The rhythmic shush-shush of the broom against the wooden planks was the only sound in the stall for a long while. Drovian didn't look back. He kept his eyes on the remaining sow, his hands steady as he gripped the cleaver, though the familiar, dull weight of the tool felt like a leaden reminder of everything he had tried to leave behind."You’re missing a spot near the corner," Drovian muttered, his voice flat.Qavren didn't stop, but his pace quickened. "I’m scrubbing, Drovian! I’m scrubbing as hard as I can. Look, the mud is coming right off. Tell me, was that really the Soul-Severing Strike? I read about it in a scroll when I was a lad, back when I thought I’d be a knight instead of a tracker."Drovian sighed, the sound sharp and weary. He turned slightly, pinning the hunter with a cold, piercing stare. "Listen to me, Qavren. You’re spinning stories in your head. I was a butcher in the city before I came here. My hands are fast because I’ve spent twenty years carving. That’s it. No

The air in the marketplace felt heavy, saturated with a static charge that made the hair on Drovian’s arms stand up. Tazven Orlan didn't move. He stood by the butchering block, his silk robes looking entirely out of place against the blood-stained wood, his eyes tracing the path of the discarded cleaver as if it were a holy relic."You really don't intend to leave, do you?" Drovian asked, his voice low and raspy. He reached for a fresh side of pork, his movements stiff.Tazven leaned against the stall’s support beam, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips. "Why would I leave? I’ve spent ten years tracking the ghost of a legend. I’m not going to walk away just because the ghost decided to play shopkeeper.""I told you, I’m just a man with a knife and a mortgage," Drovian muttered, slamming the meat onto the board. "If you want to watch something, go watch the blacksmith. He makes more noise.""The blacksmith hits iron," Tazven replied, waving a hand dismissively. "You? You we

The rain didn’t wash away the tension; it only turned the square into a slick, treacherous stage. Drovian stood before his stall, his shoulders hunched against the biting chill, his hand lingering near the handle of the cleaver he had come to treat as a surrogate for his soul.Raxel Durn didn’t step into the light; he stepped into the void, his sword—a long, shimmering blade that hummed with a low, predatory vibration—drawn and pointed squarely at Drovian’s chest."You’re a stubborn man, Butcher," Raxel said, his voice cutting through the drumming of the rain. "I’ve followed the trail of your 'intent' through three provinces. Are you going to keep pretending, or are you finally going to show me what you are?"Drovian sighed, a sound that held the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. "I’m a man who sells meat, Raxel. Put the steel away. You’re scaring the ghosts, and frankly, I’ve got enough of them already.""Ghosts don’t have blades," Raxel countered, his eyes narrowing. "And they

The heavy, splintering crack of the front door being kicked from its hinges echoed through the silence of the shop. Dust motes danced in the moonlight that spilled onto the floorboards. Drovian stood in the shadows, his hand wrapped tight around the hilt of the blade he had sworn never to touch again.The three figures stepped inside, their movements liquid and predatory. They weren't soldiers; they were shadows, their breathing so synchronized it sounded like a single set of lungs. The leader, a man with a jagged scar running from his ear to his chin, sniffed the air, his eyes flicking toward the counter."They said he was a butcher," the leader said, his voice a dry, rasping wheeze. "He’s been hiding in this hole long enough to turn soft. Kill him, and don’t bother with the questions. We have our orders.""Think he’s even worth the silver?" one of the shadows whispered, his hand hovering over the pommel of a thin, serrated blade. "He’s just an old man with a dull knife.""He killed

"I’m a butcher," Drovian repeated, his voice devoid of the theatricality common among those who traded in lives. He stood amidst the quiet carnage, the floorboards groaning under his weight. The two remaining assassins hadn't moved, their eyes fixed on the man who had effortlessly dismantled their leader in a motion too fast to track."You're dead," the taller one hissed, though his legs trembled. "You’re a ghost, Drovian. The Guilds have been tracking your path for years. You think a few stabs in a village butcher shop will keep the bounty hunters away?"Drovian didn't look at the corpses. He looked at the window, checking the perimeter for more silhouettes. "I think you’re tracking a ghost, and ghosts don't pay debts. Tell your masters that the shop is closed.""You don't get to close," the second assassin spat, lunging forward with a desperate, downward strike of a serrated dirk.Drovian didn't reach for a weapon. He pivoted, using the momentum of his opponent’s own weight. He caug