Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

The scent of sizzling fish and spiced rice drifted through the air as Ishmael stopped in front of a small riverside restaurant. The place was little more than a wooden platform with a handful of tables, shaded by a patched-up awning. The river flowed lazily just below, the murky water lapping against the dock's supports.

Ishmael gestured to an empty table near the edge. "You hungry?"

Charon hesitated. It wasn't like he had coin—but Ishmael had taken the lead on this whole outing, and it seemed like an offer, not a request.

"Yeah," he said, sitting across from him.

A server came by, and Ishmael ordered a plate of grilled fish, flatbread, and two mugs of something called amberbrew. Charon had no idea what that was, but he wasn't about to ask.

As they waited for their food, Ishmael leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "So, you ever fight?"

Charon nearly choked on air. "Uh… what?"

Ishmael smirked. "You don't carry a weapon. Not many people walk around without some kind of steel on them, unless they know how to hold their own."

"I—" Charon scrambled for an answer. He had written so many fight scenes, but actually fighting? Completely different thing.

Ishmael took his silence as answer enough. "You should learn. You won't last long in a city like this otherwise."

Charon swallowed. "I'll… keep that in mind."

Their food arrived, and for a few minutes, they ate in relative quiet. The amberbrew turned out to be a warm, spiced drink—almost like cider, with a sharp kick at the end. Charon wasn't sure if he liked it, but he drank it anyway.

The sounds of the street hummed around them—merchants calling out deals, the distant clatter of a blacksmith's hammer, the low murmur of riverboats creaking against their moorings.

It almost felt… normal.

Then the shouting started.

Across the platform, two men sat hunched over a table, speaking in hushed but heated tones. Their voices had been a low murmur at first, but suddenly one of them—a wiry man with a scarred cheek—slammed his mug onto the table.

"You think I'd be fool enough to take that deal?"

The other man, a bulkier figure with a thick, dark beard, leaned in. "You agreed to it."

"I agreed to terms. What you're asking now—"

The bearded man cut him off. "You're not leaving this table until we settle this."

People were starting to notice. A few diners cast nervous glances their way. The server hesitated mid-step before retreating behind the counter.

Charon shifted uncomfortably, lowering his mug. Ishmael, however, didn't seem fazed. If anything, he watched with mild disinterest, as if already calculating how this would play out.

The scarred man let out a sharp bark of laughter. "You can go to hell."

Then, in one fluid motion, he drew a knife and buried it in the other man's stomach.

The restaurant erupted into chaos.

The bearded man let out a choked gasp, eyes wide with shock as blood spread across his tunic. The scarred man twisted the blade cruelly before yanking it out.

Then, before anyone could react, he kicked the wounded man backward—sending him over the edge of the platform and into the river below.

A splash. Then silence.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Ishmael stood.

It happened so fast that Charon barely saw it—one moment, Ishmael was sitting; the next, his sword was out, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

The scarred man turned, only to freeze as Ishmael's blade flashed toward him.

A single, clean strike.

The man gasped. Staggered. His knife slipped from his grip, clattering onto the wooden planks. Blood spattered onto the table, and then—slowly—he crumpled to the ground.

The entire restaurant had fallen into stunned silence.

Somewhere, someone screamed.

Charon's breath hitched. His heart hammered in his chest. This wasn't just a fight—this was murder. A man had just died in front of him.

And the other—

His gaze snapped to the river, where dark red tendrils curled through the water. The bearded man was still there, barely moving.

Without thinking, Charon shoved back his chair.

"Char—" Ishmael started, but he wasn't listening.

His boots hit the edge of the dock, and before he could second-guess himself, he jumped.

Cold.

The river swallowed him in an instant. The breath was ripped from his lungs as the murky water surged around him, dragging him down. For a moment, panic surged in his chest. He kicked upward, breaking the surface just long enough to gulp down air before turning toward the struggling figure nearby.

The wounded man was sinking.

Charon lunged, grabbing hold of his arm. The man barely reacted, his head lolling as his blood continued to seep into the river. He was heavy, too heavy, and Charon's arms burned as he fought to keep him afloat.

Above, voices shouted. Shadows moved along the dock.

Then, a rope splashed down beside him.

"Grab it!"

Charon didn't think. He looped it around the man's torso, holding tight as unseen hands began hauling them up. His lungs screamed as he clung to the rope, feeling the weight of the man dragging against him.

Strong arms yanked them over the edge of the dock. Charon collapsed onto the wooden planks, gasping. Water pooled beneath him, soaking his coat, his hair, everything.

The bearded man wasn't moving.

A few onlookers hovered nearby, but no one touched him. The blood loss… the wound… Charon had no idea if he was even still alive.

Ishmael crouched beside him, face unreadable. "What the hell was that?"

Charon, still catching his breath, looked up. His limbs trembled with exhaustion. His lungs burned.

But all he could say was:

"I— I don't know."