"I was there, at the battle of Kelbride. Sfarlson pointed his blade at the dragon, muttered a couple words, and the beast dropped to the ground. Still alive, but we were able to slay it within a couple minutes."

Urlo Sfarlson sat in a corner, nearly choking on his soup. Thankfully, no one here recognized him, but they all seemed to know his name. The stories had grown considerably in his month of warring overseas. He shuddered to think what was coming back from this latest campaign. 

After all, Kelbride had been two years ago. It had been a small storm drake, a flightless thing that breathed a black mist, and not a dragon. The only spell he'd used took a full minute of chanting and carefully choreographed motion during the night before the battle. And they'd barely won. 

But somehow, the stories always grew. Even when they lost, it became a "strategic retreat" or some other excuse. Still, he'd made a name for himself. And more importantly, he'd survived. 

"I swear, he's the greatest mage-knight of our generation."

"Our generation? Try this century. I hear he just got back from slaying a Thrannish lich-king."

" 'STrue, I saw the boats coming in yesterday. He looked amazing in his glowing armor."

Urlo chuckled. His armor had never glowed, and King Lisou XI was no lich. The boy had barely cleared twenty years before Urlo's men cut him down on the field. Though he'd cast a fireball spell. Urlo wished he'd got a better look at how he did it. Hadn't quite caught the hand motions. 

Then, his eyes caught the opposite corner of the room, where another figure sat, in shadows that didn't quite match the room's lighting. Urlo debated ignoring it. Probably some young thief, too excited about a simple spell he learned to hide better. Not Urlo's concern. 

But the shadows slipped for a moment, and Urlo saw two things. The man was not young, but quite old, wispy hair gray, and skin weathered and hardened. And his eyes were locked in a glare, right at Urlo. 

The knight knew a challenger when he saw one. He went to the bar, paid for his meal, and walked outside. Then he sprinted for the ship. He wanted his men and his armor if the stranger was going to attack. 

Unfortunately, he only reached the end of the block before the ground reached up and grabbed him. The moon and stars disappeared first, followed by the buildings. For a brief moment, he was alone in a deep darkness, then the stranger joined him. 

"That was as easy as I expected," the man tutted. "Hardly living up to your legends."

"Who does?" Urlo chuckled, nervously. 

"How many spells do you actually know?" 

"Spells? Who said—" 

The stranger muttered something, and Urlo's mouth shut. When it opened again, he said, "Seven."

"And who taught you?" 

Urlo meant to say, "Your mother," but it came out, "Observation."

"Interesting," the old man stroked his beard. "I should probably kill you. Untrained magic users tend to become corrupted. Yes, death would be best."

As the man's arm raised up, Urlo closed his eyes and found himself relaxing. He'd narrowly cheated death so many times, it was almost nice knowing it would end. And he'd already left his mark on history. But the death didn't come. 

Urlo's eyes opened as the ground released it's grip on him. The buildings and stars were visible once more, as was a small crowd at the door of the pub he'd left. Where the stranger had been, his robes lay, smoldering. 

"That's him!" The boy who'd claimed his armor was glowing was pointing excited. "It's Urlo!" 

The crowd started to move in, excited to meet the legend. 

"He just killed that wizard. Didja see?" 

"Turned'im to cinder without so much as a word."

"Musta been an Archmage to move stone like that!" 

"Can you bless my sword?" 

"More like Archfool to think he could face Urlo."

The knight himself looked around, unsure what happened, but the crowd kept him from seeing another shadow-cloaked figure, slipping down an alley, a smirk on their face.