The journey to Theradrin had been long, and the unsettling nature of the kingdom made every step feel heavier than it should. The once-vibrant forests had long since given way to twisted trees, their gnarled branches clawing at the gray sky like skeletal fingers. Ilara and Varrian rode silently through the winding paths, their steeds unnerved by the oppressive aura of the land.


    Theradrin was not a place for the faint of heart. It was a kingdom of monsters—vampires, werewolves, and other creatures of the night who had sworn allegiance to their enigmatic king.


    As they approached the outskirts of a decrepit town, Varrian glanced at Ilara with his usual grin. “We need answers, and this place looks... welcoming.”


    Ilara raised an eyebrow. “A tavern in Theradrin. Brilliant idea, Varrian. What could possibly go wrong?”


    “Oh, come on, my lady. What’s life without a little risk?” he said with a hearty laugh, dismounting from his horse.


    Ilara sighed but followed, muttering under her breath. “I’ll remind you of that when we’re surrounded by fangs and claws.”


    The tavern loomed ahead, its crooked sign swinging precariously in the wind. The name, The Howling Moon, was etched in faded letters, accompanied by the faint sound of snarls and raucous laughter from within.


    As they pushed the heavy wooden doors open, a wave of silence swept over the room. Every eye turned to them—some glowing red, others gleaming yellow. Vampires, werewolves, and a variety of other monstrous beings filled the dimly lit space. The tension was palpable, the air thick with suspicion and malice.


    Varrian, undeterred, stepped inside with a wide grin. “Friendly bunch, aren’t they?” he said loud enough for everyone to hear.


    Ilara rolled her eyes, whispering, “This was your idea. Remember that.”


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    They moved to an empty table near the corner, the stares following them like predators eyeing their prey.


    “Let’s rest and ask around,” Varrian said, scanning the room. “Someone here knows where the King of Theradrin is.”


    Ilara leaned in, her voice low. “This isn’t Eldris, Varrian. These people—or creatures—don’t take kindly to strangers poking around.”


    Varrian leaned back with a shrug. “Well, we’re here now. Let’s make the best of it.”


    Before long, a group of burly werewolves approached their table. The leader, a towering figure with mangy fur and glowing yellow eyes, growled, “Bounty hunters, are you? Think you can come here and sniff around?”


    Varrian smirked, rising from his seat. “Bounty hunters? No. But if you’re looking for a fight...” He cracked his knuckles. “I’d be happy to oblige.”


    The werewolves lunged, but Varrian was quicker. With a single punch, he sent the leader crashing into a table, splinters flying everywhere. Another tried to grab him from behind, but Varrian spun, slamming his fist into the creature’s jaw with enough force to knock out a fang.


    Meanwhile, Ilara leaned back in her chair, watching the chaos unfold. She sighed dramatically, resting her chin on her hand. “Every time we go somewhere, you just have to smash something, don’t you?”


    Varrian grinned, dodging a wild swing and delivering a thunderous uppercut that sent another werewolf sprawling. “Keeps things interesting!”


    The remaining creatures hesitated, their confidence wavering. Varrian turned to the rest of the room, his booming voice echoing. “Anyone else want a piece of me?”


    The tavern fell silent again, and the remaining patrons quickly looked away, shaking their heads in unison.


    Ilara finally stood, brushing off her cloak. “Subtle as ever, Varrian.”


    “You’re welcome,” he replied with a grin, dusting off his hands.


    The bartender, a hulking three-headed beast with glasses perched on each snout, cleared his throats. “If you’re done redecorating my establishment, what can I get you?”


    Varrian blinked, looking from one head to the next. “Uh... which one do I talk to?”


    “All of them,” Ilara said dryly, stepping up to the bar. “Two beers, please.”


    The beast nodded, each head moving in unison, and poured the drinks into large, frothing mugs.


    Varrian clapped an arm around Ilara’s shoulders, laughing. “Now this is what I’m talking about! Drinks on me!”


    But as he took a sip, his expression soured. “What is this? This isn’t beer—it’s... it’s sludge!”


    Ilara smirked, sipping her drink without complaint. “Welcome to Theradrin.”


    Varrian set the mug down with exaggerated disgust. “Monsters can’t even brew a decent drink.”


    Ilara turned her attention back to the bartender, her tone serious. “We’re looking for the King of Theradrin. Any idea where we might find him?”


    The three-headed beast eyed her cautiously before nodding. “The king resides in the Iron Spire, deep in the heart of Theradrin. But be warned—getting an audience with him isn’t easy. And if you do manage it... you might not like what you find.”


    Ilara nodded, slipping a few coins onto the bar. “Thanks for the warning.”


    As they left the tavern, Varrian muttered, “I still can’t believe they call that swill beer.”


    Ilara shook her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “Focus, Varrian. We’ve got a king to find.”


    The doors closed behind them, the eerie silence of Theradrin’s streets enveloping them once more. Their journey was far from over.