. “Come now, friend. It was just a tournament! You’ll have other chances. Besides, I think Malchus’ flames were quite impressive!”

“Impressive? Or cowardly?” Exelous's voice rose, startling a few nearby patrons. He steadied himself, lowering his tone. “A true warrior does not rely on tricks crafted by the weak. He faces his opponent eye-to-eye, sword in hand.”

It was true—Exelous had faced battles where the odds were stacked against him, where sheer determination had carved paths through adversity. Yet, here he was, confessing desperation to the very ale he had once forsaken in an attempt to reclaim his honor. The last thing he wanted was for his fallen status as the Holy Inquisitor of Malachín to become fodder for tavern gossip.

Hassan shrugged, his good-natured grin unwavering. “What’s done is done. The world keeps turning, and the sun still rises. You might find that, in losing, you’ve garnered respect for your perseverance.”

Exelous scoffed, the bitterness lingering on his tongue sharper than the taste of ale. “Respect? I’d rather earn dishonor in battle than be hailed for merely enduring defeat. It is not the path of Malachín’s chosen.”

As the battles of the tournament replayed like haunting echoes in his mind, the raging waves of his own frustration began to drown him in a familiar tide. The burning ring of flames had not only extinguished his path to victory but was now suffocating the zeal he had once embraced. The shadows of his past—of nights spent lost to drink and despair—loomed larger, striking horror into his heart.

He took another gulp of ale, harshly wiping the foam from his stubble and then closed his eyes, whispering a silent prayer to Malachín. “Forgive me.” The scent of the ale, the cacophony around him, the relentless echo of laughter—it all felt foreign, like a cruel mirage in the desert.

But if this loss had taught him anything, it was that he must rise above it. Victory, he insisted, was not just about strength; it was also about honor. Malachín would not frown upon those who fell, for the true light of a warrior lay in rising again, storming back like a falcon that would not yield to the winds of defeat.

As Exelous sat in the lively tavern, he made a silent vow—one day, he would reclaim his honor, and he would do so without the aid of flickering flames or magical rings. He would summon the fire of determination from within, proving once and for all that the heart of a warrior could burn brighter than any conjured flame.

The ale flowed, brighter spirits filled the air, but for Exelous, he was already stirring to a new purpose, his path marked by the ruins of lost battles giving way to the promise of future triumphs. The fainter echoes of laughter could not drown out the resolute whispers of Malachín guiding him forth.

As he lifted his tankard once more, he found not defeat but a flicker of hope igniting in the depths of his soul. "Next time, Malchus," he uttered to the tavern around him, his voice barely heard above the din, "there will be no flames to hide your cowardice."