Rumor in the tavern
-
The tavern’s warmth couldn’t quite touch the chill in the man’s eyes as he nursed his ale, hands still trembling despite the drink. A few patrons leaned in closer as he spoke, voice low but urgent, like a man who’d stared too long into darkness.
"I shouldn’t be here," he muttered, "I wasn’t meant to walk away from that road. We left Norwick at dawn, twelve of us guarding the wagons, good men, veterans most. Cargo was mostly iron, food, few crates marked for Oscura—nothing fancy, but valuable enough."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"They came at dusk. No war cries. No wild charge. Just... silence, then arrows. Every shot counted. Every guard that raised a shield got hit somewhere else. We barely had time to form a line before they were in among us, blades flashing in the damn fading light. They knew our positions. Knew where we’d fall back. It wasn’t bandits—no, not them."
He shook his head, haunted.
"They moved like soldiers, but not ours. Every strike aimed to kill. And when the first few of us fell, they pushed harder. I saw Tomril—gods, poor Tomril—get cut down trying to surrender. They didn’t take prisoners. Those too wounded to fight, they finished where they lay. I ran when the last wagon fell, through the brush, didn’t dare look back."
He drained his mug, slamming it down, glaring into the foam.
"And when I did? They weren’t looting. They were organizing. Picking through what they wanted—metal, food, nothing else. Everything else they burned. They left the bodies... laid out like warnings. Like a message."
He leaned closer, voice a whisper now, eyes darting to the shadows beyond the firelight.
"This wasn’t a raid. This was a strike. Precise. Ruthless. Someone’s assembling an army out there. And they’re making damn sure we know it."
