Wrath of the White Dove Free Reading - 2

 

CHAPTER 1

Back then, the tavern didn't have a name.

At least, no one bothered to remember it.

The air inside was a permanent cocktail of damp wood, old ale dregs, and grease never fully scrubbed away. In the afternoons, the patrons were sparse—mostly dockworkers from the nearby wharves or sailors on brief shore leave. They’d enter, drink, leave, their eyes never lingering. In the corners, a few listless regulars nursed their cups, utterly disinterested in the world.

"August! Are those tables clean?!"

Grace’s voice cracked from the back like a whip against a post, carrying her trademark brand of no-nonsense authority. The coin purse at her belt jingled with every move, a constant reminder—she ruled this roost.

August stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled high, a few stray drops of murky ale staining his wrist. He wiped a wooden tankard with a rag, rolling his eyes as he did. "Done, done." His motions, however, grew unconsciously quicker, shoving the last chipped mug back onto the shelf.

He seized a moment to grab a cup of the house special and took a sip. His face instantly contorted into a living monument of disgust. No malt aroma, no body—just sourness, must, and a dubious aftertaste that hinted at stolen stable runoff. And yet, the drunks around him were guzzling it down like celestial nectar, emptying their cups faster than water.

"Tch!" August set the cup down on the bar with a clack. He looked over at Grace, who was counting coins, his tone dripping with his signature blend of laziness and bite. "Boss, it's a damn miracle anyone comes here at all."

Grace's hand stilled. She looked up, her glare sharp enough to draw blood. "Boy, if you're looking to get thrown into the street, just say the word."

He shrugged, an elaborate pantomime of helplessness. "Just stating facts. This swill... it's torture-grade."

"What?!" Grace’s head snapped up, hands flying to her hips as if she could split the bar in half with her outrage. "What do you know? This is the most popular ale on the black market! People love it!"

August met her fiery gaze, not bothering to dodge it. "They're too drunk to taste it, that's why they're happy." He jerked a thumb toward the oblivious crowd. "Change the brew. Your business would double—no joke."

Grace blinked, momentarily struck dumb, then let out a derisive laugh. "You? A vagrant?" Her eyes swept over him from head to toe, brimming with skepticism. "You think you know more than the old brewers in the district?"

"Let me try. You'll see." He shrugged, the picture of infuriating calm. "I fail, I keep being your unpaid drudge. I succeed... you cut me a share."

Grace stared at him, like a she-wolf deciding whether to bite. Finally, she tossed her hair back with a sharp motion and snorted. "Fine. Let's see what kind of devilry you can conjure up."

Grace led him down into the cellar. The smell hit like a physical blow, thick enough to make eyes water. Barrels, malt, rye, and hops were piled in chaotic heaps. A few barrels of fermenting brew emitted a dubious odor. The old brewer, a man of about sixty named John with a white beard and sharp eyes, watched him with a deeply skeptical look…

August walked a slow circuit, one brow lifting.

The malt was unevenly roasted, lending a harsh bitterness; the barrels were left to fate, temperature fluctuating wildly; and the crowning absurdity—the liquid itself was so full of floating sediment you could scoop it out for supper.

"Boss, get me a large kettle, a clean linen cloth, and some honey," he said, rolling up his sleeves, his tone a declaration of war on the world.

Grace frowned. "Linen? Honey? What in hells are you planning?"

"Salvaging your near-lethal brewing methods," he replied, looking up with a rogue's grin.

She rolled her eyes but complied.

He sorted through a batch of malt.

Over-roasted grains were discarded without ceremony, uneven ones set aside. No fanfare, no pronouncements. Just methodical, silent work.

He simmered the malt in hot water, letting the true flavor develop. He fashioned a crude filter from the linen to strain out the godforsaken sediment. Finally, he added honey to the fermentation vat, tempering the acidity that could strip paint from a wall.

Old John muttered under his breath nearby, his mouth a downturned line. "A pure waste of time." August offered no explanation.

The first barrel finished under his new regimen went… poorly. On the fifth day, he cracked the seal and gave it a single glance, a slight frown creasing his brow.

The color was clearer than before, but thin. The taste wasn't harsh, but empty.

Old John took a gulp, his face screwing up even tighter than before.

"No character?" he said, staring into the mug. "This is what's going to double our custom?"

August shook his head, took the mug back, and poured its contents back into the barrel without hesitation.

"This was a first run," he said, his voice calm. "It failed. We adjust."

No excuses. No disappointment. He simply rolled up his sleeves, shoved the barrel aside, his movements as natural as if he'd expected nothing else.

This was where it truly began.

Water temperature lowered slightly, time extended. An extra layer of coarse cloth for filtering. The honey added not at the start, but later, slowly, once the brew had stabilized. Each action was deliberate, precise, as if rehearsed a hundred times in his mind.

The dilapidated brewing equipment groaned in protest. Old John, his beard brushing his chest, and the other hands stood by, their expressions screaming 'this fool is still bluffing.'

John grumbled low, his voice like gravel being ground. "Young folk these days… always chasing mad, heretical notions."

August didn't bother turning. He just pushed the hot kettle aside, rolling his sleeves higher, the muscles of his forearm catching the lamplight for a moment.

"Relax," he said, as if offering casual reassurance. "I'm not mad enough to tear down your altar."

He paused, then added, his tone so flat it bordered on insolence. "It's just that your so-called 'old ways' probably can't brew a taste worth going mad for anymore."

Old John's face darkened instantly, as if someone had trampled his family crest. August didn't care.

Leaning in the doorway, Grace watched with her arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. Her gaze never left him. She said nothing, but her expression betrayed her—

She was, despite everything, a little bit intrigued.

Through the whole process, she watched him with skeptical eyes, punctuating the silence with the occasional barb.

"All this fuss. Is it actually going to work?"

August looked up, a faint smile touching his lips.

"Of course it will."

He fitted the wooden lid onto the barrel and gave it a firm pat. "One week. Judge the result then."

The new brew was finally ready. When his first finished barrel was tapped, the entire back kitchen fell into a silence as profound as the moment before a storm breaks.

Old John and Grace held their mugs like prisoners awaiting sentence.

Old John took a sip, his brow furrowing—August braced for the scoff.

"...This taste..." Instead, Old John's eyes began to widen slowly, as if struck by some unseen force.

The other hands began to taste. One by one, their rigid expressions cracked.

"It's... good..." someone muttered in awe. Another swallowed hard. A few even shot furtive glances his way—as if looking at some damned foreign monster.

"I don't believe it..." Grace said with a measure of disdain, pouring the ale into a wooden cup. She gave it a casual sniff—

Then, she froze. Her brow furrowed. She took a deeper inhale. The malt aroma was rich, layered, carrying a hint of honeyed sweetness, completely devoid of the usual nose-pinching sourness.

Hesitant, disbelieving, she took a small sip. Her eyes snapped wide open. "This... how is this possible?!"

"Is it terrible?" he asked, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

Grace swallowed, then took a huge, deliberate gulp. She slammed the mug down on the table. "Gods damn it, how did you do this?!"

August shrugged, spreading his hands. "Smooth on the palate, a long, sweet finish? The honey balancing the malt's bitterness just right? An aftertaste that lingers pleasantly, unlike the old swill that vanished the moment you swallowed?"

Old John was silent for a long while, his gnarled knuckles tapping softly against the rim of his cup, as if he couldn't trust his own tongue. Finally, he looked up, meeting August's gaze. His expression held a rare, grudging respect.

"If what we served before was ditch-water scooped from a foul gutter..." he murmured, cradling his cup as if it were fragile, "...then this... this is the drink they'd hoard for a king's feast."

He gave a slow, solemn nod, his beard trembling slightly. "You, boy... you have the touch."

Suddenly, Grace strode forward, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him close until her face was almost against his chest. She stared up at him, fierce and demanding. "Just who in the hells are you?!" Her grip was strong enough he felt his toes lift slightly from the floor.

He held his hands up in surrender. "A vagrant who knows his way around a brew."

She narrowed her eyes, studying him. Then, a slow, different kind of smile spread across her lips. She leaned in even closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that sent a faint shiver down his spine. "Still... a recipe like that... surely you could share the secret?"

Her tone was laced with a honeyed, dangerous allure, her breath warm against his ear.

"Afraid not," he said, taking a deliberate half-step back, his tone mock-serious. "That recipe is my life's blood."

She took a deep breath, looking at the ale in her hand. After a moment of silence, she suddenly grinned—a sharp, predatory thing. "August. From today, the cellar is yours."

Old John's eyes bulged as if he'd been struck by lightning. Grace gave a slight, imperious tilt of her chin, her decision made.

She closed the distance again, her voice now laced with cunning. "Become my brewer. Let's discuss the split."

"You take seventy, I take thirty," August shot back instantly. A corner of his mouth quirked up in a roguish grin, as if he'd been waiting for this very moment all along.

 

Word, it seemed, had grown legs.

Within days, patrons began ordering a second tankard. Then a third.

Soon after, some asked to take a small cask home.

Then, Grace noticed the numbers in the ledger finally beginning to climb. Her gaze, almost against her will, started following the man—the same vagrant who a month ago had been a troublesome heap on her doorstep, hauled inside on a whim. The tavern transformed from a dingy hole into the roaring heart of the street… Carriages lined up around the corner, merchants from afar clamored to be served first, and occasionally, men in the polished armor of knights would stride in, faces aloof with curiosity.

"Word is this place serves a draught… finer than the King's own cellars."

"Who says? The Kentfey baron's household took two barrels yesterday—I saw it myself!"

The hall was a cacophony, a battle of boasts and clinking tankards.

The thud of cups on wood, raucous laughter, lies and bragging weaving through the thick air.

August leaned against the bar, calmly wiping a glass, his peripheral vision catching the very men who usually cursed the nobility loudest now elbowing each other for a taste of the "same brew the lords drink."

People. So predictably cheap.

 

 

The tavern had been closed for hours, the main door barred, only a few dying embers of the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. Grace carried a bottle of the new batch, pulled out a chair, and sat down beside him without ceremony. August was using a small knife to trim his nails, his movements leisurely, as if the entire world were a distant, irrelevant thing.

"Drink with me," she said, her voice soft, as if mentioning a trifle.

"Can't drink alone? I'm busy here..." He didn't even look up, merely blowing a bit of nail dust away.

Grace tilted her head, watching him. The smile on her lips held a dangerous quality—not an open flame, but the banked heat beneath the ashes. "It's more interesting with you, isn't it?"

He still didn't raise his eyes, his refusal light as turning down a glass of water. "Better you drink it yourself."

The air hung still for a heartbeat. Then—thud. The bottle met the tabletop, a solid, final sound. August's head jerked up by reflex. Grace was already on her feet, her fingers taut, her back rigid. She offered no parting word, her boots striking the stairs as she ascended, never granting him so much as a backward glance.

"Probably for the best," he murmured to the empty silence, his tone unreadable—a man trying to convince himself of a necessary lie. The tavern was quiet now, leaving him alone with only the echo of his own words for company.

 

 

The following evening, the firelight in the tavern was still gentle. A few patrons wearing knights' surcoats left coin on the table and rose, their boots thudding dully on the wooden floor. They left, fetching their horses from the stable, and soon rode off into the gloom.

Moments later—

The main door slammed open with a violent crash, a gust of cold, damp air rushing in.

Three men with the swagger of street-thugs stepped inside, their cloaks hanging open. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a notch.

The old regulars glanced up for a split second, then immediately looked down, raising their tankards, pretending to see nothing. Some shrank further into the shadows.

The trio sauntered in, their eyes lazily sweeping the sparse tables before finally settling on Grace behind the bar.

One of them smirked, the expression slick and vile.

August’s brow lowered. He stopped what he was doing, setting the half-wiped wooden mug down softly on the counter. Two of the serving hands hovered nervously near the kitchen doorway, on edge.

"Landlady," one of them said with a greasy chuckle, "heard business is sweet these days. Ought to share some of that sugar with the lads, eh? We came all this way for a taste."

Grace looked up, her eyes sharpening, though her tone remained even. "The dues are paid."

Another leaned on the bar, tapping his fingers on the wood. "Such a cold night. Wouldn't you warm us up a bit? A pretty thing like you, so fierce… tsk tsk…" His greedy stare never left her face.

The third, a short, stout man, grinned, his gaze sliding from Grace's face down to her bodice. "The dues are paid," he echoed, spreading his hands wide. "But your profits have grown. The… understanding should grow with them, no?"

It was then, from the other side of the bar, August spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it was flat, uncomfortably direct. "If you want more, say it plain."

The three men started, finally giving him their full attention.

One of them snorted, dripping with contempt. "And who's this? New meat?"

"He's not your concern," Grace cut in, her voice icy. "It will be handled in a few days."

The man arched a brow, studying her for a moment, his tone turning suggestive. "Make it double. Wouldn't want our boss to think you've forgotten whose streets these are."

With that, he casually picked up a tankard, sniffed it, took a swig, and smacked his lips. "Hmm… smoother than before. No wonder the coin's flowing."

Grace offered no reply, her gaze glacial.

The three chuckled, turning to leave. The stout one glanced back over his shoulder as he went. "Don't keep us waiting too long, landlady."

The three thugs vanished out the door, and the howling wind immediately rushed in to claim the space they'd left.

A brief, thick silence settled over the tavern.

August draped the rag he'd been holding over his shoulder. His tone was casual, as if remarking on the weather. "This happen often?"

Grace picked up another cloth, scrubbing at a spot on the bar that didn't need it. "Local scum. They can smell coins." She paused, her gaze shifting to him, complex and warning. Her voice dropped. "That's West Market filth... black market enforcers. We don't make trouble with them. You'd do well to stay clear."

August's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking faintly at its hinge. His eyes remained fixed on the dark street visible through the open door.

Grace said nothing more, bending her head to her work. But the air of defiant, unyielding pride around her didn't diminish in the slightest.

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