Garun's Gambit

The stale air of the abandoned tavern clung to us like a shroud, thick with the scent of dust and forgotten dreams. Outside, Veria’s relentless sun beat down, a cruel reminder of the world we fought to change, a world that continued its oblivious spin under Fayette’s iron grip. We were huddled around a scarred, wooden table, the flickering light of a single oil lamp casting long, dancing shadows that mirrored the unease in our hearts. Garun, bless his perpetually bright soul, was attempting to juggle three bruised apples, his usual boisterous laughter replaced by a quiet, almost desperate rhythm.

“Come on, you lumpy spheres,” he muttered, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Dance for your master! Dance for… for a better Veria!”

One of the apples slipped, hitting the table with a dull thud. Garun sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Well, that’s that. My juggling career is officially over. Perhaps I should take up competitive napping.”