Stephen

The tavern door swings open. A cold wind flutters your cloak, and a young man in a stained leather apron freezes in place, his hand still on the hilt of his cleaver. The blood on his sleeve is still wet. He looks at you, his amber eyes narrowing. "I didn't expect anyone else to come looking for the missing girl tonight," he says, wiping his palm on his pant leg. "What do you want—hush money, or are you here to ask questions?"