In a bustling tavern, patrons huddled around tables cluttered with mugs, chatting, joking, and having a good time with games. The atmosphere was filled with the smell of spilled beer, smoke, and a hint of sweat. As the creaky door swung open, conversations paused, and everyone turned their heads as one.

A man walked in confidently, his hat tilted casually, casting a shadow over his sharp eyes that quickly surveyed the room. He wore a dark brown duster with sharp lines, a leather belt with shiny square buckles, and holsters holding guns low on his thighs. His boots hit the wooden floor heavily with each intentional step. 

“Look who’s here—the lawman without a badge,” someone joked, making a few people nearby chuckle.

“No laws here—unless they’re written on the end of a barrel,” added another, which got more laughs.

“Ain’t no criminals hiding under the ale barrels,” someone else pitched in.

“Are you sure you’re in the right spot?” a bold voice shouted from the back. “This is a bar, not some shooting range for hunters brotherhood!” The speaker’s grin faded when the man’s eyes locked onto him.

“Want to see if your mouth’s quicker than my trigger?” the man asked softly but with a deadly edge. His hand lightly rested on his gun as he moved toward the bar. The chatter lowered to whispers. A few uneasy patrons fidgeted, suddenly busying themselves with their mugs or cards.

At the bar, he tossed some coins onto the counter with a metallic clink. A young woman working there swept them up, a playful smirk on her lips as she picked out bottles, the glass softly clinking.  

“They like you in here,” she teased, her eyes glinting challengingly.  

“Just so,” he replied, settling onto a stool comfortably.  

“Thought you’d be anywhere but Beligram,” she said, starting to pour a drink. The liquid plopped into the glass with a satisfying sound, cutting through the tavern’s tense quiet.  

“Figured you’d miss me while I was away,” he replied, tipping his hat back to reveal a warm, brown face and a smile that was both charming and knowing.  

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

She slid the filled glass across the counter, leaning in with a hopeful look full of longing, unable to resist inviting him,  

“Wanna join me behind the bar?”  

He shook his head, his long, curly hair swaying with the movement. 

“Sorry, I’ll pass,” he said softly but decisively, taking a sip.  

Her smile faded a bit, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes.  

“Why not?” she asked, her curiosity bright.  

“Got a word from Gado… it’s about a new bounty,” he said, placing the glass down with a soft thud.  

“How’s that any different?” she mumbled, wiping the counter as her brows furrowed.  

“A hundred shifts, dead or alive,” he said, casually, but with sharp eyes meeting hers.  

“How far?” she asked, barely hiding her concern.  

“No clue yet,” he shrugged.  

For a moment, she stared, her gaze tracing his face’s lines as if committing them to memory.  

“Then you better get going,” she said, her voice steady, but her fingers lingered on the glass a little longer than needed.  

“Just popped in for your awesome grog,” he chuckled, trying to lighten her mood as he stood. The hat settled back on his head, and he flashed one last smile before making for the door, the floorboards creaking under his stride.  

“Take care, Zak,” she called after him, her voice laced with soft concern. He paused briefly before stepping outside, the daylight engulfing him as the door swung shut behind him.

                                           A few days later, in a dimly lit room,

A single lantern gave off a warm, flickering glow that cast shadows around a small room. A young woman was seated at a table, writing a letter, the noise of her pen filling the quiet. The light highlighted her smooth, tawny complexion and her shoulder-length black hair, which shimmered softly. Dressed all in black, her clothes seemed to blend her into the surrounding darkness. 

She carefully folded the letter, the soft rustle breaking the silence, and slipped it into an envelope. She stood and moved to the wide window that overlooked a rocky street and a large building across the way. Even with the window closed, the sounds of horses’ hooves and muffled voices crept in, blending with the low night noises. A banner above the building read,

“Hotel The Papel,”

its handwritten words illuminated by the lights from passing carts.

She observed a few carts stopping at the entrance, with passengers in fancy clothes, their laughter cutting through the sound of hooves. Adjusting the white curtains, she turned to look at a small bed, where several shiny knives and two short swords were laid out ready. The cool metal felt reassuring as she tucked each blade into hidden sheaths sewn into her clothes—from her chest to her back and down to her thighs, where the swords were also secured in dark scabbards that fit perfectly.

One final look out the window confirmed nothing had changed. With that, she wrapped a black scarf half her face, leaving only her eyes visible, their dark intensity impossible to read. Quietly, she stepped into the dim hallway, and the door closed softly behind her as she disappeared into the shadows.