The kingdom of Senura slept fitfully as Zellrid trudged through its darkest streets, the cobblestones slick with rain.

His black coat billowed in the chill air. His dual-toned hair white as bone on the left, dark as a raven's wing on the right, stood out in the gloom. His singular red eye glowed faintly as he scanned the weathered buildings.

Shutters slammed shut as he passed. Mothers hurried their wide-eyed children indoors, muttering protective charms under their breath.

A drunk lurched from the shadows, his courage bolstered by alcohol—Spat at Zellrid's feet.

"Larian scum!" the man slurred, revealing a mouth more gap than teeth. "Go back to your own kind!"

Zellrid's hand twitched towards his sword but stilled quickly. His voice was low and gravelly as he spoke.

"Charming as always, good ser. Your hospitality is truly remarkable."

The drunk blinked in confusion before stumbling away, muttering curses.

Zellrid sighed, his shoulders sagging. The events at Mistral Reach might be three summers past, but the wounds they left were still raw.

He spotted a tavern called "The Tarnished Crown." Its sign showed a crowned skull. Zellrid thought it fitting for a despised Nightstalker to seek refuge.

Inside, the tavern assaulted his senses. The smell of stale ale and unwashed bodies was overwhelming. Drunken voices argued loudly. Heads turned as he entered, conversations hushing before resuming with pointed glances.

Zellrid approached the bar with purpose. "A room," he growled at the wary barkeep. "And no trouble."

The barkeep nodded nervously, taking Zellrid's money. "Up the stairs, last door on the left," he muttered, avoiding eye contact. "Try not to wake the other guests with any... unnatural business."

Zellrid grunted in response and went to his room. It was small and sparse, with a narrow bed that looked ancient. He removed his coat, revealing a torso filled with scars. Laying his sword within reach, he stretched out on the creaky bed.

A soft knock came at the door. Zellrid tensed, hand moving to his weapon swiftly.

"Who is it?" he called out, voice rough.

A woman's voice responded, lilting and practiced. "Room service, m'lord. Looking for company on this cold night?"

Zellrid hesitated, then grudgingly said, "Come in."

The door opened to reveal a young woman with weary eyes. Her smile didn't quite reach those eyes as she entered the room. The scent of cheap perfume wafted through the air.

Zellrid stumbled over his words, inwardly cursing his awkwardness. The woman's smile widened a fraction.

"Cat got your tongue, love? Don't worry, I don't bite... unless you want me to."

Zellrid shifted uncomfortably. "I-I didn't request any... services," he stammered.

The woman's painted lips curved into a practiced smile. "On the house, love. We don't get many... interesting guests like yourself."

Zellrid's eye narrowed with suspicion. "On the house? Nothing's ever free in this world, especially not for a Larian." His voice hardened. "What's your real purpose here, girl?"

The woman's smile faltered. She leaned in closer, whispering, "You're right, nothing's free. But walls have ears, and some secrets are too dear to speak aloud."

She glanced behind her before speaking louder, "Looks like you could use a hot bath before bed, m'lord." As she spoke, she slipped a folded note into his pocket.

Zellrid played along, grunting noncommittally. The woman left, still wearing that brittle smile.

He waited before retrieving the note. It read: "Nightstalker, beware. They know you're here. The Old Bear's cubs sharpen their claws. Trap set for dawn. Flee while you can."

A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. Of course, he couldn't find peace, even here. The Old Bear had to be Jeor Mormont, the Duke of Senura.

Zellrid destroyed the note with a spark of lightning. The scent of burnt paper filled the air. He rose from the bed, muscles tense.

As he moved towards the window, a floorboard creaked outside his door. Zellrid froze, hearing multiple bodies in the hallway. The faint sounds of weapons being drawn reached his ears.

"Well," he muttered to himself, "seems like dawn came early in Senura."

In one fluid motion, Zellrid drew his black blade Nightfang. Electricity crackled along its length. He kicked the door open forcefully, surprising his would-be ambushers.

Five men stumbled back, their eyes wide. They wore Senura's livery a black bear, on a green field but their armor was mismatched and poor.

"Gentlemen," Zellrid drawled sarcastically, "I hate to disappoint, but I'm afraid I'll have to cut our little party short."

The first attacker lunged forward with a fearful cry. Zellrid sidestepped gracefully, Nightfang flashing in the dim light. The man fell, clutching his electrified arm and howling.

The others hesitated, fear evident in their eyes. Zellrid taunted them, his earlier awkwardness replaced by cold confidence.

Two more rushed him simultaneously. Zellrid's blade sang through the air, parrying their attacks swiftly. A quick thrust sent one sprawling, while a blast of lightning threw the other against the wall.

The remaining two attackers fled down the stairs. Zellrid gave chase, needing answers.

As he descended, the tavern erupted into chaos. Patrons scrambled to get out of his way. The barkeep cowered behind the counter, eyes wide with terror.

Zellrid cornered the last two assailants near the tavern's entrance. "Now then," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "who sent you?"

One man spat at Zellrid's feet. "We don't answer to Larian filth!" he snarled.

Zellrid sighed and raised Nightfang. Lightning arced between the blade and the man's chest, making him scream and fall.

"Let's try this again," Zellrid said, turning to the other attacker. "Who sent you?"

"The... the duke!" the man blurted out, trembling. "Said there was a bounty on any Nightstalker's head. Please don't kill us!"

Zellrid lowered his sword, disgusted. "I'm not the monster here," he growled. "But perhaps next time, I'll play the part you've all cast me in."

He addressed the stunned tavern crowd, "Anyone else feeling brave? No? Then perhaps you'll forget you saw me here tonight."

To emphasize his point, he let lightning dance across his fingertips. The silence that followed was profound.

With a final glare, Zellrid left the Tarnished Crown. Dawn was approaching, painting the sky in soft colors. He needed to leave Senura quickly.

As he walked, the prostitute from earlier joined him, now moving with assured grace.

"Didn't expect to see you again," Zellrid muttered.