It was an unremarkable day. Heavy rain was pouring, and an old man sat alone on a bench near his house under a canopy, sipping mead. His house was situated near the entrance of the village. Although the man was old, his eyesight was still quite sharp, and from a distance, he noticed a dark figure approaching on horseback. As the old man described him, it was a young man dressed in a black cloak, worn-out boots, and gloves. The rider was heading toward the village at a slow pace, neither galloping nor hurrying, as if nothing was pressing him.
"Who might you be?" the old man asked when the rider passed before him.
The man in the black cloak stopped his white horse, dismounted, and approached the old man at an unhurried pace. Yet, his every movement was peculiar, which surprised the old man. His steps were both confident and stealthy, like those of an assassin or a spy, yet elegant and graceful, akin to those of royalty.
"Vitald," the man replied. "I'm a wanderer seeking shelter for the night. I was sleeping under a tree when the rain began to pour, so I had to find another place to stay. By the way, could you tell me where I might find a place to spend the night?"
"Over there, at that tavern," the old man said, observing the traveler closely. "I think you'll find a spot there. By the way, you're not a knight, are you?"
"Unfortunately, no," Vitald replied, resting a hand on the sword hanging at his left side. "I'm more of a common killer than a gallant warrior. I don't save lives out of gratitude or defend villages from monsters out of a sense of justice... unless I'm paid for it."
"Well, I see things differently. You only say that. I was a knight in my youth and have seen many kinds of people. I can tell at a glance who someone truly is. You're different. You just want to seem like a bad person," the old man said, finishing the last of his mead. "Well, farewell, Vitald."
Vitald smiled, bowed slightly, and headed toward the tavern the old man had recommended. As he approached, he heard shouting, singing, and laughter. This didn't surprise Vitald. After all, it was evening—what else would a simple villager do but drink with friends at the tavern? He stepped inside, lowered his hood, glanced around, and walked to the counter.
"What can I get you, sir?" the innkeeper asked, eyeing the large scar crossing the traveler's cheek.
"I'd like to stay here for the night, if possible," Vitald said, gripping a black medallion with a bloodied rose in the center, made of red ruby, in his left hand.
"There's a room upstairs. It'll cost you 10 rugels for the night. Would you like anything to drink?"
"A bottle of wine."
Vitald pulled a large, heavy pouch of coins from his pocket and tossed it onto the counter. The sound drew the attention of several people sitting near the window. Vitald took a seat at an empty table, opened the bottle, and decided to listen in on the conversations around him. As in every tavern, inn, or roadside stop he had visited, people were talking about politics, the hardships of life, and other mundane matters. As he was finishing his wine, Vitald overheard two merchants discussing an impending war between the kingdom of Tleria and the kingdom of Lydania.
"King Arthur Cast's troops have already crossed the Deulopert River," a dwarven merchant said to his companion. "I think they'll reach Lydania's borders by next week."
"Indeed, and Lydania's king, Ruediger the Third, has done nothing in response," the other dwarf replied. "Why would King Arthur decide to attack Lydania? Everything seemed fine, with no signs of trouble."
"Arthur's a fool, too young to rule a country. His father was a wise man—pity he passed away. They say he was murdered, but no one knows for sure. And so, his son was forced onto the throne."
Finishing his bottle of white wine, Vitald pulled a few coins from his pouch, placed them on the table, and went to his room, pondering what he had overheard from the dwarves.
"Could Ruediger the Third really be hoping for peace with Tleria?" Vitald thought as he placed the medallion around his neck. "Or is it all the fault of the new sorcerer, recently appointed as the king's chief advisor? And why would King Arthur choose to attack? Perhaps he doesn't want war at all… though that seems unlikely. Would he gather an army of that size just to negotiate?"
Entering his room, Vitald set his bag on a chair, removed his cloak, ran a hand through his long, chestnut-colored hair, stretched his neck, and lay down to sleep.
"Check over there," an unfamiliar voice whispered in the silence. "Quiet, idiot, or you'll wake him up."
"There's nothing here. He must've hidden it," a second voice muttered in the darkness.
Vitald woke as soon as the door to his room creaked open. He kept his eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. He recognized the voices—they belonged to the men from the tavern who had been drinking and laughing loudly.
"They're probably here for my money," Vitald thought. "I don't feel like killing anyone tonight. If they leave quietly, I'll let them go."
"Check under the pillow, Albert," one voice said. "Maybe he hid it under the pillow."
"You do it! What if he wakes up?" Albert replied. "I don't want to get killed. I've got a wife and kids to feed. You check, Golbert."
"Coward," Golbert sneered. "Fine, I'll do it myself."
Golbert reached for the pillow but barely had time to react before Vitald grabbed his sword and sliced off his hand. The man screamed in agony, his cries echoing through the tavern. Vitald rose swiftly, approached Albert, and pressed the blade to his throat but refrained from killing him.
"Why are you here?" the swordsman demanded. "Did you come for the money, or did someone send you? Speak!"
"We're sorry! We just saw your big pouch of coins and decided to steal it. Please forgive us..." Albert stammered, on the verge of tears.
"You bastard, I'll kill you!" Golbert screamed through his pain.
Vitald lowered his sword, gestured for Albert to leave, and approached Golbert. Grabbing him by the collar, he lifted him off the ground, his gaze fierce and murderous. Golbert immediately understood, tore himself free, and fled toward the door. He ran and ran, blood gushing from his wound, but he didn't feel the pain until he collapsed face-first into the dirt. At last, the full weight of his injury hit him, and he began to scream at the top of his lungs. The commotion woke the villagers, who gathered around, while Vitald watched from his window.
"Who are you?" Albert asked, still standing at the doorway of the terrifying swordsman's room.
"Just an ordinary killer who shouldn't exist," Vitald said, looking at him with eyes as lifeless as a corpse's.
Albert fled toward the cries of his brother, unable to grasp the meaning of Vitald's words. The swordsman gripped the medallion hanging from his neck, approached the window, gazed at the moon, and thought: "It looks just like it did that day… doesn't it, Gef?"