CHAPTER 568: THE PRINCE AND HIS DYSFUNCTION (END)

"There," he said. "Time‑out corner."

"Charming," Lyan said.

The fight swirled on.

Lyan moved like a blade that had been sharpened by a thousand repetitions. He wasted no step, no breath. Every dodge turned into a counter. Every catch turned into a throw. He guided men into each other, into pillars, into the edges of tables, until the tavern itself seemed to fight on his side.

Will was fire where Lyan was water. He threw himself into punches with the stubborn joy of a man who liked contact. His blows were quick, tight, and unpretentious—elbows to ribs, knees to thighs, a fist to the jaw. He took hits and gave them back with interest.

"Counting," Will puffed as he slammed a heel into someone’s chest. "That’s three."

"You’re already behind," Lyan replied, ducking under a wild swing and driving his palm into a man’s chin. "I’ve felled four."

"Lies," Will said. "I saw you bounce one off another. That only counts as half."

A bandit tried to grab Will from behind in a bear hug, thick arms pinning his elbows.

Will stomped down hard on the man’s instep, then snapped his head backward. The back of his skull connected with the bridge of the bandit’s nose. There was an unpleasant crunch.

The arms loosened. Will twisted free, panting.

"Five," he said. "And I’m counting the nose separately."

Across from him, Lyan found himself facing the big man again.

The bandit’s nose was bleeding, his cheek swelling, but his eyes burned with that specific stubborn rage of men who didn’t know when to stay down. The table leg‑club was still in his fist.

He swung. The improvised weapon whistled through the air. Lyan slid to the side. The club slammed into a support column, rattling dust from the beams.

"You really should sit," Lyan said. "Possibly lie down."

The man roared and swung again. This time Lyan stepped in, inside the arc. His hand snapped up, striking the man’s forearm with a sharp, precise blow. Fingers spasmed. The club slipped.

Lyan kicked the end of it. It flew from the man’s grasp, spinning end over end before crashing onto the bar and shattering two mugs.

"Those are coming out of your purse!" the barkeep yelled.

Lyan ignored him.

He drove three quick palm‑heel strikes into the big man’s chest, just below the collarbone. The man staggered back. Lyan swept his leg behind the brute’s heels and pushed.

The big man toppled backward onto the bar with a tremendous crash, legs kicking. The bottles rattled in their racks.

The barkeep stared at the sprawled body on his counter, sighed, and adjusted a hanging lantern.

"Actually," he muttered, "I’ve seen worse."

Gradually, the storm burned itself out.

Bandits crawled for the door or stayed where they fell, groaning. A few of the wiser patrons had retreated to the far wall early and now watched with the detached interest of men who had seen enough idiots in their time.

Lyan and Will stood near the center of the wreckage, both breathing hard.

Lyan’s lip had split at some point, a thin line of red at the corner of his mouth. His ribs ached where a stray fist had clipped him. One cheek was already swelling faintly.

Will’s right eye was well on its way to darkening, his knuckles scraped raw, his breathing a little uneven like he’d taken a punch to the side that would bloom into a spectacular bruise later.

One last bandit, some stubborn soul with more courage than sense, staggered to his feet by the door, swaying.

"I’ll—" he began.

They both moved at once.

Lyan and Will lunged for him from opposite sides. Their shoulders collided with a solid thud, and the shared momentum slammed into the bandit like a battering ram.

He went down. They stumbled, feet tangling, and nearly went with him. For a brief, undignified second, all three of them pinwheeled together.

From the outside, it looked very much like the two finely dressed troublemakers had just knocked each other over at the same time.

Silence fell except for the chorus of groans.

The barkeep surveyed his tavern as if it were a field after hail.

Chairs: broken. Tables: scarred. Floor: even stickier than before. Patrons: in varying states of horizontal.

He leaned his elbows on the bar and squinted at Lyan and Will as they straightened, joints creaking.

"You two," he said, "are paying for the broken chairs."

Lyan wiped at his lip, checked the blood, and shrugged.

He fished a coin pouch from his belt and tossed it onto the nearest intact table. It landed with a satisfying clink.

"Add in hazard pay," he said.

The barkeep opened it, peered inside, and grunted. "Fair enough." He glanced at the tied‑up mage in the corner. "I’m keeping the wand."

"Please do," Lyan said.

Will flopped back down on their original bench with a heartfelt groan.

"I clearly floored more of them," he said after a moment, staring at the ceiling. "You saw that, right?"

Lyan sat down more carefully, every bruise making itself known. He reached for his mug, found it miraculously still upright, and took a slow sip.

"You counted the same three men twice," he said.

"That’s strategy," Will protested. "Recycle your enemies. Efficient."

"You cannot count one man three times just because he was foolish enough to stand up again."

"I took the mage," Will said, jabbing a thumb toward the corner. "And the acrobat. And the huge brute, mostly alone."

"You slammed the mage into a wall I softened for you," Lyan said. "I redirected the acrobat. And I flipped the brute onto the bar."

Will scowled. "My bruise is bigger."

"That is because your guard is sloppier."

"You slipped on spilled ale."

"I adjusted my footing."

"Your face adjusted to a fist," Will said.

From the floor nearby, one of the battered bandits raised his head just enough to squint at them.

"Call it a draw, you lunatics," he croaked, then let his head drop again.

Will and Lyan looked at each other.

"A draw," Will said reluctantly.

Lyan tilted his head, then nodded once. "A draw," he agreed.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the ache in their bodies settling into something almost pleasant. The tavern’s noise returned in shyer form—low murmurs, the clink of glass as the barkeep began the slow work of triage.

Eventually Lyan set his mug down and looked over at Will.

"So," he said quietly. "How about it? Feel any better now?"

Will stared at the ceiling beams for a long moment.

"My head feels lighter," he admitted. "My ribs feel like I let a horse kick them. And my right eye is negotiating a separate peace with gravity."

"But?" Lyan prompted.

"But." Will exhaled. "The word is still there. ’Weak.’ Like someone carved it into my skull. I don’t know, Lyan. Maybe punching bandits isn’t the cure for royal dysfunction."

"In a tavern full of actual killers," Lyan said, "you just fought hand‑to‑hand and walked away. If you were weak, you’d be face‑down on this floor, and they’d be arguing over who got your boots."

Will snorted softly.

"You know," he said, turning his head to squint at Lyan, "for an incubus warlord, you’re annoyingly wholesome when it matters."

"For a prince with a broken ego," Lyan said, "you hit pretty hard."

Will barked a laugh, then winced and wrapped an arm around his ribs.

"Don’t make me laugh," he complained. "Everything hurts."

"You wanted to vent," Lyan reminded him.

"I wanted to commit controlled violence in a socially acceptable environment," Will corrected. "There’s a difference."

They both fell quiet again, nursing what remained of their drinks. The bruises would flower tomorrow. The ache in Will’s pride would take longer.

After a while, Will sat up a little straighter.

"You know," he said slowly, turning his mug between his hands, "there is... one more thing we could try."

Lyan felt something in his stomach sink.

He raised an eyebrow. "You don’t mean that place."

Will’s mouth curled into a grin that was half boyish mischief, half royal recklessness.

"The very same," he said.

Images flickered through Lyan’s mind. A narrow street in the lower city where the lamps always burned a little too brightly. A discreet painted sign above an unremarkable door. Shelves crowded with bottles that smelled of herbs and spice and questionable promises. A proprietor whose smile said, "I know all your secrets," and whose hands mixed remedies that worked as often by talk as by tonic.

"That shop," Lyan said. "The one where the apothecary sells potions, talismans, and unsolicited life advice."

"And occasionally cures crises of confidence," Will added. "For a price."

Lyan closed his eyes briefly.

"If we get cursed in there," he said, "I’m not helping."

"If it works," Will said, pushing himself upright with a hiss of pain, "I’ll build them a shrine. I’ll sponsor them. I’ll put their emblem on the royal standard."

"Please don’t," Lyan said. "I don’t want to march behind a banner shaped like a mortar and pestle with questionable implications."

Will laughed again, softer this time, and eased himself to his feet. Lyan followed, joints protesting.

They both stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, taking stock of their own vertical status.

"Can you walk?" Lyan asked.

"I can limp majestically," Will said. "That counts."

They made their way to the door, weaving around groaning bodies. The barkeep caught Lyan’s eye and gave a small nod of thanks for the coin and the confiscated wand.

Outside, the night air was cool on sweat‑damp skin. The town’s main street stretched ahead, lit by a ragged line of lanterns. In the distance, toward the lower quarter, a row of lamps burned just a little too bright.

Bruised, limping, and still arguing under their breath about who had hit harder, they turned toward that glow.

"Let’s go to that store," they said together, and stepped into the night.