The blood had dried beneath Talon's tunic, stiff and crusted in jagged streaks where the man's blade had grazed her skin. A shallow cut·but it had burned. Not from pain, but from purpose. She had bandaged it herself with a strip torn from her cloak, wrapping it tight, silent, and clean. No one could know. No one could see weakness.
She hadn't meant to kill him. She never walked into fights seeking death. But she hadn't planned to miss either. He'd come at her with intent—to harm, to silence. And when steel meets steel in the shadows of an unkind world, survival doesn't ask for permission.
He'd crumpled like paper, breath cut short, eyes wide with disbelief. Maybe he didn't expect the girl with the scars and silence to move like lightning. Maybe he didn't expect the blade to kiss his throat before his words could even spill. She left his body in the alley, cold and lifeless, slumped against the moldy stone. Let the Outpost deal with its own filth.
Talon had other things to do.
The wind howled that night—angry, sharp, dragging the stench of wet dust and bitter ash through the crooked corridors of the Outpost. A black cat darted across the street as she walked, hood drawn low, eyes sharp even in the dark. The tavern loomed like an old friend with too many secrets, its lanterns flickering, its walls groaning with age.
The heavy doors creaked open at her touch. Inside, warmth clung to the air like a fading memory. The tables were empty. The floor was scattered with overturned chairs, spilled ale, and forgotten laughter. Long past midnight. Long past stories and brawls and the drunken roar of men who thought they ruled the world.
But Janzo remained.
As always.
The brewer moved like a whisper between barrels and herbs, sleeves rolled to his elbows, muttering to himself about mixtures and fermentations. His mind ticked like a clock, spinning over Talon's strange arrival, the whispers that followed her, and the unshakable feeling that something ancient had walked into the Outpost wearing her boots.
He caught a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye—alone, slumped at the corner table, cloak wrapped around her like a wounded animal. Her hair fell over her face, messy and damp with sweat. A wooden cup of half-drunk ale was clutched in her hand, forgotten. Her breathing was slow, but her fingers hovered near her weapon.
Janzo hesitated. She looked broken. Or just tired. Or something between the two.
He walked toward her quietly, stepping over a fallen mug, adjusting his vest.
"Miss... Talon?" he called out gently, unsure if she was asleep or just... lost. "It's late. You can't just—"
Lightning.
In one breathless second, her body coiled and struck. Her hand snapped up, fingers like iron, clamping around his wrist with the force of instinct honed by war. She twisted. Janzo yelped, knees buckling, and she slammed him hard against the edge of the table.
"Aaagh! Wait—wait—it's me! It's Janzo!" he croaked, eyes wide, pain shooting up his arm.
Talon blinked.
The world returned in fragments. The dim glow of firelight. The scent of ale. The sound of his voice.
She released him with a shuddered breath.
"I..." Her voice cracked like gravel. "I shouldn't have done that."
Janzo staggered back, cradling his wrist and forcing a shaky smile. "No, no, don't worry. It's fine. Just... maybe ask next time? I'm not used to being flung like a sack of turnips."
She looked away. Shadows danced across her bruised cheek as the fire flickered. "I don't sleep easy."
"No," he murmured, still rubbing his wrist. "Clearly."
They stood in silence. The kind that said more than words could. Talon wasn't just tired. She was haunted. By memories, by blades, by things she didn't want to name.
Janzo cleared his throat. "You... you should rest. I'll fetch another blanket. You look like hell."
Talon didn't reply right away. Her eyes stared into nothing, the mug still resting between her fingers. But just as he turned to leave, her voice drifted after him, soft as ash.
"Thanks... Janzo."
He paused. A faint smile curved at the edge of his lips. Then he kept walking, boots scuffing the wooden floor.
But they were not alone.
Up in the dim rafters, between the crooked beams and dust webs, a pair of sharp eyes watched in silence.
Tony hadn't gone to bed.
He sat cross-legged behind a pillar, breath still, heart racing. He'd followed Talon. He'd seen her slip through the Outpost like a shadow and vanish into the tavern. Curiosity had led him here. But now… now he wasn't sure what he'd stumbled into.
There was blood on her bandages.
A weapon still wet near her hip.
And that look in her eyes—the same look he'd seen once in a dying soldier back in the north, who had stared through the sky like it owed him answers.
Talon wasn't just dangerous.
She was running from something.
And Tony was going to find out what.