Arthur was sitting in a dimly lit private room in the back of the tavern. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke, and the sounds of raucous laughter and bawdy conversations drifted in from the main room.
In front of him were five men, bruised and battered, slumped in their seats. One had a black eye, another a split lip, and a third was holding his ribs.
They all looked defeated and ashamed, avoiding Arthur's gaze as he looked at them from under his hooded robe.
"I paid you to take care of Gilbert, yet he still walks free," Arthur said in a low voice, his frustration evident.
"He was too fast, too strong," one of the men groaned, clutching his side. "We couldn't land a single blow on him."
Another man shook his head. "I've never seen anyone move like that. It was like he was dancing around us."
