The Black Hound Tavern stank of mold and stale ale. Its floorboards were sticky with spilled drinks, meat grease, and the grime of forgotten nights. The usual crowd was no better—thieves, deserters, and dimwits who'd slit a throat for a single coin. But even they gave him a wide berth. Not out of respect—Kael had never earned that—but out of fear.
The broken Hunter's Crest that hung around his neck marked him as Death's favorite fool.
Even the bartender, a striking maiden with generous curves, long dark hair, and innocent blue eyes, hesitated whenever she handed him a drink.
Kael slammed back a mug of Blackfire Ale, letting the bitter burn numb whatever was left of his conscience. The tavern's patrons kept stealing glances at the crest around his neck—his father's crest.
"Another," he barked.
The bartender hesitated, noticing the way he swayed in his seat, the glass shaking in her hands.
"I said another, goddammit!"
Her fingers trembled as she poured. Foam spilled over the rim like the fear rising in her throat.
"H-here you go, sir..." she said, offering the cup with both hands.
Then the tavern door burst open. A gust of wind howled through the room, bringing with it a lash of cold rain and silence.
A cloaked figure stepped in—petite, bloodstained boots, skin as smooth as silk, glowing with an almost unnatural radiance. She walked with calm, measured steps, the tavern parting around her as if on instinct.
She sat beside Kael without a word.
"Haven't you had enough ale for one day?" she asked, not unkindly.
"I'm the only one who decides when I've had enough."
"Then why don't you crawl back to the whorehouse you came from?"
Kael narrowed his eyes but didn't respond.
The woman calmly placed a Fallen's fang on the bar with a soft clink.
"That supposed to scare me?" he muttered, eyeing the fang. "If you're here to kill me, at least buy me a drink first."
"If I was here for that," she said with a smirk, "you'd be dead before your next sip."
She leaned in, voice lower now. "They're coming for you, Kael. And not just them."
Kael froze, turning his gaze on her fully now. A gust of wind flung her hood back, just enough to reveal the full curve of her exposed breast and a crimson amulet nestled between them.
Even in his drunken haze, something about that amulet struck him—familiar, nostalgic... impossible.
"Lyria...!?"
She smiled. "Finally recognized me. Is the alcohol finally wearing off?"
He grinned bitterly. "Tell the Guild to send better assassins."
"Are you seri—"
A crash cut her off. The tavern window exploded inward. A monstrous figure lunged through, snarling.
Its skin was cracked like porcelain, pulsing with black veins. Crimson eyes, taloned feet, jagged horns, and a mouthful of needle-like teeth. What caught Kael's attention were the wings—featherless, malformed.
It was unmistakable.
"It's a FALLEN!" they both shouted.
"Everyone, get down!" Lyria barked, drawing a sickle from beneath her cloak.
The tavern erupted in chaos. Patrons screamed and tripped over one another in a mad dash to escape.
"What's a Fallen doing here?" Lyria muttered under her breath.
One of the patrons bolted, yelling, "I'm outta here!"
The Fallen turned its gaze to Kael, speaking in a voice like gravel and rot.
"The Harbinger feasts on your father's screams. Soon... you'll choke on yours."
Kael's eyes widened. "What do you know about my old man, bastard?!"
He reached instinctively for his sword—only to curse. The Guild had taken it when they exiled him.
"Shit!" All he had was the boot knife he'd stolen off a drunk the night before.
"Well... guess this'll have to do." Kael muttered, pulling it free.
Without hesitation, he charged. The Fallen lunged, claws swiping toward his skull.
"Not today, big guy," he grunted, ducking and driving the knife into its arm.
Black ooze erupted from the wound, searing his skin like acid.
"AHHH! Shit!! What the hell is this?!"
Lyria shouted, "It's a new mutation! Don't let the ooze touch you!"
"Bit late for that, you piece of shit!!"
The Fallen shrieked and went berserk, tearing through the bar like a storm. Tables snapped, chairs shattered.
"You made it mad!" Lyria yelled.
"EXCUSE ME?! In case you're blind, bitch, this burn's worse than a hangover!"
The bartender screamed, ducking beneath the counter. Everyone else had already fled. She'd stayed too long. She was next.
But before the creature reached her, Lyria struck. She drew both sickles, their edges glinting silver in the moonlight.
A nearby patron, frozen in fear, whispered to another, "Hey... do those sickles... remind you of something?"
Before the Fallen could even swing, Lyria leapt, her blades singing through the air—then silence. Its head hit the floor with a wet thud, rolling to a stop by the bartender's feet.
Kael scoffed. "Pfft. Would've been easier if I had my sword."
"Too bad you don't," Lyria replied, calmly sheathing her sickles.
By the time the chaos died down, the tavern was in ruins.
Tables lay in pieces, the counter shattered, spirit racks broken. Blood and ale pooled together across the floor, a grim cocktail of death.
Kael looked around, dazed. "This was never a place for fights like this."
Lyria raised a brow. "Yeah? What would you have us do?"
He sighed. "For heaven's sake, I just wanted a beer."
She smirked. "Come on. Let's get the body outside."
As they dragged the Fallen's corpse toward the exit, Kael's voice dropped low.
"Hey... after this is done, you owe me an explanation."
His tone was calm—but deadly serious.
As Kael and Lyria dragged the Fallen's corpse into the rain-slick alley behind the tavern, the downpour washed blood and black ooze into the gutters. Thunder cracked overhead, rattling windows and sending stray dogs howling in the dark.
Kael wiped the burning ooze from his hands, wincing as it sizzled against his already raw skin. He turned to Lyria, his voice low, edged with frustration.
"Start talking. Why's the Harbinger hunting me?"
Lyria opened her mouth—then stilled. Her eyes narrowed, body tensing like a drawn bow.
A heartbeat later, her sickle was out, blade pressed cold and fast against Kael's throat.
"Don't. Move."
Kael froze, instinctively reaching for a weapon he no longer had.
Behind him, a shadow peeled itself from the stone wall, like smoke taking form. The storm swallowed most sound, but the voice that followed cut through it like a blade dipped in memory and malice.
"Miss me, little hawk?"
Kael's blood turned cold.
The figure stepped into the dim light—Dren.
His twin knives gleamed under the flickering torchlight, one of them already dripping.
At his feet lay the bartender, her body crumpled and still, blood mixing with the rain.
A sick smile played on his lips as he tilted his head.
"You always did have a thing for messy goodbyes."
Kael's jaw clenched.