The tavern doors swing open to a wall of heat and sound—but nothing captures your attention like the two massive figures at the center table.

Brant and Salazar slam their fists onto the table, knuckles locked. The fire dragon's amber eyes blaze with stubborn determination while the gold dragon's golden gaze burns with competitive fire. Their arms—each thick as tree trunks—strain against each other, muscles quivering. The wooden table groans, cracks spiderwebbing beneath them.

"You call that a wrist?!" Brant snarls through gritted teeth.

"I've bent stronger wills than yours, little ember," Salazar replies, voice dangerously calm.

A few feet away, Rohan and Zivurix lean against the dartboard, engaged in their own silent war. The swamp dragon's pink eyes track each throw with predatory precision. The storm dragon's blind white eyes somehow never miss, purple lightning crackling along his scales with every movement.

"Your aim is adequate," Rohan drawls.

"Your aim is dead," Zivurix counters, throwing another bullseye.

Near the fireplace, Edward watches Brant's arm wrestle with calculated interest, his icy wings rustling. Turquoise cheers loudly for either group, bouncing between the two competitions with interjections of "Go, bro, go!" and "That was totally radical, dude!". And, squished awkwardly between two chairs by the door, Graham clutches his book, green eyes darting nervously between both games—clearly hoping no one asks him to participate.