The sun was setting behind the hills, casting long shadows over the village. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning wood from the blacksmith's forge. Salvatore stood at the edge of the main road, his gaze fixed on the traveler who had entered the village earlier that day. The man had been careful—too careful. He spoke little, avoided eye contact, and carried himself with the precision of someone trained to kill.
Salvatore had seen men like him before.
He moved, almost soundlessly, following the traveler as he disappeared around a corner. The villagers were preparing for the evening, shutting their doors, drawing their curtains. The streets emptied quickly, leaving only the faint flickering of lanterns to illuminate the paths.
Salvatore stepped into the shadows.
The traveler had entered a small, worn-down building near the edge of the village—the kind of place meant for temporary stays, a forgotten structure with rotting wood and a leaking roof. Salvatore approached the door and pressed his ear against it.
Silence.
Then—a shift of movement. A blade being unsheathed.
Salvatore kicked the door open.
A flash of steel lunged at him, a dagger aimed for his throat. He tilted his head, feeling the blade slice a single strand of his hair before he twisted his body and grabbed the attacker's wrist. The traveler grunted, pulling back, but Salvatore's grip was iron.
"Not bad," Salvatore muttered.
The traveler let go of the dagger, allowing it to drop. In an instant, he reached into his coat and retrieved another weapon—a short, curved knife. Salvatore caught the gleam of it before he slammed the man against the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of him.
"Who sent you?"
The traveler didn't answer. His jaw clenched.
Salvatore pressed harder, his fingers tightening around the man's throat. "You're not from around here. And you're not just some lost wanderer."
A bitter chuckle escaped the traveler's lips. "You already know the answer, don't you?"
Salvatore's eyes narrowed.
"You're a dead man walking, Priest of Hollow Hill," the traveler whispered.
The moment was brief, but Salvatore caught it—the flicker of something in the man's gaze. Fear.
Then, without hesitation, the traveler bit down on something hidden in his mouth.
Salvatore yanked himself back as the man convulsed, foaming at the mouth. Poison. His body twitched violently before going still, his eyes rolling back into his skull.
Salvatore stepped away, watching as the corpse slumped against the wall.
A message, then.
Whoever had sent this man wanted him to know—his past was catching up to him.
He exhaled, turning away. The room was quiet again, save for the distant hum of the wind outside.
He had spent centuries bathing in blood. Did he really think it would never come knocking?