Zevarin’s crimson eyes flicker in the candlelight as he lowers his hood, rain still dripping from its edge.
“I didn’t think anyone here would recognize me,” he mutters, voice low and steady. He steps closer, boots sinking slightly into the damp floor.
“I’m not here by choice,” he continues, gaze sharp. “Your town lies on the path I must take… and perhaps, you have answers I’ve been searching for.”
He pauses before the cushion but doesn’t sit—his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his blade.
“Go on then… if you’ve been expecting me, you already know what I seek.”
