The flickering glow of the tavern's hearth cast dancing shadows across Ana's weathered table. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and ale, enveloping her like an old, familiar cloak as she scanned the yellowed newspapers that chronicled battles won and companions lost.

  Songs of Sir Ironfoot's valor echoed in her memory, a symphony of bygone glory that reverberated through every faded column inch. She swigged from her mug, savoring the bitter tang. Like a specter from her thoughts, Ethan emerged from the hazy depths, his mocking laughter slicing through her nostalgic reverie. Ana, unfazed, took another deliberate sip.

  The rustle of newspapers accompanied the tavern's din, mingling with the clinking of mugs and low murmur of patrons. Each page Ana turned was a window into history, into her history. The ink, faded yet persistent, the exploits of heroes etched into each line. She paused over a particularly worn article, the headline boasting of a legendary siege broken by the mighty Kingsguard.

  "The Heroes Return, Demons Falling Back"

  The page crinkled beneath her grip, as if resisting the weight of its own tale. Ana frowned. The headline loomed in bold letters. She traced the words with a calloused finger, an involuntary twitch at the corner of her lips as a flood of memories surged forth.

  With a wry smile, Ana considered the stack before her. She flipped to another page, the text recounting the celebrated deeds of Sir Ironfoot. Though dwarven, Sir Ironfoot's spirit was as towering as the giants of lore, and his honor as steadfast as the mountains. Each ballad sung in his name was a verse in the epic of her own journey, his legendary feats an indelible part of her story. She took a deep draft from her mug, letting the ale's warmth mingle with the familiar sting of nostalgia.

  The tavern buzzed with life around her, a stark contrast to the solitude of her introspection. Laughter and shouted orders wove through the air. Barmaids weaved between tables, their hands laden with frothy tankards and hearty plates. In the corner, a fiddler played a jaunty tune, the notes dancing through the room like lively sprites. Yet, for Ana, it was a mere backdrop to her thoughts.

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  Each sip of ale was a salve, dulling the sharper edges of recollection as it slid down her throat. The taste was bitter, but familiar—a companion in its own right. It softened the memories that emerged, unbidden and unrelenting. Friends lost to time and war; dreams built and shattered; the lingering shadow of Valar.

  Ethan pierced through the tavern's hum to taunt her. "Drowning yourself in history, Ana? Always the glutton for punishment, you are."

  Ana didn't flinch, her eyes still fixed on the page before her. She reached for her mug, her movements unhurried, and took another deliberate sip. The ale's warmth spread through her, its familiar burn a counterpoint to the chill of Ethan's words. "Nice to see you still know how to make an entrance," she replied dryly.

  Ethan leaned closer, his features barely distinguishable from the smoke and shadows that wreathed him. "Your cold shoulder won't change anything, you know. The past has a way of catching up, even to the likes of you."

  Ana chuckled, a low, mirthless sound. "The past and I are on good terms, thank you very much." She gestured to the papers, a careless sweep of her hand that belied the turmoil beneath. "Besides, it's not like you have anything new to add."

  "New? Perhaps not. But a reminder never hurts. Skulls and reapers. Demons and ghosts. You've made quite the collection." His laughter echoed once more, a sound as chilling as it was familiar.

  Ana let the derision wash over her, unmoved and unflinching. She took another sip, allowing the ale to dull her further. Her focus returned to the newspapers, their faded print more comforting than the presence that loomed over her.

  The paper before her detailed another battle. It spoke of cunning strategy and the valor of outnumbered troops. She remembered the fear and adrenaline, the clash of steel and the surge of victory, her memories were stark, alive.

  "Wondering where I fit in all this?" Ethan asked, his words curling through the air like smoke.

  Ana snapped the newspaper shut with a sharp flick. She moved with sudden swiftness, her hand shooting out to seize him by the throat. But her grip met empty air.

  Ethan's form wavered, fading like mist in the sunlight. His final laugh lingered, echoing through the rafters before dissolving into the tavern's din.

  "Need another?" The barwoman was at her side, nodding at Ana's half-empty jug.

  Blinking the ghosts from her eyes, unbothered. "Why not? Make it two."

  As the barwoman moved off, Ana sank deeper into the worn wood of her chair. Ethan's silhouette had dissolved like a mirage.

  The noise of the tavern softened to a distant hum, a mere background noice to the stories that unfolded before her, with each turn of the page—she swigged from her mug.