CHAPTER 570: THE PRINCE AND HIS DYSFUNCTION (3)

"Define fun."

"We lay down rules," Will said, ignoring the question. "Like we used to. No swords. No magic. No killing, unless someone really insists on it."

"We are in a bandit bar," Lyan pointed out. "They are unlikely to honor any rules that don’t include the words ’your purse’ and ’hand it over.’"

Will’s smile turned a little feral.

"That," he said, "is the fun part."

He didn’t have to raise his voice. The tavern was full of people who had been eavesdropping since the word ’prince’ first slipped out of Will’s mouth, and every mention of "weak" and "ten girls" after that had sharpened their ears further.

A hulking man with arms like tree trunks and a nose badly set at least twice pushed back from a nearby table. Three of his companions followed—one wiry with a knife at his belt, one woman with her hair in tight braids and a grin that showed too many teeth, and a lanky fellow whose cloak didn’t quite hide the glint of a wand at his hip.

"Well now," the big man drawled as they approached. "Always nice when nobles admit they’re weak. Saves us the trouble of proving it."

Will’s shoulders went very still.

Lyan sighed inwardly. Here we go.

"We were having a private conversation," Lyan said, tone mild.

"In a public house," the big man said. "With very public words. ’Prince.’ ’Lord.’ ’Ten girls.’" His grin widened. "Sounds like you boys are compensating."

His friends chuckled. The knife‑belted one’s gaze slid to Lyan’s hands, measuring. The braided woman sized up Will like a horse at market. The lanky one in the cloak didn’t laugh; his fingers twitched near his hidden holster.

Will’s jaw clenched.

"You got something to say," he asked quietly, "or you just here to breathe on us?"

"Oho," the big man said. "Feisty. Tell you what. You two hand over your coin and maybe we won’t spread around the story about a royal who can’t rise to the occasion."

His friends snickered.

The big man reached out, fingers closing on the front of Will’s shirt.

He never got the chance to yank.

Lyan’s hand came up and caught the man’s wrist in midair. His fingers didn’t squeeze. They just held, unyielding.

The big man tugged. Nothing moved.

Lyan stood up slowly, setting his mug aside with a care that made the barkeep behind the counter suddenly very interested.

"Will," Lyan said calmly, without taking his eyes off the bandit. "No magic. No blades. First one to break the rule buys a whole cask for the house."

Will stood too, rolling his shoulders. His earlier gloom had burned away, replaced by bright, reckless focus.

"You’re on," he said.

Around them, the tavern quieted the way a field did before a storm. Conversations trailed off. Chairs scraped as people leaned back to get clear or leaned forward to see better.

"Twenty on the big guy," someone muttered.

"Twenty on the pretty boy with the red eyes," another said, nodding at Will.

The barkeep sighed deeply, then started shifting the good bottles behind a crate.

"You lot break anything past the chairs," he said, "and I’m charging double."

"Consider it hazard pay," Lyan replied.

He released the bandit’s wrist and stepped back just enough to give him room.

"After you," he said.

The first swing came at Will.

The big man’s fist was the size of a soup bowl and came in with the slow, brutal confidence of a man who’d never had to care about precision. Will slipped under it with lazy grace, cloak flaring. As the punch cut through empty air, he hooked his boot around the man’s ankle and gave a sharp tug.

The big man pitched forward with a startled grunt and crashed into his own companions’ table, scattering dice and teeth in equal measure.

The wiry knife‑man lunged at Lyan. His fist came straight for Lyan’s jaw, the other hand dipping toward the belt where the knife gleamed.

Lyan turned his cheek and let the punch slide along his forearm, redirecting the force. His other hand snapped out, catching the man by the collar. He pivoted, using the man’s own momentum to spin him around and send him stumbling headfirst into the next patron over.

Instinct took over.

They hadn’t fought side by side in years, but old patterns slotted into place as if no time had passed at all. Lyan controlled the space, feet light on the sticky floor, always a step where he needed to be. Will crashed into openings with joyous aggression, his blows sharp and efficient.

"Left," Lyan called as he ducked under a wild swing.

Will’s elbow shot out without him looking, catching a would‑be ambusher in the ribs. The man wheezed and folded.

"Behind," Will snapped a breath later.

Lyan shifted his weight, let the breath of a punch whisper past his ear, then drove his heel into the attacker’s knee. Something popped. The man went down with a howl.

A bottle sailed toward Will’s head from somewhere near the bar. He snatched a chair with one hand and dragged it up like a shield. Glass exploded against the wood, showering him with wet fragments.

"Rude," he muttered, then kicked the chair’s leg into a bandit’s shin.

Lyan ducked under a swinging arm, grabbed the edge of a nearby table, and used it as a pivot to spin himself around, his leg sweeping behind him. His boot caught a man at the ankles, sending him sprawling into a bench.

The tavern erupted into full chaos.

The big man struggled upright again, red‑faced with rage. His bellow rattled the beams.

"You little shits," he roared, snatching up a loose table leg as an improvised club.

He swung at Lyan in a horizontal arc that would have caved in a chest if it connected. Lyan dipped under it by the width of a finger, felt the wind of it ruffle his hair, and took three fast steps back toward open floor.

"Mine," he said to Will without looking.

Will grinned and pivoted away toward a new cluster of enemies.

The wiry knife‑man had finally drawn steel. He darted for Will’s side, blade low and glinting.

Will twisted, caught the knife wrist with both hands, and slammed it into the nearest support beam. The man yelped. Will drove his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose. Cartilage crunched. The knife clattered to the floor. Will kicked it under a distant table.

"My back," he said as the man slid down the beam, "is not public property."

Across the room, the braided woman vaulted onto a table and launched herself at Lyan, knives flashing in both hands. For a heartbeat it looked like she’d land on his shoulders.

He shifted one step to the side.

She sailed past him and crashed into the big man’s chest. They both toppled backward into another table, sending more bottles flying.

"Thank you for your contribution," Lyan said politely.

From the corner, a faint prickling crawled over Lyan’s skin—the familiar tingle of magic gathering.

He and Will both felt it. Their eyes met for a split second.

"We promised," Will said through his teeth.

Lyan’s gaze flicked toward the source.

The lanky fellow who’d come over with the big man had his cloak half thrown back now. A wand gleamed between his fingers, the air around it shimmering with the beginnings of a spell.

Lyan snatched the nearest tankard and hurled it.

It spun end over end, ale trailing in a messy arc, and smacked the mage square in the forehead.

The glow around the wand sputtered. Sparks shot sideways, fizzling harmlessly against the wall.

The mage staggered, clutching his brow.

"Ow! You savage—"

He tried again, fingers fumbling toward the wand’s runes.

Will didn’t give him the chance.

He took three running steps, planted one boot on an overturned bench, and slid across it like a child discovering polished floors, shoulder first. He slammed into the mage, driving him into the wall with a crack of plaster.

The wand arm jerked up, but Will pinned the wrist against the wood with his elbow, pressing hard enough that the man hissed.

"No spells," Will said in his ear. "We’re having a fair fight. Try to respect the theme."

The mage snarled and tried to trace a sigil in the air with his free hand. Lyan appeared at his other side, calm as a man stepping into a shop.

He caught the casting hand, twisted just enough to make the fingers lose their pattern, and plucked the wand from the trapped grip. It wriggled faintly with stored energy.

"That’s mine," the mage gasped.

"You can have it back," Lyan said, "when you learn to use it without getting your teeth knocked in."

He tossed the wand to the barkeep. The man caught it without looking and slipped it under the counter with the bored efficiency of someone who’d confiscated worse.

Will kneed the mage in the stomach and let him slide to the floor. Grabbing a curtain tie from the nearby window, he looped it around the man’s wrists and cinched it tight.

"There," he said. "Time‑out corner."