hustin.art

The cobblestones were slick with rain as Aldric shoved open the tavern door, his cloak reeking of wet wool and iron. “Another round, Marta,” he growled, slapping a copper coin stained with blood onto the counter. The barkeep didn’t flinch—warriors with haunted eyes were common in this border town. “Heard you’re hunting the Thornwood Witch,” a drunktard slurred from the corner. Aldric’s grip tightened around his tankard. “Aye, and her head’ll fetch me ten silvers.” But when the witch herself materialized beside him—her breath smelling of rotten roses—his bravado faltered. “Ten silvers?” She laughed, blackened teeth gleaming.