Muffled sounds of rain echoed like thousands of footsteps that once walked the silent ruins. Ancient trees stretched overhead, their arm-sized leaves forming a natural canopy above the uprooted ground. Water dribbled down into natural rivulets carved by centuries of patient erosion.
In all directions, long-abandoned buildings stood half-erect, their leaning pillars adorned with ivy-strangled bricks and crumbling stone. Moss blanketed the ground in a lush carpet of emerald green, punctuated by wild rose bushes bristling with thorns.
In the heart of what were once bustling streets stood the remnants of an outdoor council hall, an enormous white tree growing at its center like a silent sentinel. The few remaining pillars lining the hall bore engravings of delicate leaves, while the cracked marble floor had surrendered to creeping moss that cascaded down weathered stairs into an overgrown garden maze below.
Ravage sat on one of the overturned pillars beneath a giant oak tree. Its enormous leaves caught the raindrops like a vast canopy, channeling them away in steady streams. Draped in heavy tattered black robes, a hood shrouded his face completely. Occasional wisps of smoke drifted from beneath the heavy fabric, curling upward into the damp air.
Glancing across the courtyard of Enali, he closed his eyes with a weary sigh, seeing more than what was there. He hadn’t been present for most events concerning Calmone’s capital, but he still knew details that most other men had let slip into the abyss of forgotten history.
The once-thriving hub of knowledge and wisdom looked as though a giant sledgehammer had descended upon it in fury, smashing everything in a violent act of rage that left nothing standing whole. A deliberate destruction meant to erase, not merely conquer.
To his knowing eyes, Ravage shook his head in disgust. “The fools,” he whispered darkly, his gaze falling upon a wooden bowl nearby. It rested on an ornate table whose intricate carvings would have demanded a year of a master carpenter’s devoted labor. Even the simple utensils bore the same painstaking artistry.
He knew the stories the White Council had spread throughout the five human kingdoms. All the while, they systematically erased the true history of man to dominate as self-appointed overseers.
The living spaces carved within two hollowed-out giant trees housed pottery and painting supplies, silent evidence of artists at work. Another displayed intricately engraved metal swords and shields, their blades having withstood erosion’s relentless touch, remaining as sharp as the day they were forged. It was a testament to craftsmanship now lost.
Throughout each structure, signs pointed to hasty abandonment. All that remained were scattered artifacts and unfinished works, each piece echoing the masterful craftsmanship found throughout the ruins. Everything bore a connection to the natural world, and every building’s walls displayed inscriptions in the ancient high latra, a language all but forgotten now, its secrets dying with each passing generation.
Enali was a place that once bridged the races of men and ancients, now lost to myth and legend. The whole of Sarsda’s past had been methodically erased, its people reduced to nothing more than squabbling lords with no memory of their glory.
Shaking off the unbidden images of time forgotten, he glared into the rain. He wanted to forget the past, to bury it as deeply as these ruins. He hated being here, even behind magical warded walls. Being among humans again dragged up deep wounds that never truly healed. Even this place that had been destroyed, he had a hand in its fall. His actions so many hundreds of years ago had provoked the White Council to act, to fight against Dragonblood as the rightful guardians of the world. He was a monster in those days, terrifyingly evil, so much so that the White Council, in their pride, saw themselves as the only ones who could protect man against the darkness he reveled in.
With eight hundred years or more behind him, he had watched kings of every nation rise and fall, many times at his own hand. The deaths of countless souls cried out in his head, an eternal chorus of accusation. Even now, so many years later, their faces and screams haunted him in the quiet moments. It was probably a good sign. At least he knew he felt something. Before, he had felt nothing but darkness, that all-consuming hate that made him a puppet for the gods.
The life he had known before was gone though. He would never return, not after he had been freed from those chains. He lived in the silence now, in the shadows of men. There would never be any true life for him. He was alone. And the few he had called friends, well, that was over three hundred years ago.
He was still reflecting on his dark thoughts when he noticed sudden movement through the rain.
A young woman, probably in her early twenties, was running through the abandoned streets with surprising agility. She carried a heavy satchel as she ran sure-footed through the vines and fallen trees, avoiding obstacles with practiced ease. Urgency marked her every movement. Quick flashes of lightning illuminated a fierce determination in her face.
Ravage watched curiously. This place had been walled off by powerful magic, and only a handful of people knew the secret entrances. She wore peasant clothes, rough-spun and mud-stained, but his trained eye knew instantly who she was. Disguises meant nothing to someone who had lived as long as he had.
As the young woman disappeared around the corner of a crumbling building, he looked back the way she had come.
In a soft whisper, he said, “Interesting... very interesting.” He pondered what he had just witnessed, the implications weaving together in his mind. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Joshua.” His hands absently touched something hidden in the inside pocket of his robes.
He glanced up into the boiling clouds. The coloration was just beginning to change from storm grey to the more ominous purple indicating the start of a balance storm. The air itself seemed to thicken with unnatural energy.
A tiny glowing figure of a girl or woman, the age of a fairy could never be told, appeared and sat cross-legged on his shoulder. Her translucent wings folded inward to lay flat against her back, and an inner light pulsed from her body, pouring out a warm magical feeling of serenity that contrasted sharply with his own.
“It’s started again,” the fairy said softly, her voice like wind chimes, looking up at the dark clouds with ancient eyes.
Ravage simply nodded and with a weary sigh, rose to his feet, looking into the sky. A few seconds later he frowned, his expression darkening.
A dragon soared through the heavens above Sarsda as if playing with the very elements of nature, or the unbalanced nature as it was today. It swept along the clouds in a lazy, serpentine fashion. Its green scales sparkled brilliantly in the lightning flashes as its eyes glowed, interchanging between a reddish hue and molten yellow. Wisps of grey-white hair flowed from its scaled head and below its reptilian mouth like a weathered beard. It was old for a fire dragon and dangerously unpredictable. Their very nature was that of mischief and chaos.
Ravage still hadn’t figured out why Firrle hung around him. The fire dragon had taken a liking to him some time after he had been reborn into what he was today. Since then, Firrle followed him around in the skies, always watching for danger or gleefully creating it.
He growled low in irritation, the sound rumbling in his chest.
Hurry up! The silent command was whisked through the winds to where the dragon soared overhead. You’re going to make me get soaking wet waiting for you.
As if mischief was Firrle’s sole intent right now, the dragon turned in a graceful arc, wings spreading wide until it was positioned over the far end of Enali. It soared through the rain, parting a blue-gray curtain of mist in its wake.
Ravage glared for a few seconds, watching the aerial show being put on.
Fine! See if you can find a dry spot out here. I’m not getting wet just so you can play games!
Following the same direction the young woman had taken a short while ago, he made his way through overgrown weeds and accumulated dirt that covered every street. The main roads were choked with fallen trees and aggressive vines that seemed determined to strangle everything in their path.
At one point, he paused in a vast garden that once held statues of what humans called mythical creatures. Now the statues stood like forgotten gods, ignored and weathered.
Two statues stood side by side, partially obscured by climbing vines. The first was that of the fabled Elliad. In the common tongue, this would mean “fair one” or “elf” if used in the slang term.
The Elliad stood tall and proud with a staff in one hand and a parchment in the other. On the receiving end was a human king stretching out his hand to receive the parchment, frozen in an eternal moment of alliance. Though Ravage hadn’t been in Calmone at the time, he did remember the story behind King Judd and the alliance he had forged with the elven country of Verlone. It was before the catastrophic events of the Great Wars, when the dragon prophecy was given and the world changed forever.
Authorities systematically erased this particular history from every textbook in the great libraries, burning what they couldn’t rewrite. Nobody alive today could recall this event, and that was by design. The victors always controlled the narrative.
At the sudden memory of that time, his eyes narrowed in anger, old fury rising like bile. So much of what he was today could have been avoided! If only that coward of a man... that prince he had called friend...
He shook his head sharply as if to physically erase the memories, refusing to let them take root again.
From where the two statues stood, he looked about him, getting his bearings in the overgrown maze. After a short time, he nodded to himself, recognizing landmarks invisible to others, before making his way through the dense foliage.
At one point, bridges had been erected as well as stairs connecting a second level where the natural ground rose higher, as it did in most parts of Sarsda. Now, only piles of rubble and standing struts loomed to tell of this place’s lost beauty, silent monuments to a forgotten age.
Ravage stepped carefully through the debris of fallen bridges tangled in overgrown vines and roots that had reclaimed the stone. It was becoming difficult to walk much further.
Directly ahead, another crumbled bridge connected to a towering wall. On the granite surface, markings of an ancient dialect were inscribed with patterns of leaves, weathered but still legible.
He fought to push deeper into the rubble until he was able to stand next to the wall’s smooth surface.
Kneeling, he examined the markings of the ancient Latra script before taking his walking staff in hand. As he waved a hand over the top of the staff, the polished blue stone globe began glowing with a blue ember of fire within, casting dancing shadows on everything nearby.
He turned towards the inscription again and lifted the staff high, illuminating more of his surroundings.
To the left, just underneath the bridge and half buried in rubble, a tunnel opening appeared.
With a soft chuckle, he grinned. “Ah...” He turned in the direction the text was pointing him towards and moved toward where the half-concealed tunnel opened into darkness.
Lighting his way only by the blue ember of his staff, Ravage traveled swiftly through the barrier of the White wall and emerged into the seedy district of the Wastelane. He hadn’t known precisely where he would emerge when crossing through the Gatebridge to Sarsda, but now he knew. The events of three hundred years had erased more than just man’s memory. They had changed everything, making his task that much harder to fulfill before he could leave the lands of men.
The few beggars and children left to the dark alleys kept their heads down or scattered like leaves on the wind at his approach. There would be considerable talk within the thieves guild of demons today over many watered-down cups of ale.
Following the main streets by way of narrow alleys, he navigated out of the more decrepit parts, if that were even possible. Ahead, a long bridge spanned the Rock river, connecting Wastelane to the more upscale districts. Across the river inlet, smoke puffed from many chimneys of tall buildings and shops, signs of a more prosperous life.
Looking back the way he had come, he could see how aptly the name “Wastelane” fit.
As the temple bells rang out across Sarsda, people ran through the streets toward the welcoming open doors of the temples that dotted the city. Temples were the first places most people thought to run to when those bells rang out in a Balance Storm.
For him, a temple was the last place he would venture to. He had no desire to draw the attention of the gods on himself, to have his presence announced to those hunting him. His lot in life was to take shelter among the unclean.
He quickened his pace through the alleys until he came to a street he knew well.
Near several abandoned docks, a weathered tavern stood catering to the rougher crowd. A broken sign with the name, “Half Blade Tavern,” swung on its one intact chain from the worn exterior wall, creaking in the rising wind.
Quickening his pace, he reached the back entrance of the tavern before hesitating. He looked once more into the boiling colored storm clouds above.
Balance Storms were marked by their strange, beautiful colors in an array of red, purple, and blue. That was where the beauty ended. Swirling in massive waves with wicked streaks of lightning, the storm seemed to possess a sentient mind as it picked over the land, striking anything that lived—whether it be plant, animal, or human. Nothing escaped its wicked tentacles of death.
He stared upward again, knowing full well what had created these clouds: the unnatural power, the unbalanced power behind it all.
With a gloved hand, he gripped the door handle and pulled it open, bracing himself. He hated being among humans.
* * *
The Half Blade Tavern was a mixture of cut-throat thieves, hardened mercenaries, and sailors who were on their last shipping venture for the year as winter approached. The crowd was rough and unwelcoming, and most of these patrons had one too many cups to drink.
The servers waiting on tables were dressed in less than modest clothing and lingered around the men, hardly trying to look decent. Their bodices hung low enough that a bend to pick something up gave everyone at a table a good look at their breasts. They would make their rounds from table to table for coin. If more than that was offered, that was even more acceptable.
The tavern owner couldn’t claim their bodies as his. It wasn’t a brothel. The risks taken in this profession were dangerous here, but the coin in exchange bought tomorrow’s food and kept them alive another day.
That early morning, the Half Blade’s tables were nearly filled with patrons seeking shelter from the storm brewing outside.
As luck had it, Ravage found a table dimly lit in the far corner. Dense smoke and flickering lantern light enveloped him, masking the strange brew that made up his own inner turmoil.
Sitting down, he absently fingered a sealed scroll tucked inside his robes. He was almost finished with this mission. After today, he would slip back out into the wild lands of the Free Territories once more. He hated this, being among people. Slumping in his chair, he closed his eyes and tried to think of other things while waiting out the storm.
Thinking and dwelling on memories was dangerous, though. There was simply too much darkness that waited there, too many ways to slip back into the life he had abandoned.
Like all men, his addictions were not limited to just one form of self-slavery. For him, it was far more sinister. Hardened by centuries of violence and death, he carried his own set of demons. It would be such an easy task to bring every last man to his knees, to enslave a woman to his desires and relish in her screams. The power he had once controlled had been so vast, so intoxicating!
He clenched his fists, eyes snapping open and glaring at nothing. He hoped the storm would pass quickly.
Sooner than he would have liked, though, thoughts drifted down avenues of several lifetimes, pulling him into the past he fought so hard to escape. But even as the darker places sought a place in his mind, a newer memory overshadowed and made him remember.
***
For the last two hundred years, he had wandered the Free Territories and into the far northern Tribal Country. He hadn’t ventured across the Volesin Sea for a hundred years in fear of reprisal from the more native creatures that inhabited that part of the world. Here in Elise, humans were taught not to believe in the Ancients, those born of magic, consigning them to mythical creatures of fairytales. In the northern territories, he could hide from those who wanted him dead.
There were occasions when he had tired of being alone, times when he would help those in need. Never too much and never in the open. A healing here and there was done if the need was great, but nothing more. He could never show himself lest he be discovered and his past catch up to him.
He had wandered the world for nearly three months the last time he was out of hiding before returning to the seclusion of forgotten forests and building his home in a meadow clearing. He erected a cabin built more with sleep in mind than anything of comfort or eye appeal. There had never been another soul to look after, so it didn’t matter. The meadow held a bubbling brook that wound its way past the cabin and disappeared back into the ancient trees.
He had lived here for about ten months when the unexpected happened: she came to him.
He was out foraging for some of the more obscure herbs he collected, which were found only in this part of the world, when clouds rolled in quickly without warning. A storm rattled and shook the trees with sudden fury.
While taking shelter in a deep carved-out knot in an old tree, he suddenly spotted a flicker of light.
About an arm’s length away, the light shimmered and a glowing white figure appeared, shaking off rain droplets like diamonds. She stood on a nearby branch with head stretched upward and arms wide. A laugh played over her tiny features as she danced in the rain, utterly unbothered by the storm.
Similar in nature to fire dragons, the fairy folk were small, peculiar, and never predictable.
The rain lasted a good half hour before it let up, leaving a light grey sky overhead and the forest dripping with moisture.
Ravage dislodged himself from the gaping tree knot near the trunk and looked at the fairy in bewilderment. “How is it you who are born of deep magic can bear to be in my presence? Do you know who I am?”
The fairy shrugged, and from her perch on a branch, flew closer to him with effortless grace.
Laughing lightly, she replied, “You are free of the darkness, aren’t you?”
When Ravage nodded slowly, she grinned playfully and said, “Then let’s not worry about the past.” She patted him on the cheek with a glittery hand that left traces of shimmer on his skin. “We have the future to look towards, you and I.” She gave another laugh at his shocked expression.
“What?” she asked, settling herself onto his shoulder as though she belonged there. “You didn’t expect me to show up and not stay awhile, did you?” She leaned over into his ear and whispered, “My name is Tessa. Do you like it?” Before he could answer, she laughed and spun off into the air again, leaving a trail of sparkling light.
True to her words, she had stayed with him for a time, keeping him company in the loneliness of hiding and filling the silence with her presence.
It had nearly been four months before he would have a second visitor.
***
He had been gathering mushrooms and berries as was his usual habit upon waking. The morning sun crested the tree tops, climbing steadily toward midday.
Ravage had sensed for some time that someone had entered his property, but he didn’t bother to stop his search for mushrooms. He knelt and plucked a plump, round, tan bulb before scanning the forest floor again with keen eyes.
He was near a clearing where he had been cutting wood for his fire. Sentries, crafted from ancient magical artifacts, stood positioned far and wide throughout the forest. Nobody could approach within a league without his knowing.
At last he rose, basket of mushrooms in hand, and waited with practiced patience.
From the opposite end of the clearing, a tall figure emerged from the tree line wearing animal skins. Beside him padded a wolf of enormous size.
Ravage narrowed his eyes and summoned a magical shield without effort. The wolf was no native of Elise. It had come from the sister continent of Eden, home to the majority of the magic-born. Even if Tessa had befriended him with kindness, it didn’t mean all ancient races would do the same. They knew him for who he truly was, the Blood Prince.
Not even halfway across the meadow, the tall figure halted and fixed his gaze on Ravage.
Bowing low, the lean man said, “I have come a long way to find you, Valandil Faelivrin.” He paused, stroking the wolf’s long grey coat with weathered hands. “The rumors surrounding you are strange. Yet a mutual friend has assured me you can be trusted.”
Ravage remained silent for a moment. Stepping out from the shadows, he moved to the edge of the tree line. Frowning, he said in a cold, detached voice, “What do you want of me?” He wouldn’t pretend to be someone else. Somehow, the man knew his true name, the one he would never use as it was a curse tying him to a past he vowed never to return to.
The figure had obviously gained information about his whereabouts known to only a few. That begged the question, who knew his true identity? The world of men had quite literally forgotten most of their history.
The man smiled with a mysterious air. “Have you ever heard of the Phantom Council?”
He fixed his gaze on the stranger. “No. Why should I? I have tried to live apart from all mankind. That’s how I prefer it.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Return to wherever you came from and leave me in peace.”
The man shook his head slowly. “I cannot do that.” He studied Ravage intently. “This council I belong to has many factions scattered across the world. We are watchers, waiting for the coming of prophecy.” His eyes glinted as he stared harder at Ravage. “You know the prophecy I speak of, the one given at the fall of Dragonblood’s Kingdom.”
Ravage’s expression hardened. “What of it? It does not concern me.”
“Really?” The man tilted his head to one side. “It seems to me it references you quite clearly, just as it does two others.”
His nerves twitched. “That was three hundred years ago, and I haven’t seen them since. Why trouble me with old legends?” Anger began to build at the man’s foolish notions. He stayed away from men for this very reason!
“The Phantom Council has done its research. We have studied the lore and watched events of history unfold.” The man paused for emphasis. “The beginning of the Dragon Prophecy is being fulfilled even as we speak.”
Ravage’s eyes narrowed dangerously. With his deep-set scowl, he demanded, “What do you mean it’s being fulfilled?” His insides tightened involuntarily. The prophecy had died when Collin Sherwin, the only heir to Dragonblood’s throne and destined bearer of Eskaver’s Sword, had fled in cowardice from his destiny. Collin shattered the fragile friendship he had built with himself and it still bit deep like a wound that never truly healed. He clenched his fists and glared at the man with barely restrained fury.
The man extended a hand toward him. “Come with me, Valandil. I will show you things that have transpired and things still on the horizon. Your destiny awaits you even as Elyon unfolds His plans.”
Ravage’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to accompany you? You don’t understand who I am if you believe I would.”
“No,” the man shook his head gently. “I don’t expect you to do anything without compelling reason.” He turned to his companion wolf. “Show him, Moonbright.”
The oversized grey wolf stepped forward, and the creature’s luminous eyes locked onto Ravage’s own.
As their eyes met, Ravage witnessed what the Phantom Council had seen. Events wove themselves into patterns he had long suspected as dark omens whispered on the winds of ancient dreams. He watched through the wolf’s eyes as parts of the prophecy tied itself to these events and people then into the Autumn Realm, a place the Ancients hid from man on Elise. He shook his head with a deep sigh. He knew what had to be done even if every part of him screamed to stay in the shadows. He had traded allegiances. And part of that vow had to now be fulfilled.
The world of man remained unprepared. The Night Emperor would rise as the world of ancients drew ever closer to breaking their laws, to lift steel against those dwelling in ignorant bliss, poisoning their native land. Blood would spill across the world and throughout all Extal, the realm of the fae that Exodus belonged to. And if prophecy held true, it would extend far beyond, to the ancient world where all humanity had originated. Earth itself.
As the final images flashed through his mind, he closed his eyes momentarily. He whispered, “To go with you, I risk a great deal. Even you will not be safe in my presence as those who have hunted me for a hundred years will resume.”
The man smiled and raised a hand. A tattoo of intricate designs was etched across his palm. In the center, a dragon coiled in an eternal spiral. “We are sworn to the Watcher’s Code. We serve the One who forged this world. We are not unaware of the threat we face. But we do not fear it.”
Ravage shook his head at such unwavering trust. With grudging acknowledgement, he gestured for the man to follow him home.
Once again, he would enter the world of men for good or ill. And once again, death would follow in his wake as it always had.
He was, after all, damned. He was Ravage, the Blood Prince.
* * *
He absently touched the back of his cloak where something hard lay against his back. A flash of memory played out of an enormous temple hidden on an island. It sparkled in the sunlight, its crystal structure housing one of the most closely guarded secrets.
The image flashed to the inside where he stood at the base of the structure holding crystal shards. Two other men stood with him. At the center of the dais, similar to that of Dragonblood’s Sword Hall, Eskaver’s Sword, the most powerful weapon known to exist, hovered in the air with fire licking at the rune-covered blade. The fire never ceased, encasing the entire sword, waiting.
Ravage glanced behind him, knowing what he would find. He had led the armies of Neverworld across the world in pursuit of Collin Sherwin, knowing he had been on a quest to find the sword that had vanished from Dragonblood’s Sword Hall. He had on this long journey discovered he could not live the life he had, trading it for another, knowing the cost would be enormous. So as he stood nearby, knowing what was coming, he yelled, “Take it, Collin! Only you can touch the handle without it burning you!”
As Collin reached for the sword hilt, the temple grounds ruptured with shouts as creatures, wraiths with glowing green rapiers led deformed but deadly half-dead animate beings. They screamed in madness as they raised swords.
Collin gripped the sword hilt and instantly screamed, his eyes lifted to the domed ceiling, lost to another place and time as tears streamed down his face. He didn’t burn as others would but his expression was haunted, a look of utter misery and failure. He let go of the sword, dropping to his knees in fear and remorse.
“Take it!” Ravage screamed, watching as his former generals marched nearer. In rage, he spoke a word, opening the portal from the emblem on the wall nearby. He glared, feeling his entire world, all he had given up, shatter in an instant.
His two companions raced through the portal and he followed, his world growing dark. The last thing he saw as the portal closed was the walls of the temple falling, the destruction of Taumil’s Balance Crystal Temple.
---
Outside the tavern, the Balance Storm had abated and moved off. The morning sun was just beginning to show itself in the darkness. It did nothing for Ravage’s dark mood as he reflected on why they even existed in the world now. He clenched his fists tight. Coward! Damned coward!
He glanced up briefly, feeling a particular itching in his head coupled with a sudden knot in his stomach. He had come to rely on these heightened senses.
With ease born of hundreds of years, he identified the reason for his unease.
A pair of eyes stared at him from the other end of the tavern. The smoke and bad lighting of Half Blade made it hard to clearly make out the forms.
That meant the one watching him couldn’t make him out as well.
One of the serving girls came by, seeing his mostly empty cup.
He tossed a single silver crown, saying, “One more mug will do.”
The serving girl raised her eyebrows in shock and hurriedly snatched the coin. She composed herself again before saying, “Sir!” and hurried away.
Currency usually was dealt in simple metals. Copper and silver were common. Gold was for more expensive things. But if any single piece was engraved with the crown of any of the five kingdoms, it doubled its own worth. Hardly any pieces of gold were engraved since it was passed usually among the nobles and wealthy merchant classes who could afford their stations in life.
It was a symbol of rank.
The serving girl returned moments later. She struggled to conceal her eagerness as this would cause suspicion from her master. If he found she carried a valuable piece of coin, he would snatch it up in a heartbeat on grounds she worked for him and any money transferred under his roof was his.
When the girl set the mug down in front of Ravage, he nodded slightly behind his hood and watched the tavern patrons some more.
He took the filled cup and drank. The bitter taste of warm stale ale assaulted his tongue and throat. He grimaced but didn’t complain. This was the Wastelane district. Nobody could afford anything more than the cheapest drinks.
He noticed several pickpockets in the crowd, seeing they were good but still needed more experience.
Others were common enough people caught in the middle of a Balance Storm.
His gaze never strayed too far from the vague figure he had noticed before.
The figure moved into better light then and Ravage saw the clothing he wore was simple enough to be from around here. But the behavior was too well rehearsed.
Ravage smiled, enjoying this despite himself. He did have that distrusting effect on people. He turned his gaze on the young man trying to pass as a poor peasant.
When the young man looked ever so slightly at him, he stared right back.
The young man’s eyes widened ever so slightly, realizing he was found out. A hand reached for a sword at his side before stopping abruptly. The eyes flickered across the room, subtle, almost perfect signaling.
He followed the signal to a second man. Though he moved more freely, Ravage caught sight of his keen, hawklike gaze. They gave him away. He wasn’t worn down and beaten by the filth of refuse. No, he was foreign to these streets. The smell of a trained spy clung to him.
Cocking his head to one side, he listened to the silence outside the tavern.
Turning back to the pretend peasant, he gave a quick smile and silently mouthed, “It was nice talking.” Getting up from his seat, he drained the last bit of bitter ale and walked to the tavern door.
The two pretenders tried to move to intercept, but the crowd was still thick from the storm.
Stepping out into the still-dark streets, he made his way quickly into one of the many alleys.