Amidst the raucous clamor of the tavern, whispers drifted like the tendrils of smoke—snippets of secrets, laughter, and mundane chatter blending into one. The patrons, oblivious or unconcerned, went about their conversations as if the world outside their snug haven held no hint of turmoil.
But the tall man cloaked in a hood knew better. His sharp gaze swept over the room, scanning for both a refuge from the unrelenting storm outside and a place to protect his companion—a woman with platinum hair that rebelliously slipped out from under her hood. His movements shielded her, not just from the rain but from curious eyes.
She let out a soft laugh, a sound rare in such dark times. "Greggory," she teased, her golden eyes gleaming with playful mischief, "relax. No one here knows who we are."
The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and a smile tugged at his lips. Even after everything, she could still find a reason to smile. "Perhaps," he admitted. "But caution has become a habit I can't shake."
"Caution," she whispered, leaning in close, "can sometimes be the loudest signal." Her gaze darted across the crowded room. "That little maneuver you did? It's exactly what draws attention."
Greggory exhaled, knowing she was right, as always. Together, they scoured the room for an unoccupied table—a quiet corner where they could rest, eat, and, for just a moment, pretend the world wasn't unraveling around them. With fingers entwined, they navigated through the bustling crowd, seeking peace in the guise of anonymity.
As they moved toward the back of the tavern, the woman's watchful gaze caught something strange. There, sitting alone at the bar, a man cloaked in shadow downed drink after drink, his posture slouched and weary. His hood was pulled low over his face, but there was something about him that made her pause.
The tavern was alive with noise—laughter, conversation, the clatter of mugs—but her eyes were drawn to the hooded man. Beneath the dim light, something flickered: vivid blue eyes, bright even in the shadows. For a moment, she couldn't look away, as though some invisible force pulled her toward him. His face was hidden, but those piercing blue eyes—sharp and oddly familiar—stood out like stars against a night sky.
"Greggory," she whispered, nudging her companion gently. "Do you see him? At the bar?"
Greggory gave the man a passing glance, but his focus remained on the group of men who had been eyeing them from across the room. "Just a drunk," he muttered. "Keep your guard up. We have other problems."
But her attention lingered on the hooded figure. She had seen plenty of drunks before, yet something about this man felt different—something dangerous, something hidden beneath the surface. His blue eyes, despite the heavy drinking, were far too clear, too aware.
Before she could voice her thoughts, a loud, drunken laugh interrupted them. The burly man with the scar across his face staggered over, his eyes glazed with alcohol, though his movements were deliberate. "You two look far too clean for the likes of this place," he slurred, his tone mocking but his gaze sharp. "Travelers, eh?"
Greggory instinctively stepped between the man and the woman. "Just passing through," he said evenly, hoping to diffuse the situation before it escalated.
"Passing through?" The man let out a snort, taking another step closer. His rancid breath filled the air. "This land's not safe for anyone these days. You'd better watch yourselves."
Greggory's gaze narrowed. This wasn't just a random drunk. His words were too pointed, his intent too clear. Whoever this man was, he knew more than he was letting on.
"Thanks for the advice," Greggory said coolly, already calculating the quickest route to the exit. "But we can take care of ourselves."
The man's smile twisted into something darker. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Funny thing, though. There's a rumor going around—something about a pair traveling through these parts. A man and a woman, worth a pretty penny."
Greggory's hand rested on his dagger, the tension building as the man's companions stood from their table, ready to back him up. But before Greggory could act, the woman felt it again—that pull. Her gaze flicked back to the hooded man at the bar. He hadn't moved, hadn't even turned his head, but something about the stillness of his body made her think he was watching. Waiting.
Then, in a blur, the burly man drew his dagger and lunged at Greggory.
Greggory sidestepped, drawing his own blade, ready to defend himself. But before either of them could make another move, there was a sudden crash.
The hooded man had moved. Fast. Despite his slouched, drunken posture, he had bolted from his seat at the bar with shocking speed, slamming into the burly man with the full weight of his body. Both of them tumbled across a nearby table, sending tankards flying and scattering patrons.
The woman gasped, her heart racing as the hooded man stumbled to his feet, laughing—no, more like cackling—his deep voice thick with alcohol. "Hey!" he slurred, swaying unsteadily as he tried to regain his balance. "What the hell are y'all doing, eh? Stabbin' people in broad daylight—er, broad night?" He hiccuped, then reached for the nearest mug, downing what little ale was left in it. "Not very neighborly of you."
The burly man cursed, struggling to his feet, his face twisted in anger. "What in the hell—who—who the bloody hell are you?"
The hooded man, his back still hunched, chuckled drunkenly. "Me?" He swayed again, narrowly avoiding toppling over. "Just another sad, thirsty bastard. But I'll tell ya one thing…" He staggered forward, and for the briefest of moments, the light caught his face beneath the hood again. His blue eyes glinted dangerously as he added, "I hate unfair fights."
The burly man, clearly enraged now, motioned for his companions to join him. "Get this fool out of my sight!"
That was all the signal they needed.
The tavern exploded into chaos.
Two of the burly man's henchmen charged forward, but the hooded man, despite his apparent drunken state, moved with the fluid grace of a trained fighter. He weaved and stumbled, but every wild swing of his arm connected with precise, brutal force. His drunkenness seemed to make him unpredictable, his punches thrown with wild, unorthodox movements that caught his attackers off guard.
Greggory, wasting no time, joined the fray, fending off one of the henchmen with a swift swipe of his dagger. The woman, though tempted to join in, stayed back, watching the hooded man with a mixture of fascination and disbelief. For all his stumbling and slurring, his blue eyes remained sharp, calculating each move, each strike. He was toying with his enemies, drunk but dangerous.
With a sudden, clumsy spin, the hooded man sent one of the attackers crashing into a table, knocking over half the tavern in the process. The other henchman rushed at him with a knife, but the hooded man sidestepped, grabbed a chair, and smashed it over the man's back, sending him sprawling to the floor.
The burly man, realizing his men were no match, pulled himself to his feet and tried to flee. But before he could reach the door, the hooded man caught him by the collar, yanking him backward and throwing him hard against the bar.
"Leaving so soon?" the hooded man growled, his voice now clear, all trace of drunkenness gone. His grip tightened as he lifted the burly man off his feet. "I thought we were just getting started."
The burly man whimpered, his earlier bravado completely shattered. "W-wait! I don't want any more trouble!"
The hooded man's blue eyes, once hazy with drink, now gleamed with cold precision. "Too late for that."
With a final, brutal punch, the burly man slumped unconscious to the floor. The hooded man, still swaying slightly, glanced around the wreckage of the tavern, then let out a deep sigh, as if the fight had been an inconvenience more than anything else.
The tavern descended into uneasy quiet as the last of the attackers groaned on the floor. Chairs lay overturned, tables smashed, and the few remaining patrons huddled near the walls, wary of the destruction. The hooded man stood amidst the carnage he had wrought, his chest rising and falling slowly as he surveyed the mess around him.
For a moment, the air felt still, heavy with tension. The hooded man, who had been grinning moments ago, slowly wiped the blood from his knuckles with a ragged piece of cloth. His smirk faded as he straightened, turning toward the woman. His bright blue eyes met hers again, but this time, there was no humor in them. His expression darkened, his face hardening into a scowl that sent a chill down her spine.
Greggory, still catching his breath after the brawl, tensed as the man stared at the woman, the weight of his gaze unsettling.
The hooded man's voice, now low and cold, broke the silence. "You need to be more careful," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he addressed her directly. "This isn't a game. You walk into a place like this without thinking... you'll get yourself killed."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the man's tone was sharp, laced with something deeper—warning, or perhaps even disappointment. "You don't know who's watching, who's listening," he continued, stepping closer, his eyes burning into hers. "Safety isn't something you find. You create it. And right now, you're doing a piss-poor job of that."
Greggory took a step forward, his voice taut with anger. "Watch your tongue—"
The hooded man's head snapped to Greggory, his dark scowl unwavering. "I'm not talking to you," he growled, dismissing Greggory with a flick of his eyes before turning back to the woman. "Stay alive. That's all that matters. If you can't do that..." He left the rest of the sentence hanging, his words as much a threat as they were advice.
The woman blinked, momentarily stunned by the harshness of his words. She had seen many warriors, many soldiers hardened by battle, but none had spoken to her like this. Not with such raw, bitter truth.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the hooded man turned on his heel, ready to leave.
"Wait!" she called after him, taking a step forward. "I just wanted to thank you."
He paused, but he didn't turn around. His posture stiffened, as if her words meant little to him. With his back still to her, he spoke, his tone dismissive. "Don't bother." His voice was colder now, distant. "I don't do this for thanks."
"But—" She hesitated, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Your name—what should we call you?"
The hooded man stood there for a heartbeat, the tavern's silence pressing in as her question hung in the air. Then, without a word, he began to walk away, his steps quiet but purposeful. His form seemed to melt into the shadows at the edge of the room, disappearing before her eyes. One moment he was there, the next he was gone, as if the shadows themselves had swallowed him whole.
"Damn it!" Greggory swore under his breath, his frustration boiling over. He stormed forward, glaring in the direction the man had vanished. "Who does he think he is, talking to you like that?"
But the woman remained still, her golden eyes fixed on the spot where the hooded man had been. His words echoed in her mind, sharper than any dagger. Safety isn't something you find. You create it. There was truth in those words, bitter and painful, but truth all the same.
She felt a strange pull, not just to the man's piercing blue eyes, but to the mystery that surrounded him. Who was he? Why had he helped them, only to vanish as if none of it mattered?
Greggory, still fuming, looked at her with concern. "We should go. There's no telling what trouble this will bring down on us."
She nodded absently, though her thoughts were still with the hooded stranger. She could feel that this wasn't the last time they would meet. Whoever he was, she knew deep down that their paths were bound to cross again. And next time, she would be ready for answers.
As they made their way out of the tavern, Greggory glanced at her, his voice gruff. "I didn't like the way he spoke to you."
She looked at him, her expression unreadable. "Neither did I," she said softly, "but he wasn't wrong."