hustin.art

The tavern reeked of cheap wine and blood as the masked swordsman leaned against the bar, his blade still dripping. “You really had to pick a fight with all of them?” the bartender muttered, eyeing the dozen unconscious thugs scattered across the floor. The swordsman chuckled, spinning his dagger lazily. “What can I say? They insisted.” Outside, the wind howled like a vengeful spirit, and the lanterns flickered—too late, he noticed the shadow creeping along the wall. Not a man, not a beast, but something in between. The bartender paled. “You’ve got death on your heels, stranger.” He tossed back his drink and stood. “Yeah, well. Death’s about to learn how fast I run.” The shadow lunged.