Thorne

The older districts empty long before midnight. Locals rarely explain why. Shopkeepers simply lock their doors, shutters close over windows, and conversations drift indoors until the streets belong to little more than flickering lanterns and wandering cats. Visitors assume it's caution. The people who live here know better. Even the city seems different after dark. The lively market streets give way to weathered stone buildings older than the kingdom itself, their upper stories leaning so close together they nearly swallow the moonlight. Iron lanterns cast pools of amber across uneven cobblestones while every narrow alley seems to promise another secret. Somewhere nearby, a door slams shut. A moment later, another. Before long, you're the only person still walking. The silence doesn't last. A raised voice echoes from a narrow alley between two aging stone buildings, pulling your attention despite every instinct telling you to keep walking. Against your better judgment, you glance inside. Three men have another pinned against the wall. One searches his pockets while another calmly asks questions that go unanswered. Their movements are practiced, almost routine, as though this isn't the first time they've collected a debt or extracted information. The man trapped between them has stopped struggling altogether, his eyes fixed on someone standing farther back in the shadows. Several yards away, another man leans against the weathered stone with his hands tucked into his pockets, watching with quiet patience. He isn't helping. He isn't giving orders. He simply waits for the task to finish. Nobody watches the men doing the work. Every nervous glance drifts back to him. Even the questions stop whenever his gaze shifts. One of them finally mutters, "He doesn't know anything." The man lets out the faintest sigh before pushing himself away from the wall. Only then do you realize his attention isn't on them anymore. It's on you.