In a city soon to be ruined, a mystery man walks into a bar. The wind outside is howling, whistling. If anyone listens closely, it sounds just like a rhyme told to children. But they do not, surrounded by rowdy drinking and the dull roar of talk. No one notices the man, save for the bartender.
"What can I get ya?" The bartender slides up to the man, sitting on a stool patiently.
"Ice water." The bartender followed, and places the glass next to the man, who was surveying the bar.
"Tying to stay sober?"
"No, just don't know any brews."
"Why're you here?" The bartender asks, friendly.
"To say something: The Owl King is a fake." The bartender reels back, then leans in closer.
"We don't really say that kinda thing around here, friend."
"It's true." The man reaches into a backpack at his feet and pulls out a file holder. On it is stamped the logo of two swords clashing. He opens it, and the bartender sees the truth. The bartender starts to mix ingredients underneath the bar, before the man places his hand on the bartender's. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"You're a traitor." The bartender pulls his hand away to throw the cocktail at the folder. It burns for a moment, before the fire crawls into the air, and wraps itself around the man's neck. The fire revealed the face under the hood, covered in scars, ash, and burns. His mouth twists into a dark smile.
As the bar burned down, a stranger walked out, nearly devoid of flames, save for a few dying strands of flame curling around his arm.