Extract from: The Curse of the Half-Breeds, Book 2 in Zemeland: Levelling Up Together

Do you hear that sound?

Do you smell it – the heady fragrance of sour ale, rabbit pies fresh from the oven, and confidence rising with every drink?

Ah, the western taverns of the Zemelands!

This one is called the Four Moons, for reasons I suspect are mainly decorative. Unless someone had one tankard too many when naming it.

I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I’m getting dizzy with glee just listening. Half from the flutes and tambourines, half from the reckless enthusiasm of a crowd convinced that ale sharpens the wit.

But I digress.

A black-bearded Dwarf smokes by the door, his pipe breathing obscurity into the air. Through that haze, a newcomer appears – a grey-skinned boy pausing at the threshold, blinking until his eyes adjust. He spots what he’s looking for, squares his shoulders and walks with purpose towards a table by the window.

Three figures sit there, and, unsurprisingly, an invisible moat of curiosity and unease surrounds them. Patrons cast a side-eye and mutter that everyone deserves a drink – even those who failed to think twice when choosing their parents.

The first figure I notice (and really, who wouldn’t?) is the striking woman. Tall – though much of her height is tail, neck, leg and a spine built for elegant intimidation. Her face is sharp, her eyes luminous and close-set. It’s as if nature meant to make a predator, then abruptly changed her mind and thought Humanoid will do.

She wears a chain shirt beneath a travel cloak, and beside her rests a short, broad tail, its scales shimmering green as storm light. A modest silver circlet gleams atop her head, glinting with what seem to be tiny shards of emerald.

A Dragonborn, then. And with a tail, no less. Unusual! So the traveller’s story was true. Mostly.

Next to her lounges a muscular young Tiefling, whose horns and smile arrive slightly before he does. His sword leans against the wall, gleaming even in dimness – a blade slim enough to cut through bad manners. He looks like someone who could turn a battlefield into a dance floor and an argument into theatre. His linen shirt gapes open at the chest, either by design or because he has simply outgrown it.

The third is a rather petite young woman with brown curls, dressed for the road. Her boots barely touch the floor, yet a longbow taller than her leans against her chair. Her hair is tied in a loose bun; her expression a mask of unimpressed focus.

I can’t believe it! I know her!

Pearl Oldbook. Half Halfling, half dwarf, all attitude. Sweet-faced, short and somehow managing to look like a fairy tale princess – though with no tiara, no satin dress, no jewels and no logical reason for me to have thought of any of that.

The grey half-breed steps into the candlelight, and for a heartbeat the tavern’s noise dips, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

Ah. No. That’s just me.

Pearl looks up first. “You’re late, Octosias,” she says.

“You left me,” he replies, pulling out a chair. “I might not hold my drink as well as you three, but the last inn had decent beds. You could’ve woken me, Dorivey.”

“I’m not your mother,” the Tiefling scoffs, shoving a tankard his way. His deep voice carries the faint tang of sulphur.

“That’s a relief. I hope my mother’s prettier.” Octosias sips, winces, then drains the tankard. “Yack . . . burp . . . There! That’s better. I was thirsty, and the esteemed Mrs Thundersmile hadn’t a drop in her cart.”

The Dragonborn mage studies him in silence. When she sits still – oh, how still she sits. Not a hair stirs, her eyes don’t blink, and it seems to me she’s not even breathing. Yet her voice carries clean through the tavern’s din.

“And what news do you bring, Octosias?”

He leans closer. “News that stinks of decay and old jinxes.”

Dorivey grins. “Ah, favourite vintage.”

The flutes play, the crowd laughs and the candlelight dances, but the table grows quiet, the four drawn close like the calm before something unwise.

And I, your humble observer, think it wise to order another drink.

Octosias places something on the table: a warped bit of wood with a charred seashell fused to it.

Dorivey wrinkles his nose. “Your job was to empty the merchant’s pockets, not his bin. What is this junk?”

Octosias only grins.

Pearl leans in. “It does look like the head of a staff. Xaithra, what do you think?”

The Dragonborn straightens. Light glints off her scales. She stares at the fragment as if it is whispering her name.

“This is the right piece,” she says softly. “It belonged to my teacher. I last saw it in battle – the day he unleashed a storm from this very shell. Snow and wind tore through our enemies like winter itself. I saw him fall . . . yet I never believed he died. He wouldn’t fall so easily. Knowing his tricks, I believe this fragment might lead me to him – and help us all in what’s coming.”

Her bronze eyes glow; a wisp of smoke curls from her teeth.

Dorivey frowns. “And what do you plan to do with it?”

“Easier shown than explained,” Xaithra replies.

Pearl raises a finger. “Not here then, unless you fancy being chased out for disturbing the perfect order of this place before finishing your pint.”

She marches to the counter. The innkeeper – a round man with the greasy confidence of someone who over-cooks his broth and calls it a stew – watches her approach. I can’t quite hear what she says, but when she slides a coin across the counter, his sleazy grin spreads. He gestures to the stairs.

Moments later, the four gather in a cramped upstairs room. A candle burns on the table, trembling as if it knows what’s coming.

Dorivey crosses his arms. “What did you tell the barkeep, Pearl?”

“You don’t want to know.”

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