The Laughing Pig Inn had never truly closed its doors. Even on the darkest nights, when the ice wolves howled in the mountains of Erretonnie and the roads froze beneath the moon, a warm light always glowed through its misted windows. People said the inn was blessed — or cursed, depending on who told the story.

That night, the inn was overflowing. Merchants from Bragonnie drank with corsairs of the Dead Sea. A dwarven blacksmith from Nalrog played dice with a Luftherian knight. In a dark corner, a man whose face was hidden beneath a hood listened without drinking. No one went near him.

At the center of the room, a bard tuned his lyre. The hubbub gradually died down.

— Rastacan.

The word fell like a stone into a well. The laughter stopped. Tankards froze halfway to lips. Even the flames in the hearth seemed to waver.

— Rastacan, he repeated, the cursed prince. The serpent king. The one whose name still makes mothers weep and warriors tremble.

He plucked the strings of his lyre, and a dark melody rose. He described a cruel prince, a tyrant, a witch, a well-deserved curse. The room applauded. It was a good story. A just story.

But at a table in the back, an old warrior spat on the floor.

— Lies, he growled.

Heads turned. The warrior was old, his grey beard braided in the Marou fashion. A scar crossed his face. His armor bore the marks of battles the young could not even imagine.

— Rastacan was no tyrant, he said in a hoarse voice. He was a hero. I was there. I fought at his side before the curse. It was a demonic sorcerer who struck him, sent by jealous enemies. The transformation was not a punishment. It was a trap.

— The archives are written by the victors, he spat. The priests tell what they are ordered to tell. But I saw Rastacan weep when the curse struck him. I saw his human eyes disappear behind the scales. I heard his screams when the demon took possession of his body.

A shiver ran through the room.

— Rastacan did not choose to become a monster. He fought. For three centuries, he fought against the curse. And now you call him a tyrant. You forget that he was your prince.

The bard had no answer. The warrior sat back down heavily, draining his tankard in one gulp.

— Two legends, someone murmured. Two truths.

In the dark corner, the hooded man rose and left without a word. No one noticed the red mark on his wrist — the seal of Héréclès the Bloody, god of blood and assassins. The Red Force was listening. And it had plans.

That night, the Laughing Pig Inn closed its doors for the first time in decades. In the darkness, something was awakening.