Part 1: The Dying Knight
The storm came with the smell of blood.
Seraphina sat in the dim light of the Hollow Fang Tavern, nursing a cup of watered-down ale. The scent of wet wood and unwashed bodies thickened the air as gamblers muttered over dice, and a barmaid sidestepped a brawl between two men too drunk to swing straight. Outside, rain pounded the streets of Black Hollow, a town where the law was a rumor and death came cheap.
She liked it here.
It was the kind of place where no one asked questions.
A loud crash cut through the noise as the tavern doors burst open, slamming against the walls. The storm howled through the entrance, and with it came a figure—staggering, cloaked in black, trailing blood in his wake.
Conversation died. Even the drunkards at the dice table turned to stare.
Seraphina barely glanced up. Men died here all the time.
But then the figure stumbled forward—toward her.
His hood fell back, revealing a face she did not recognize. Weathered skin, streaked with grime and blood. A knight's surcoat, torn and muddy. But it was his eyes that held her still.
They were fixed on her. Only her.
He collapsed at her feet.
A ragged breath. Then a whisper, barely audible over the rain:
"Draykhar…"
Seraphina went still.
No one had called her that name in fifteen years.