By the time Gars reached Brayreach, the light had started bleeding out of the sky. The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers through the craggy ridges. Brayreach wasn't a place people arrived at casually — it was carved into the northern mountains like a scar, built by people too stubborn or too violent to live anywhere else.
The guild, Stonejaws covenant was perched halfway up the slope, stone and iron jammed together like someone had tried to build a tavern in the middle of a war. Smoke curled from the chimneys. The place looked like it had survived ten sieges and was impatient for the eleventh.
Gars didn't waste time. His boots hit the ground hard as he crossed the threshold, ducking slightly under the archway that hadn't been made for someone his size. The warmth hit first — the heat of sweat and torches, meat fat and spilled liquor. Then the sound. A low, constant thrum of laughter, arguments, and wooden mugs slamming against old tables.
He didn't make a scene, but he didn't hide either. The guild hall noticed him before he said anything. Shoulders turned. Dice paused mid-roll. One of the younger brutes elbowed the man next to him.
But Gars didn't stop walking until he reached the center table, where a mountain of a man sat drinking straight from a stone mug.
"Kragg of the Eight Bands," Gars said. "I'm here to propose an alliance."
The man didn't even glance at him.
"Get lost," Kragg said. "Not in the mood."
Gars nodded once, stepped forward, and put a hand on his shoulder. Not gently.
That got attention. Not the kind you want. The air inside the guild hall shifted, like someone had just knocked over a full barrel and no one wanted to be the one to clean it.
Kragg turned.
The backhand came fast and flat — a wide arc with the weight of a boulder behind it. Gars didn't move in time. The impact spun him sideways, sent him through a bench that cracked beneath his body like dried firewood.
He lay there for a second, blinking up at the flickering ceiling torches. Then sat up, wiped the blood from his mouth, and stood again.
"That all you've got?" he said.
The room stilled. Even the wind outside seemed to wait.
Kragg stood up.
They didn't exchange another word. The first punch Kragg threw cracked the air. Gars slipped under it and drove his shoulder into the other man's ribs. It was like hitting a tree. Kragg swung again, and Gars took it on the forearm, grunting as he staggered sideways. His knee hit the floor, but he used the momentum to roll forward and slam a fist into Kragg's thigh.
The fight didn't last long — a few minutes, maybe less — but every second felt heavy. It wasn't technical. It wasn't graceful. It was the kind of brawl that left scars under the skin, the kind you still feel on quiet days years later.
Eventually, Kragg's footing wobbled. That was all Gars needed. He stepped inside a wide swing, ducked low, and hooked the man's leg out from under him. Kragg hit the ground with a sharp, heavy grunt, and didn't get up right away.
Gars stepped back, panting. His hands were scraped. His cheekbone would bruise by morning.
Kragg stared at the ceiling. Then laughed — a real one this time, like something had broken loose inside his ribs.
"You're not here to beg," Kragg said, still flat on his back. "I can respect that."
He sat up, grabbed the nearest mug — might've been his, might've been someone else's — and handed it to Gars.
"Drink."
Gars took it. Didn't hesitate. They drank.
Kragg stood. Wiped his nose. "No alliance," he said. "If you need help call us." he chuckled
Gars exhaled through his nose. "That works."
The guild roared. Mugs slammed on tables. Someone tossed a dagger into the ceiling beam and it stuck there, vibrating like a tuning fork. Nobody cared who had won. Only that someone showed up, bled, and didn't flinch.
No contracts. No clauses. No leverage.
Just the kind of agreement Stonejaws covenant understood — earned, not offered.
Later, Gars sat near the hearth with a mug that wasn't his. His knuckles throbbed, and his jaw ached when he smiled, but there was a kind of satisfaction that settled into his bones. This wasn't politics. This was something older.
I have no idea what just happened.
Kragg was still laughing across the room, slapping someone on the back like they'd just survived a good hunt instead of nearly breaking each other's ribs.
Gars took another gulp. The alcohol burned less now. Or maybe the pain just dulled it all.
But if this fucker is just a dumb fuck, I'll take that and be friendly with this brute…
He glanced around. No one's watching too closely anymore. Just nods and the occasional grin. That was all it took here — break a few bones together and suddenly you're part of the furniture.
Ahh fuck, my body hurts.
Gars grunted softly, shifting in his seat. His ribs ached with every breath. His shoulder was starting to swell. Tomorrow was going to be worse.