The sky above the small, forgotten village shimmered with the soft glow of a fading sunset. A delicate pink hue melted into an ocean of deep purple and gold, where clouds drifted lazily, as if time itself had decided to take a long, slow breath. The air was thick with the scent of freshly bloomed jasmine, and the sound of rustling leaves mixed with the distant hum of crickets as night prepared to settle in.
In the center of this village, where the stones of the cobbled streets had been worn down by centuries of travelers, stood a modest inn—the kind that was often overlooked by those who sought adventure elsewhere. It had a warm, welcoming exterior, though its wooden sign, swaying gently in the evening breeze, had seen better days. A small fire crackled in the hearth of the inn's tavern, casting long shadows that danced across the worn floorboards.
Inside, the flickering flames illuminated the faces of the few patrons who filled the space, their murmurs blending with the low clinking of mugs and the rustling of papers. Among them sat Fred, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as he surveyed the room. Despite the comforting warmth of the fire, his mind was far from at ease. There was something in the air tonight—something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Fred was a man of average height, his body lean but well-muscled from years of training, though he didn't stand out in any crowd. His features were defined, but not overwhelmingly striking; a square jaw, high cheekbones, and a nose that had been broken more than once in the past. His skin was a rich, deep brown, and his dark eyes held a glimmer of intelligence that seemed to pierce through even the darkest of situations. His hair was short, close-cropped, and his hands were rough from the hard work he had put in over the years. His outfit—a simple, black tunic and leather pants—blended in well with the others in the room. Yet, despite his unremarkable appearance, there was an undeniable air of authority about him, a quiet confidence that drew the eyes of those around him, even when he wasn't speaking.
As Fred sipped from his mug, he could hear the low murmurs of conversation behind him. A young woman, not much older than twenty, stood at the bar, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her tunic as she spoke nervously with the bartender. Her name was Lila, and she was the daughter of the inn's owner. She was petite, with golden-brown skin and delicate features, her large, expressive eyes filled with uncertainty. Her hair, a dark cascade of curls, framed her face, and though she tried to hide her nerves, it was clear she was struggling with something.
Fred watched her for a moment longer, his mind whirring with questions, before he turned his attention back to the conversation at hand. The room had grown quieter, the patrons now more focused on the man who had just entered—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a heavy cloak that obscured most of his face. His footsteps were deliberate, slow, but there was something about his presence that seemed to make the air itself grow tense.
This was no ordinary traveler. Fred could feel it in his bones.
---