hustin.art

The tavern smelled like stale ale and burnt meat. I wiped my dagger on the tablecloth—guy wouldn’t be needing it anymore. “You’re late,” growled the witch in the corner, her eyes glowing like embers. She tossed a rotting raven onto the table. “Your brother’s last message. He screamed your name before the curse took him.”

I kicked the dead bird aside. “Cut the drama. What’s your price?”

She grinned, black teeth glistening. “Three drops of blood from the king’s bastard. Or...” Her finger traced the scar on my forearm—the one from the war. “That memory of your first kill. The one that haunts you.”