"Ohh…..Lively, isn't it?"
Greta's heart sank at the sound of that familiar, grating voice. She turned slowly to see the young man striding into the inn, his bulky frame taking up more space than necessary as he made his entrance.
His rough, unshaven face was split into a wide grin that never reached his cold eyes, and his swaggering gait was accompanied by the sound of heavy boots clomping on the wooden floor.
"Well, well, if it isn't the lovely Greta," the young man drawled, his voice dripping with mockery as he approached her.
His name was Radgar, and he had become a thorn in the side of many in Rackenshore since his recent elevation to the baron's garrison.
Behind him, a group of similarly rough-looking men followed, all of them wearing the same smug expressions. They were his cronies, fellow soldiers who had taken to exploiting their new positions with disturbing enthusiasm.
