“Did you hear about the Ashen Dawn?” one drunk slurred, slamming his mug on the table.

  “Yeah,” his companion snorted. “Fools marched twenty thousand strong, and every last one died. Even that so-called hero general. Heard he got torn apart like the rest.” He laughed, spraying beer across the table.

  “That’s what they get for trying to change the world.” The first man chuckled darkly. “Maybe now people will learn, going against the king and his secret organization is suicide.”

  “Or,” the second man added, leaning close with a lewd grin, “they’ll keep throwing their lives away and leave their widows all alone… in desperate need of men like us.”

  The two clinked their mugs together, laughter echoing through the tavern.

  “People like you will never understand.”

  The young man lifted his mug with the arm he had left, staring into the drink as though it held old memories.

  “You laugh at graves you never stood beside… at names carved in stone you never had to read.”

  His voice was calm, but worn thin with years.

  “On that hill I left an arm… and some of your countrymen left everything else.Some of them died calling for their mothers.Some died calling for wives who will never hear it.”

  He took a slow sip.

  “You sit in warm taverns and joke about widows. But somewhere tonight a child is asking why their father hasn’t come home.”

  His gaze lifted to them.

  “So laugh if you like. Just remember… every joke you make, is paid for with blood that never got the chance to grow old.”

  Lucian sat a few seats down, chewing a mouthful of steak that turned to ash in his mouth. A sweet, lemon-scented drink steamed beside him, but even that soured on his tongue as their words dug into him.

  Is that truly how the people see us? Were we nothing more than a joke? What a pity my brothers, if only I could turn back time.

  “Let them laugh, soldier.” Lucian chimed in “the dead could give a damn what we think anyways.”

  They stared at him momentarily until the barmaid, a broad, no-nonsense woman, slid a small black collection cup across the counter.

  “That’ll be twenty soulstones,” she said, voice flat.

  Lucian raised his hand over the cup and turned his wrist toward her, pushing a slight bit of his soulflame into his wrist, revealing the sigil inked into his skin.

  His family’s mark.

  Every noble child received one at birth, a household sigil branded into the wrist to declare the bloodline they belonged to. It served as proof of heritage, recognized by every city in the kingdom. Yet it also carried a strange irony. If a noble wished to disappear from the world, the mark revealed only their lineage, never their name.

  A man could hide his identity.

  But never the blood that ran through his veins.

  The barmaid’s eyes widened slightly, her brows twitching. She looked as though she might say something, but then caught the dead weight in his stare and thought better of it. Years of experience told her not to poke at men with heavy eyes.

  “Pardon me, your grace.” She whispered softly before pulling the collection cup back.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  But someone else had noticed.

  In the booth behind Lucian, a figure leaned forward just enough for the dim lamplight to catch on his grin. Jagged teeth gleamed white in the shadows.

  At the far end of the tavern, the drunks had changed subjects.

  “The Church has been sending demon hunters left and right,” one muttered. “Think it’s ‘cause of the Moon Witch?”

  “If she were in Palin, they’d have found her by now,” the other scoffed. He drained his mug and set it down with a thud. “Nah. More likely she’s just a story, meant to scare folks. Distract us from all these kids going missing lately.”

  “Watch your mouth!” his friend barked, punching him hard in the shoulder. His face twisted with rage. “Was my cousin just a story, then?!”

  The man winced, rubbing his arm. “Right, right… forgot about that. My apologies.”

  The first man leaned forward, eyes darting around before lowering his voice. “Besides, I told you before, I saw her once in the woods. Black wings. Black horns. Red eyes. Silver hair. Flying through the night like a bat.”

  Lucian’s fork stilled in his hand. He turned his head slightly.

  “Did you say… in the woods?”

  The men startled at his sudden voice.

  “Don’t listen to him,” one protested quickly. “He was piss-wasted that night.”

  “Drunk or not, I saw what I saw!” the other insisted, throwing another punch into his companion’s arm.

  Lucian put his mug on the counter and rose from his seat. “Enjoy your night, gents.” He stepped out into the cold streets.

  The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain. His breath misted as he walked, but his thoughts burned. Silver hair. Red eyes. Could they have meant Amira?

  “Hey! Screwball from the carriage!” a harsh voice rang out.

  Lucian turned. Three men advanced toward him, the scarred demon hunter from the road in the lead, his scar gleaming under the moonlight. Two more flanked him, blades half-drawn.

  “Or should I say your grace!” he snickered as he flipped his blade around in his hand.

  “I knew you were suspicious,” the scarred man said with a sneer. “Followed you here to the tavern. And what do you know, boys? Our friend’s got himself a nobles mark.”

  Lucian’s gaze flicked upward. The rooftops bristled with silhouettes, archers, bladesmen. At least thirty. Maybe forty.

  The hunter’s grin stretched wide. “Too bad for you, my men came here for the Moon Witch. Too bad for me, I’m not sure she even exists. So why chase fairy tales… when we can snatch something worth a third of her bounty?”

  His voice rose, carrying through the alley. “Boys! That little mark on his wrist? Means he’s got millions of soulstones in his bank! But don’t worry your grace, all we’re asking for is 100,000 soulstones” He slashed his hand down. “Bring him to me alive.”

  The first two lunged, striking from either side.

  Lucian caught one fist, shoved it down, slipped between them with the calm of a seasoned killer. His eyes locked on the scarred man ahead.

  The hunter chuckled. “So you’re not just some rich brat after all.”

  Steel flashed. Daggers whistled toward Lucian’s back, arrows dropped from above. He spun, booting both blades aside, then snatched a leaping attacker by the ankle. With a grunt, he swung the man like a flail, scattering the others like bowling pins.

  The scarred man barked laughter. “Should’ve kept the rest of my boys here instead of sending them after that little lady you were with. Hah! By now, they’re probably having fun with her!”

  Lucian froze. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “What… did you say?”

  The hunter smirked. “I knew something was off. The way she hid her face? Obvious. So I sent men after her.” His laughter rose, cruel and sharp.

  The air shifted.

  The smell of rain thickened, metallic and sharp. Clouds blotted out the moon, plunging the alley into shadow. Only the sputtering streetlamps remained.

  Steel scraped free. Dozens of blades. Bowstrings pulled taut.

  “What’s it gonna be, your grace?” the scarred man taunted, drawing both daggers. “Bring us the money, and we’ll let you limp away.”

  Rain began to fall, soft at first, pattering against the top of Lucian’s ears, then a pounding deluge. It hissed against cobblestone and hammered Lucian’s shoulders.

  Lucian closed his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper. “Forgive me, mother… for what I’m about to do.”

  “What was that?!” the hunter shouted over the storm.

  Lightning split the sky. Thunder cracked like a war drum.

  Lucian stepped forward. With each stride, his Soulflame aura bled into the air, unseen shackles tightening around every throat. The men staggered, gasping. Some dropped their weapons outright, paralyzed by invisible hands of death.

  “Shit!” the scarred man roared, eyes wide with panic. “He’s a Soulflame user! Everyone—!”

  Lucian blurred.

  By the time the hunter drew breath, Lucian’s fist had already torn through his stomach. Blood poured down his arm.

  The man coughed, crimson bubbling from his lips. “J-just… who… are you?”

  Moonlight broke through the clouds, illuminating Lucian’s face. His gray eyes were void of life, an abyss that swallowed all light.

  The hunter’s bravado cracked. He shrieked.

  Lucian yanked free, his hand slicing through rain like an arrow. A single motion, and the man’s head spun skyward, severed clean.

  The corpse crumpled. Panic rippled. Some men dropped their blades and fled, screaming. Others remained frozen, too terrified to move.

  Lucian flicked the body off his foot. Without a word, he walked past them, through the curtain of rain, and out of the city. His path turned back toward the endless woods, back toward Amira.