The wind howled with relentless ferocity as gusts of snow battered violently against the ancient wooden walls of the village houses. In the deep darkness of the night, only faint glimmers of light escaped from the closed windows of the dwellings, like timid sentinels against the abyss of cold. In the heart of the village, only a modest building pierced the darkness with its dim light. Laughter and shouts escaped from the cracks in the walls, but the atmosphere inside failed to dispel the cold that enveloped the place. The inn, not much different from the other sad and dilapidated houses, stood out only by a worn wooden sign: "The Drunken Farmer". A refuge for weary workers, where the pain of their struggles finds solace in alcohol.

By the remote standards of the place, the tavern was strangely crowded. Worn tables stretched along the walls, while a weak fire burned at the center, barely illuminating the gloomy atmosphere. The owner's counter, worn by wear, was a landmark in the darkness, where he filled tankards with a dubiously flavored mixture; a young waitress hurried to serve drinks to the customers, her pale face barely lit by the weak flames of the fireplace.

Strident cries, sharp insults, and irreverent laughter echoed from every corner of the tavern, but one table in particular drew more attention. There, a crowd of patrons gathered around, some standing, excitedly applauding, while others feigned interest in raising their tankards. Seated around were five individuals: an elderly figure with stooped shoulders and wrinkles of wisdom, a farmer with a face marked by the sun, a man with rough beard and distrustful gaze, a youth with the ardor of adolescence in his eyes. Next to them, an elf with short, tousled hair, clad in dirty and tattered clothes with a cloak worn by time and travel. The rough and irregular beard, the piercing green eyes, scrutinized his opponents firmly.

With measured movement, I reached out my gloved hand towards the stack of coins on the table, the metallic tinkling resonating in the tense air. One by one, the coins slipped between my fingers, each with its characteristic sound, before disappearing into the darkness of my pouch. Once the task was done, I tucked the bag of coins into the inner pocket of my jacket. With a half-smile, I addressed my opponents. «Is that all?» I asked, letting a note of challenge tinge my words. «It's been a fun game, but I think it's time to conclude. The night is still young, but we certainly can't spend it here». Then, turning to the man with the rough beard, I added with a theatrical sigh, «And you, my friend, can keep your daughter's first night. We certainly can't bet on something like that, are we civilized men or should we behave like barbarians?»

I was about to rise from my chair to leave, but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my family crest beginning to glow faintly, that cursed emblem that always brings trouble with it. Before I could understand what was happening, a leg of the chair gave way beneath me with a sinister creak. I found myself falling backward, crashing heavily to the ground. For a brief moment, everything went dark, and a sharp pain pierced my head.

Everything around me dissolved into a confused sea of sensations. I was in a limbo of uncertainty as I struggled to regain consciousness. Slowly, the blurred outlines of reality took shape, and I realized the chaos unleashed by my fall. My opponents, until recently so intent on the game, had risen furiously, their eyes full of hatred all turned towards me. And amidst the turmoil, the farmer with the sun-marked face made himself heard with angry voice: «Unscrupulous cheat! You're nothing but a cheat with sharp ears!». With a vigorous gesture, he indicated something to my left. With effort, I turned my head and noticed the cards scattered on the floor, the same ones I had secretly hidden up my sleeve but evidently had fallen during my unfortunate fall.

In moments like these, it distinguishes who is truly a man of honor, one who faces the consequences of his actions and accepts punishment as a sign of integrity. But unfortunately for those present, I am neither a man of honor nor a lover of punishment. With a movement as agile as that of a feline, I grab my travel bag and rush towards the door. Banging against it, I push with all the strength I have and find myself outside, immersed in darkness, wrapped in cold and snow.

I follow the narrow path traced in the snow, investing every fiber of my being in every step, determined to put as much distance as possible between myself and my pursuers. Behind me, I sense their labored breath, the beat of their feet chasing after mine. My eyes pierce the darkness with acute perception, scrutinizing every detail with a clarity that seems to defy the surrounding darkness. Every snowflake, every branch covered in ice, even the fresh footprints that the wind has not yet erased, emerge sharp before me, as if illuminated by their own light. It's almost as if the night itself bends to my will, revealing the world around me with surprising clarity.

I reach the village's outskirts and continue without hesitation towards the nearby grove. The ocean of trees in the night is unsettling, shrouded in a dark atmosphere that evokes the image of a dark predator ready to swallow me whole. Just as I enter among the first trees, I slow my pace and glance back to see if my pursuers have caught up to me. To my surprise, I see them just beyond the tree line, hesitating to continue. Instead of insisting, they resort to hurling a series of insults full of anger.

With newfound satisfaction, I sit beneath a towering tree and take an apple from my bag to crunch on with relish. I watch with a pleased smile as the torchlights recede, a sign that the adventurous ones are withdrawing out of fear, unable to venture beyond the safety limits. «How foolish, they're afraid to go further», I whisper to myself, letting myself be engulfed by a sense of superiority as I enjoy the forbidden fruit of my small victory.