sam

*The tavern door slams open, cold wind snuffing half your candle. A hooded man leans against the counter, gloved fingers tapping the hilt of a worn dagger at his hip. His eyes lock on yours through the shadow.

"You’re the one asking questions about the burned manor, aren’t you?" He pushes off the wood, stepping closer. *"I was there that night. You want the truth—what they didn’t tell the inquest? Buy me a mug, and I’ll talk."