After the siblings left the mountain they went to a lawless city of Hollowmere devoid of life in the country side the kingdom. There they witnessed another level of discrimination.
Hollowmere was nothing more than a fetid corpse of failed governance. The roads—if one could even call them that—were a mess of uneven stone and muck, littered with scraps of half-eaten meals and the corpses of those who had not made it through the day's cruel game. Thieves and killers roamed more fiercely than the so-called ruler, Lord Gaspar Marvayne, a man whose life of excess exemplified all that was amiss in the kingdom. His corpulent body, garbed in silks of the finest quality, strained on the throne greased by the fat of a hundred banquets. His oiled mustache curled with merriment as he stuffed another roasted pheasant into his maw while his people starved.
Authority in Hollowmere had not rested with the lord—it had been with the factions who ruled clandestinely, the ones who had thrived in anarchy.
In The Severed Fang, the city's roughest of taverns, the air stank of spilled ale and filthy bodies. Mercenaries, criminals, and desperate men filled the darkened room, whispering to each other and exchanging coin under the tables. The city was famous for its opportunities for knights and mercenaries in training because the largest and darkest forest in the continent, famous for its monsters and resources was near the city. It was known as the city of gold for those with with power and those who wanted to make their name known throughout the continent.
At the bar was a would-be common drunkard—poorly. His clothes, though filthy, were too tidy. His stoop, though slouchy, contained a practiced rigidity. In speaking, his voice contained an edge, more like a thespian struggling to find his way into the character than a true resident of Hollowmere.
"Barkeep!" he thundered, slamming his empty tankard onto the bar. "What kind of bilge do you serve up here? Not even fit for a bloody pig!"
The one-eyed barkeep, his face set off by a formidable collection of scars, barely gave him a second glance. "You'll take what's offered. And you'll be paying twice as much for the next round if you keep complaining."
A few patrons around him chuckled, but the man wasn't there to smile. He was here for them.
Across the room, the siblings watched, their sensitive senses picking up on every insincere note in the stranger's performance. He was looking for trouble—and he had picked them as the perfect target.
He spun on them, a grin crossing his face. "You two are soft," he sneered. "How much money do you think your lives are worth?"
The older brother, Leon—eyeing him keenly, calculating—did not fall for the trap. But the younger sister Kyle, prone to wrath, stiffened.
"You talk too much for a dead man," the younger brother growled.
The tavern grew quiet.
The stranger laughed, jumping up and toppling the table with a gust of wind from his fist, causing coins and mugs to soar as the crowd rushed through in confusion.
The siblings had to fight, swords drawn as the man attacked with unnatural speed. Slivers of sorcery flashed between them, steel on steel rang, and tables overturned as bodies fought to get out of the way.
"You've got talent!" the man sneered between punches. "But will it be enough to survive Hollowmere?, Even though i look like this compared to knights I'm a third class".
"You've got some nerve for a third class, Its understandable if you want to pick a fight with us cause it survival of the fittest in Hallomere". Leon said
The battle erupted, but the twins were not fighting to live—they were fighting to escape. Because if the Lord of Hollowmere had sent this man to chase them, then their presence was suddenly a problem.