The outsider laughed mockingly at the priest’s claim, While couldn’t tear his eyes off the woman captive. He took a step closer, the sword already in his hand as part of the defense preparation.

“I hope you are a fighter, too.”

The priest’s laughter was heartless and piercing. “Don’t make me laugh,” he said, almost ready to burst into laughter. “you may look dumb, but not dumb enough to kill a holy fire priest.”

“Anybody talk about murder?” The stranger’s grin was as cruel and sharp as the blade in his grip.

He made a sudden and powerful swing of his sword above his head.

At the speed it travelled, it broke the windows around it into thousands pieces.

The priest who had previously been tall and standing firm besides, crumbled and fell in a little heap now.

Scattered drops of his blood spilled over him, staining the ground crimson.

The outsider ruthlessly chopped off both of his legs exactly from the body.

As the man moved his eyes on the dazed and frightened girl, who was still tied on the chair.

She heard his weak voice in a hoarse tone. “If I set you loose,” he asked. “Would you be willing to provide me a place to sleep?”

Her horrified eyes traced over the priest’s body, which had been twitching still, through the blood-covered sword in the stranger’s hand and finally rested on his face.

There was a cold look in his eyes, yet they were not malevolent. “You, you murdered him,” she blurted out, her voice was.

"It was more like a castration, now would you consider my offer?”

He leaned against the wall and cleaned up his blade from blood. “I am a man of my word. I guarantee that I will never hurt you.” He spoke firmly.

She nodded and barely heard the words.“You may rest here.”

The outsider sheathed his sword and approached the chair, his eyes never leaving hers. He unlocked the chains that bound her wrists and ankles.

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As he released her, her fear began to subside, replaced by curiosity and a strange sense of relief.

“Who are you?” she asked, mustering up the courage.

To ask. “And why have you come here?”

The outsider released a weary sigh before responding,

“Call me Zellrid, a Nightstalker by profession. I sought nothing more than to rent a room within your hotel, and as for the rest... well, you bore witness to it yourself.”

“A Nightstalker?” The girl whispered, her voice echoing in the now silent room. “But what does that mean?”

“Listen, we bust our asses in the dark so that you can live in light. And sometimes that means taking out a few scumbags along the way. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be resting upstairs. Don’t bother me.”

She watched him retreat to the staircase, his heavy footsteps echoing through the empty corridors.

Zellrid, a Nightstalker, she thought to herself, a figure of legend in the northern parts. And here he was, standing in her hotel.

“Wait, what should I do to this priest?”

The girl was still in shock.

“You...you killed him, right? So I guess you know what to do.”

Zellrid’s voice echoed from above, annoyed and impatient. “He’s not dead, damn it. Just bandage him up or toss him in the basement. Don’t bother me with this again.”

The girl nodded, though Zellrid could not see it, and approached the crumpled form of the priest.

He breathed shallowly, his face contorted in a grimace even in unconsciousness.

She had never tended to an injured man before, let alone one who had been violently incapacitated.

She attempted to lift him with care, but his weight proved to be too much for her.

With great effort, she could move him a short distance and onto the bed.

She then grabbed the iron branding tool, which had once been used to torture her, and used it to cauterize the wounds on his limbs.

In the meantime, Zellrid made himself comfortable in his room, preparing for a well-deserved rest following the night’s occurrences.

At his side, a petite hearth flickered with warmth as it concocted various elixirs and bombs that would prove essential for his next mission.

As he lay down, his weight caused the bed to creak, but the soft mattress offered a welcome respite from the hard ground he typically endured.

He then drifted off to sleep.

Time kept moving, never stopping. The last bits of sunlight played around in Zellrid’s window.

It was like a space clock, quietly telling him that day and night were about to swap places—it was getting dark.

In the twilight hours, Zellrid’s potions and mini-bombs were silently brewing by the bedside as he slept. The concoctions bubbled and fizzed.

Outside the window, the sky was a canvas of deepening blues and purples, with stars slowly emerging like shy spectators.

The town of Salt Lake below had begun to light up. One by one, the windows in homes and taverns glowing as candles and hearths were lit.

With a sudden start, Zellrid was pulled from his slumber.

His voice hummed in the stillness of the room. “The scent has shifted.” His senses were sharp, and he was awake in an instant. He muttered to himself, “The beast must have relocated the girl’s body. I need to prepare myself.”

He sat up and stretched his tired limbs, wincing as stiff muscles protested. Slipping out of bed, he moved to the window and peered down into the darkened street below.

Fully awake now, Zellrid washed up and dressed quickly in his traveler’s attire before collecting his elixirs.

He strapped on his sword belt, ensuring his trusty blade’s hilt was within easy reach.

In the flickering light of the hearth, he checked the contents of his belt pouches one last time, double-checking each vial and pouch.

Satisfied, he doused the flames and crept downstairs, stopping only to pocket few bread rolls from the larder.

The girl remained by the priest’s side, but her gaze shifted to Zellrid as he descended the staircase.

“He’ll be out for a while,” Zellrid assured the woman.

“But he’ll pull through. Make sure to close your door and let him rest.

Then, go to your room and sprinkle salt on the entrance. And remember, don’t open your door until morning.” With firm steps, Zellrid headed towards the exit of the hotel.

Strolling down the dimly lit street, he glanced into every nook and cranny, muttering to himself, “It’s going to be a long night.”