Borik
1253
Dregsdon, Angren
Dregsdon.
Gods' balls, what a shithole.
Ain't a "centre o' trade" like that piss-sodden Alderman in his crooked tower keeps sayin'. No one trades here. No one comes here, 'less they're lost, run out o' coin, or tryin' to hide from the hangman.
Town's half sunk in muck, smells like old fish and wet arse. The palisade's leanin', roofs all pissin' leaks, and the well water tastes like someone's been washin' their socks in it.
Mud up to your bollocks come spring, frost up your arse come winter. That's Dregsdon.
Ain't much to do but fight, fuck, or drink till your head goes soft. Some manage all three at once, the lucky bastards. Me, I just stand gate duty most days, watchin' nothin' come down the road.
Though, truth be told, these last two weeks've been odd. More folk comin' through than usual — and by "folk" I don't mean the usual piss-poor traders or lost goat herders. Nah. Just the other day a whole band of knights rode in — real ones, with heraldry and everything.
Didn't stay at the inn, didn't pay the Alderman a greetin'. Barely got off their bloody horses 'fore they were out the other side o' town.
Didn't even stop to water 'em proper. Just filled their skins, muttered a word or two, and buggered off east like their arses were on fire.
Thought maybe they were after some bounty what legged it into the Black Forest — poor sod, if so. Ain't no one comes back from there, not man nor monster. I even laid a bet with Pate they'd never make it out the other side. Two crowns, easy win, or so I figured.
So when I saw riders on the horizon this mornin', I near shat myself from surprise. First thought that came to mind weren't "who's that," it was "bollocks, there goes my bloody two crowns."
There were only two of 'em this time — not the three that'd ridden through before. At first, I thought maybe it was a different lot, but nah… that golden armor and that silver horse, those you don't forget easy. The other two, though… well, maybe they'd bit it. Wouldn't surprise me none.
The one in front — gods, he looked like somethin' outta one of them piss-stained bard tales. All gold plate and red cloth draped round his waist like he was off to a bloody coronation, not trudgin' into this arse-end of Temeria. Even his damn horse looked noble — tall, silver-grey, the kind of beast that'd bite the hand off any stable boy who weren't born with coin in his blood.
And him — tall as a gatepost, broad in the shoulders, moved like he didn't feel the weight of all that metal. Proper knight, that one. The kind they say slay monsters and bed duchesses
Not that I cared, mind. Just another cunt playin' hero where no one asked him to. Still… can't lie, lookin' at him made me feel small. Like the mud on my boots had more in common with me than he did.
Behind him was a girl. Hood up, dirty as a pig pen, like she hadn't had a proper wash in weeks. Clothes were too big, face streaked with bruises — looked like any orphaned street whelp that'd been kicked too many times to bother cryin' about it.
But there was somethin' off about her. Weren't the dirt or the wounds — it was the way she sat that horse. Back straight, chin up, hands steady on the reins. Rode like she owned the damn road. The kind of poise you only see in courtly folk, or those too rich to've been told no.
Made me think maybe that's what them knights were after when they rode east. Some runaway lady or lost whelp of a lord. And now here she was, tailin' behind one o' their own like nothin' happened.
I spat and elbowed Jarnek, the other sod on shift. "Oi, look at that. Knight's come to save our sorry arses."
He snorted, not even lookin' up from pickin' his teeth with a splinter. "You're just sour about havin' to pay Pate his due."
"Bugger off," I muttered, but he weren't wrong.
They rode closer, and I squinted, tryin' to get a good look under that helm. Nothin'. Just steel and shadow, like the bastard was carved outa gold. Didn't move, didn't fidget, didn't even look our way proper. Creepy fucker didn't so much as twitch.
Not a word, not even a nod. Just rode past like I weren't even there.
Might as well make my coin back.
"Sire!" I called out. "Gate tax! Two crowns a head!"
Prick didn't even turn. Just kept on.
Jarnek near doubled over tryna hold in his laughin', the useless sod. "Sire!" he wheezed, thumpin' his chest. "Listen to you! Think that shiny bastard's gonna toss you coin after you tried bleedin' half the town last time they rode through?"
"Piss off," I muttered, feelin' my ears burn.
He weren't done though, not by half. "Gate tax, he says! Two crowns a head! What, you plannin' to rob knights now, or just hopin' he'll knight you for good manners? 'Oh, thank you, good sire, for not cuttin' me in fuckin' half!'"
I tried to laugh with him, but it came out weak. Truth was, I didn't like the way that armored prick rode past me like I weren't even worth a thought.
The girl looked our way then. Just for a blink. Her eyes — couldn't tell the colour — but there was somethin' about 'em. The way she looked at me, like I weren't even there.
I looked her up and down — skinny, dirty, travel-worn. "Bet he's got her ridin' for coin," I whispered with a grin.
Jarnek barked a laugh. "Aye, or for company. Looks the type — all shine and steel on the outside, probably limp as boiled cabbage underneath."
We laughed, but it was forced — there was a reason we whispered our jeers. That prick looked like he could crush me without even tryin'. I don't remember him bein' that tall when they passed through before, but then again, they barely stopped long enough for me to see.
Then, outta nowhere, that bloody knight stops. The horses slow to a trot, and I feel my guts twist right down to my boots. He swings off like it's nothing, and damn if he don't look even taller on the ground—like a fuckin' oak tree stepped into the lane.
Ain't no way that fucker heard me.
But every step he took closer, I swear, it scrubbed all sense clean from my head. Fingers dug into me spear so tight I thought I'd snap it. Jarek, the lazy sod, backed off a few paces, eyes wide as a fuckin' owl.
He closed the gap slow, like he had all the time in the world, till he was standin' just an arm's reach away. I could see my own dumb face starin' back in the shine of his breastplate.
Then his hand moved to his side — I near pissed myself thinkin' he was drawin' steel — but instead he pulls out a small pouch, jinglin' with coin. A handful of crowns spill out when he tosses it at my boots, like I'm some beggar in the street.
"Pick it up." His voice was like nothin' I'd heard before, smooth, but cold as a grave. Not shoutin', not slurrin' either. Just… clean. Too clean. Fancy, like some highborn prick tryin' real hard not to sound pissed. Didn't sound from around here, that's for damn sure. Made my guts twist all the same.
"Pardon?" I stammered, voice all wrong and about twice as small as I felt. Even Jarnek stood there stone-still, like some fool statue. Hell, felt like every sod in town had stopped dead and was lookin' at me — Marta at her door, Miller's boy, even old Pate through his grubby window.
"I dropped my pouch," he said, slow, each word clipped and cold. Then, sharper: "Pick. It. Up."
My guts turned to water. I dropped to a knee so fast I near lost my balance, scraping coins out the mud with shaking fingers. The crowns, all gleamin' like they hadn't touched dirt in their lives. I shoved them back into the pouch — careful, like I was handlin' holy relics — and held it out to him with both hands.
"'Ere, sire— I— I didn't mean—" I stammered, voice crackin' worse than a drunk at confession.
He didn't take the pouch. Just stood there, starin' down at me through that damned visor, and gave it a shake. The sound of coin inside jingled — heavy, plenty more than four bloody crowns.
"I'm short," he said. Voice calm as still water. "Four crowns."
I blinked, mouth hangin' open. "Ex– excuse me?"
The helm tilted down a fraction, and when he spoke again it was sharper, like steel dragged slow across stone. "Are you deaf as well as a thief? I said I'm short."
For a heartbeat, I wanted to shout — to tell him he was full o' shit, that I gave back every bloody coin he dropped. But even I ain't that stupid. I could tell what this was. A shakedown. The kind where you either pay up or get your teeth fed to you.
So I swallowed my pride, reached into my belt pouch, and pulled out four crowns. Each one felt like a nail hammered into my soul. Held 'em out with both hands, eyes on the mud.
He stared at me a moment longer, then reached out and plucked the coins from my palm like he was takin' crumbs off a table. Didn't even count 'em.
Then he turned, and to my shock — the bastard walks right over to Jarnek, who's still standin' there like a sack of shit tryin' not to breathe too loud.
"For the toll," the knight says, low but clear, and drops the crowns into Jarnek's filthy hand.
And just like that, he turns his back on us — climbs up onto that silver beast like nothin' happened, and rides through the gate without another word. The girl follows, hood still up, not even lookin' our way.
The sound of hooves fades down the lane, and I'm left standin' there, mouth open, feelin' like the biggest arse in all o' Temeria.
Matthias Harlow
Jesus, what a bunch of dicks.
"What was that about?" Rhenawedd asked as we made our way into town, her voice sharp beneath the hood. "Didn't take you for the type to push around peasants."
I snorted a bit at that "If you heard what he was saying, you'd say I let him off lightly."
Rhenawedd frowned, brow creasing beneath her hood. "What did he say?"
I didn't answer. No point in repeating filth. Instead, I turned away and said, "Come on. Blacksmith's this way."
The sound of hammer on steel carried over the mud and smoke — sharp, steady, and human. A welcome kind of noise.
We made our way through Dregsdon's crooked main road, if you could even call it that — a stretch of churned mud lined with sagging shacks and shuttered windows. Smoke hung low over the rooftops, thick and greasy, mixing with the stench of tanner's pits and spoiled ale. Chickens scattered underfoot. A mangy dog gnawed on something best left unrecognized in the gutter.
Folk went about their business in that half-numb way of people who've long since stopped expecting better — women hanging damp laundry that'd never dry, a boy chasing a wheel barefoot, a bent old man tipping an empty mug as if a miracle might fill it.
Still, their eyes wandered. Every one of them. To the knight in gold and the hooded girl at my flank. Some looked away quick, pretending they hadn't been staring; others just stared — like they weren't sure whether to bow or bolt.
We passed a market stall with nothing worth buying — a few withered turnips, a brace of dead rabbits gone grey around the edges, and a rack of rusted knives that might've once been tools. The 'merchant' behind it, a thin, twitchy man with barely any healthy teeth to speak of, straightened up fast when he saw me.
"Fine day, ser! Fine day indeed!" he called out, voice wheedling. "Got wares fit for a knight! Finest prices in all o' Angren, swear it on me mother's grave!"
He gestured to the junk on his table like it was gold. "Need a new blade? Bit o' polish for that armour? You could do your business here, sire — save yourself the trip to the smithy."
I slowed just long enough to meet his grin through my helm. "Perhaps later," I said, the word flat as a coin hitting stone. "Where's the blacksmith?"
The smile faltered a little, but he pointed quick enough. "End o' the lane, ser — follow the smoke! Can't miss it!"
I gave a curt nod, tossed him a coin and kept walking. The man simpered like I'd knighted him.
The ring of hammer on iron grew louder the further they went, until the street opened into a small yard choked with smoke and the smell of burnt oil. The blacksmith was there — an older man, bare-armed despite the chill, face darkened by soot and years, hammering what looked to be a horseshoe against a scarred anvil. Each strike echoed sharp and steady, the sound of someone too stubborn to quit a dying trade.
I stopped at the threshold and turned to Rhenawedd. "Wait out here for a bit," I said, voice low but leaving no room for argument.
She looked like she wanted to, just for the sake of defiance — but in the end, she only crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, watching me disappear into the forge's glow.
"Hail, craftsman," I called out, raising my voice over the clang of hammer and steel. "I've business to talk with you."
The hammer paused mid-swing. The old man turned, sweat cutting clean lines through the soot on his face. Thick arms, grey in his beard, and eyes sharp despite the years — the kind that had seen plenty of men come and go, and knew better than to be impressed.
"Hm. Business, is it?" he said, setting the hammer aside. "Ain't often I get a knight at my forge. Usually just horseshoes and hinges. What's your need, ser?"
I stepped closer, the heat from the forge pressing against my armour. "A week past, I and some companions rode through here," I said. "We were in pursuit of my lord's daughter — she'd gone missing, taken east into the forest."
The smith nodded, listening.
"We found her," I went on. "But the men who rode with me… didn't make it back. We were attacked before dawn, on the road out. Fog-things. Monsters. Only she and I made it clear."
The blacksmith's jaw tightened — a flicker of something though he masked it quick. "Aye. Heard tell of shadows in those woods. Few that go in come out."
"Just so," I said. "We've a spare horse now — came back with one too many. Still got its saddle, reins, and tack. Well-bred beast, worth keeping, but I've no use for it, or its inventory. I'd see it sold before we move on."
The smith wiped his hands on a rag, weighing his answer. "Could take a look," he said. "Ain't much coin floatin' round Dregsdon, but I know a few that might pay fair for a good mount. Bring it 'round back and I'll have a look at it proper."
I inclined my head slightly — a gesture of thanks, or close enough. "Appreciate it."
He nodded once, already turning back to his forge. "You'll find I pay honest, ser. Don't get much work from knights, but I don't cheat 'em neither."
Matthias stepped out from the heat of the forge, the sound of hammer and bellows fading behind him. Rhenawedd straightened from where she'd been leaning against the wall, her hood still drawn but her eyes sharp beneath it.
"Well?" she asked.
"He bought the story," I said quietly. "Told him we rode through a week ago with others — on a rescue. Said the rest didn't make it. The spare horse was theirs."
She nodded, quick to catch on. "And I'm the rescued one?"
"Aye," I said, untying the reins. "Keep your hood up and look tired. No need to make the lie any shinier than it has to be."
That earned me the faintest ghost of a smirk. "Tired I can manage."
We led the horses round the side of the forge, where the smoke gave way to a cramped yard cluttered with old wheels, broken tongs, and the smell of hay gone sour. The blacksmith was already waiting there, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a squint on his soot-dark face as he wiped his hands clean.
"Right then," he said, glancing over the animals. "Let's have a look at this beast you're sellin'."
I handed him the reins and offered a small nod. "I didn't introduce myself earlier, Matthias Harlow," I said, the man blinked, perhaps not expecting manners from a knight. "And this is Lady Rhenawedd Lysenne — my lord's daughter."
At that, the old man straightened a little, wiping his palms again before giving a short, respectful bow.
"M'lady," he said, voice rough but polite. "Didn't know I had such company in my yard today."
He gave a small, self-conscious tug at his apron and added, "Name's Joran. Been hammerin' steel in Dregsdon near thirty years now — what's left of my hearing's proof enough of it."
He offered a faint, crooked smile, the kind that came easier to men who didn't waste much time trying to impress. "Ain't often I get knights and ladies at my door. Mostly ploughshares and piss pots these days."
Rhenawedd inclined her head slightly, her tone cool but courteous. "Then we'll count ourselves fortunate, Master Borik. A craftsman with thirty years at the forge is a rare thing in a place like this."
The Joran's grin widened at that — genuine, if a touch bashful beneath the soot. "Heh. Aye, rare or stubborn, one of the two."
He turned his gaze to me again. "Right then, Ser Harlow. Let's see this horse you've brought. I'll not waste your time, nor cheat you out of fair coin."
He began circling the horse, eyeing the legs, teeth, and saddle with the practiced scrutiny of a man who'd traded more in sweat than words. The forge hissed and roared behind him, the smoke catching the afternoon light like mist over old steel.
"You've got a good eye for bloodlines, ser," he muttered after a moment, running a hand along the animal's flank. "This one's bred for more than haulin' carts. Shame to part with him."
I shrugged. "Shame's got little to do with it. Can't afford to feed what I don't need."
He grunted, half in agreement. "Aye. That's truth enough."
He turned back to me then, nodding toward the forge door. "Give me a moment to fetch the scales and I'll weigh out what's fair. Won't cheat you, ser — not with your lady watchin'."
Rhenawedd's mouth twitched, and for a heartbeat, I thought she might laugh.
"Much obliged," I said, handing over the reins.
We didn't have to wait long before Joran came back around, wiping his hands on that same soot-black rag. He looked over the horses again, thoughtful, then turned to me.
"Fine beasts, your lot," he said. "Can't fault the breedin' or the care. I'll be straight with you, ser — I can take the saddle, the tack, and the supplies off your hands, pay fair coin for those. But the horse…" He gave a slow shake of his head. "That's worth more than I've got lyin' about. Ain't much coin movin' through Dregsdon, least of all through me forge."
He glanced up, eyes narrowing against the glare off my armor. "Still — I know folk who could pay proper for a mount like that. Alderman, for one. Fat bastard never misses a chance to make himself look richer'n he is. I could have word sent, if you've the time to wait."
"Then you'll find us at the inn," I said, giving him a nod. "We're in desperate need of a bath and rest — both."
Joran gave a grunt of understanding. "Aye, the Crooked Pike's still standin', somehow. Tell Mira I sent you — she'll see you sorted, for a price."
I climbed back onto Epine, the saddle creaking under the weight of plate and grime. Then I reached down, offering Rhenawedd my hand. She took it without a word, light as a wisp as I helped her onto her mount — a small, neat gesture for the watching eyes around us.
Had to keep up appearances, after all.
With that, we turned from the forge yard and set off down the muddy lane toward the inn — hooves squelching through muck, the smoke of Joran's forge curling behind us.
Sylvia Anna Henrietta
He was far too good at playing knight. On the road here, between all the monster fights, the sleepless nights, and the arguments — I'd wondered how in all the hells we were going to pull this off. The idea of a vampire passing himself off as a knight of Temeria — among peasants, craftsmen, and guards — had seemed laughable at best.
And yet, he did. He carried himself with an ease that looked natural, every gesture measured, every word chosen with care. There was no trace of the predator beneath the armour, no hint of the thing that had torn through men and monsters like they were made of straw. Watching him now, I almost forgot what he truly was.
Almost.
The ride from the smithy to the inn was slow, the mud of Dregsdon sucking at our horses' hooves, the air thick with smoke and the sour tang of spoiled food. I kept my hood low, letting my eyes drift over the crooked rooftops and sagging timbers. The town was tired and rough, its people moving through their chores with the same weary patience one might use to endure a long storm.
Children chased a worn hoop down the lane, laughing half-heartedly, while women haggled at market stalls that offered more dust than goods. Even the men who might once have been soldiers now shuffled in grimy boots, carrying buckets or dragging wagons without a word, their eyes flicking toward us and then quickly away, as if they were trying not to notice the presence of a knight in gold.
We passed a woman hanging laundry, the fabric thick with smoke, and I caught her glance linger on Matthias. He rode steadily, unshaken, unmoved, but I saw the subtle shift in the people around him — a mixture of respect and fear, the kind one reserves for those who command power without needing to show it.
At last, the inn came into view, its timbered walls leaning slightly, the sign creaking above the doorway: The Crooked Pike's. Smoke curled from its chimney, and the smell of roasting meat mingled with the ever-present mud. A few patrons lingered on the steps, eyeing us cautiously as we approached.
I dismounted before Matthias, letting my eyes sweep over him as if inspecting a knight for the first time. "Come, Ser." I said softly. "Let's see what this hovel has to offer"
I moved my horse, towards the makeshift stables and held out my hand lightly to him, expecting the usual careless or awkward gesture from someone pretending.
Instead, he moved with precise courtesy. One hand on the pommel of his saddle, the other extending just enough to guide me, fingers brushing mine only as necessary. He lowered himself in a perfect half-step, letting me swing my leg gracefully over, never once gripping roughly or losing balance.
His stance was firm, attentive, and entirely correct — a perfect execution of the etiquette I had half-expected him to fumble.
I blinked away the surprise I'm sure showed on my face as we stepped into the inn.
The place was thick with warmth and noise — the kind that clung to you like smoke. Every table seemed taken, packed shoulder to shoulder with townsfolk nursing mugs or bowls, voices rising and falling in a jumble of talk and laughter.
The air was close, heavy with the smell of ale, tallow, and stew that had been simmering too long. Not a single window open, just the dull orange light of candles and a few sputtering lamps fighting the shadows.
A pretty blonde barmaid wove her way between the tables with a tray balanced on one hand, smiling quick, polite smiles that never quite reached her eyes. Men called for drink, for bread, for her attention — she managed them all with the weary grace of someone used to being wanted for what she could carry, not what she was.
That must be Mira.
Mira's eyes found us as we stepped further in, and for a heartbeat, she just stared — mouth parting slightly before she caught herself. "I'll be with you in a minute!" she called over the din, balancing a tray of steaming bowls. "Please, wait there, and I'll get you settled."
She moved quick, dropping the bowls before a pair of arguing farmers, wiping her hands on her apron as she hurried back toward us. Up close, she smelled faintly of smoke and soap, hair loose in wisps around her flushed face.
"Sorry for the wait," she said, breathless but smiling. "We've been packed since noon. What can I do for you, ser?"
Matthias inclined his head slightly. "The blacksmith, Joran, sent us. We'll need food, a bath, and two separate rooms for the night."
At the mention of the blacksmith, Mira's expression softened. "Ah, Joran — good man, always helps folk find their way. Aye, I can sort that for you." She nodded, gesturing for them to follow. "Come, there's a table open by the wall."
She led them through the crowded floor, weaving between chairs and mugs, and stopped by a small table near the hearth. The wood was worn smooth, the heat from the fire welcome after the chill outside.
"Sit, please," she said, brushing crumbs away with her hand. "I'll have stew brought out while we get the rooms ready — bath'll take a bit to heat, but won't be long."
As Matthias nodded his thanks, she added with a curious little smile, "You'll have company, I'm afraid. You're not the only ones from out of town tonight — another traveler came through not an hour ago. Hope you don't mind sharing a table till I can set another."
Matthias leaned his helm slightly toward her, voice calm. "Not at all."
"Good," Mira said, relief in her tone. "He's quiet enough — keeps to himself. I'll fetch him and some food, then."
She turned to go, leaving the faint scent of bread and candlewax in her wake.
In the far corner, two men argued over dice, their laughter sharp and mean. Nearer the bar, a few others whispered low. I caught bits of it as we sat:
"—swear on me mother's grave, Borik's face went white as chalk—"
"—aye, knight near tore him in half with a look—"
"—heard he's still shakin' by the gate, won't go near it till morning—"
The table we sat at was tucked into the far corner, well away from any windows or stray beams of light. A fact, I noticed, Matthias appreciated.
He set his gauntlets down first, the steel clinking softly against the table.
His hands — pale as milk and still as stone — flexed once, almost like they were testing the air after too long confined. Then he reached up, unbuckled the straps of his helm, and lifted it free.
The room went dead quiet.
The sharp contrast to the earlier din made it almost eerie — tankards froze midair, dice stopped clattering, a flute's whistling cut short. Then came the whispers, soft at first, then rolling through the room like a low tide.
"God's e's beautiful." Whispered a woman, out of sight.
"Skin like milk," another said. "Ain't right, that."
"Never seen a face like that in me life. Looks carved, he does. Like one o' them statues in temples."
"Too damn pretty for a man," a drunk near the door grumbled.
"Pretty?" his friend snorted. "He's bloody unnatural, that's what."
"Look at his eyes," hissed someone else. "Red. Proper red."
"Witcher, maybe?" a voice asked from the back.
"Nah," came the reply, low and sure. "Witchers don't wear armour like that. And they carry two swords, don't they? Their eyes are yellow, not… not that."
"Then what in all the hells is he?"
"Whatever he is, I ain't lookin' him in the eye."
Matthias didn't so much as glance their way. He placed the helm neatly on the table beside him, folded his hands, and waited as though the silence didn't exist — as though he hadn't just stolen the breath out of every fool in the room.
"Are you sure that was a good idea?" I whispered, leaning toward him as the murmurs spread through the room like ripples in dirty water. "What happened to blending in?"
He didn't look at me right away — just folded his pale hands into fists, elbows resting on the table. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and even, the same calm tone he used when explaining something obvious to a child.
"Would raise more questions if they never saw my face even once," he said. "My features, away from sunlight, can be excused as albinism. If these people were more educated, they'd come to that conclusion on their own."
He glanced toward the rays of light glittering through what few open windows there were, the faintest trace of distaste curling his lip.
"Besides," he added, "it's a reasonable explanation for my avoidance of direct sunlight."
Our conversation stopped dead when Matthias suddenly went rigid. His hands froze mid-motion, jaw locking so tight I could hear the faint click of his teeth. The look that crossed his face wasn't anger or annoyance — it was pure, unguarded fear.
I'd never seen him like that before.
His eyes, those crimson things that caught every flicker of light, weren't on me. They were fixed on something over my shoulder.
I turned — slow, uncertain — and saw Mira weaving her way back through the tables, speaking softly to a man she was guiding toward us.
He wasn't like the others in the tavern. Not a speck of mud on his boots, not a wrinkle on his yellow coat. Tall, a bit stocky, and plain in the strangest sort of way — like someone had tried to make him forgettable and gone too far. His hair was cropped short near bald, brown as dry bark; his face smooth and pale, not young but untouched by age. His eyes were strangely kind, black and sharp as stone. When they passed over me, I felt my breath hitch without knowing why.
He wore a well-cut coat and a sort of hooded scarf, not noble's finery, not peasant's rags. Something in between. A traveller's garb that didn't belong on any road I knew. A faint smile curved his lips, polite.
If I'd passed him in the street, I wouldn't have spared him a second glance.
Mira's voice carried faintly over the tavern's low hum:
"—and here we are, good sir. Hope you don't mind sharing a table, we're quite full today."
The man inclined his head to her, that too-perfect smile never wavering.
"Not at all," he said, voice smooth as oil "I'm quite fond of good company."
Then his eyes slid past her — and straight to Matthias.
"Gaunter O'Dimm, at your service."
And Matthias — the same man who'd torn through monsters without flinching, who'd faced down horrors in the dark without blinking — looked as though death itself had just walked in and taken a seat at our table.