As Thal sat in his chosen corner of the inn, the quiet murmur of patrons moving about became his only company. His massive frame was impossible to miss, scarcely clothed in a rough brown kilt that ended mid-thigh, leaving his torso entirely bare. Thick slabs of muscle coiled across his chest and arms, dense as stone and carved with scars that mapped centuries of violence. Patrons entered and left the inn in waves, some weary travelers covered in the grime of the Shadowfern, others locals stopping by for a drink, but regardless of their purpose, nearly all of them stole a glance at the giant seated in the corner.

  A group of young Kruu’Strata paused near the doorway, their hushed whispers reaching Thal’s ears. “Is that...?” one of them began, eyes trailing over the expanse of scarred flesh.

  “Don’t stare,” hissed another, though he couldn’t look away from the dense muscle shifting in Thal’s forearms. “He’ll hear you.”

  Thal’s eyes flicked toward them briefly, and they quickly hurried to a table, heads bowed. He sighed softly, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to be the subject of gossip, but it seemed inevitable wherever he went.

  A short while later, a burly Ork entered, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor. He glanced Thal’s way, his gaze lingering on the thick cords of Thal’s neck and the old, pale scars that crossed his abdomen like claw marks. The Ork grunted, impressed despite himself, and made his way to the bar. The bartender, who had grown accustomed to Thal’s presence, simply nodded in his direction.

  “He’s been sitting there all night,” the Ork muttered to the bartender, gesturing with his chin toward the wall of muscle in the corner. “Half naked and scowling. Like a statue that’s been through a war.”

  “Better than the alternative,” the bartender replied, pouring ale. “He’s not causing trouble. Just leave him be.”

  From the far corner, a small group of travelers, Beastkin with fox-like features, whispered among themselves. One of them, a younger woman with vibrant orange fur, kept sneaking glances at Thal’s scarred shoulders. “He’s enormous,” she murmured. “Look at his hands.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” an older man in the group warned. “Men that size crush things without meaning to.”

  Thal’s sharp hearing caught every word, but he remained still. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard such remarks, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  A pair of human merchants entered next, their clothes dusty from the road. One of them nearly tripped when he spotted Thal, his eyes going wide at the sheer breadth of the Nephilim’s back, the way the dim light caught on the ridges of scar tissue. “That’s him!” he whispered to his companion. “The one from the statue outside! I swear, it looks just like him, only bleeding.”

  The second man glanced at Thal, then back at his friend, shaking his head. “You’ve had too much to drink. Statues don’t walk around half-naked.”

  Despite the stir he was causing, Thal remained where he was, silent and unmoving. He had no desire to engage with the curious, the fearful, or the skeptical. He’d long since grown used to such reactions, though they never stopped being mildly irritating.

  For now, he simply waited, his patience as unyielding as the stone of the mountains he once called home.

  As the night deepened, the scrape of a chair against wood cut through the low murmur of the inn.

  Thal opened his eyes. A woman sat across from him uninvited, her figure draped in flowing robes of deep purple that shimmered faintly under the dim light. The fabric clung to her form in ways that suggested more than it concealed, cut low across her chest and slit high along her thighs to reveal pale, almost luminescent skin. Long black hair spilled from beneath the wide brim of a witch’s hat, framing a face that was beautiful in the manner of a knife blade, sharp, precise, and dangerous. The hat cast her features in shadow, but her eyes, emerald and gleaming with unsettling intensity, fixed on him with the focus of a predator spotting prey.

  “Thal, isn’t it?” she said, her voice carrying a honeyed warmth that made his jaw tighten. She leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, her hat tilting slightly. The movement shifted her robes, exposing more of that pale skin at her collarbones and the swell of her breasts. “I’ve heard whispers about you, giant. I couldn’t resist the chance to see for myself.”

  Thal didn’t respond. He simply stared at her with a flat, heavy silence, the kind that had made armies reconsider their choices. His scarred arms remained crossed over his chest, each muscle standing out like ancient roots beneath skin. His message was clear. Leave.

  The woman smiled, unfazed. She traced the rim of her glass with one finger, the gesture deliberate, slow. Her nails were long and dark, nearly black. “So mysterious. I wonder if all Nephilim are as... sculpted... as you, or if it’s just you.”

  Still nothing. Thal’s gaze shifted past her shoulder to the door, then back to the wall. He was done. He had no interest in whatever game this stranger was playing.

  “Oh, come now,” she continued, her tone light, almost playful. She settled deeper into her chair, crossing her legs. The slit in her robes parted to reveal more pale skin, a flash of thigh that she made no move to cover. “Call it curiosity. You’re an enigma, Thal. A giant who walks among mortals, carrying burdens far beyond what most of us can fathom. It’s fascinating.”

  Thal’s hand shifted on the table. Just an inch. His fingers, thick as oak roots, pressed into the wood, leaving faint indentations. A warning.

  The woman saw it. Her smile flickered, but she didn’t retreat. Instead, she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The brim of her hat brushed forward, shadowing her face except for those glowing emerald eyes. “You know, you’re not as intimidating as people make you out to be. Brooding, sure, but not terrifying. I think you’re soft underneath all that scar tissue.”

  Thal’s eyes narrowed. His fingers curled into a loose fist, the knuckles cracking softly. Last chance, his posture said. Leave or be removed.

  She tilted her head, studying him with a predator’s patience. “Where do you come from, truly? What drives someone like you to keep moving, to keep fighting?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” Thal said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the wood.

  “Fair enough,” she said, though she didn’t sound deterred. She studied him, her smile widening. Still, she pressed on. “You can’t blame me for being curious. You’re unique. A walking contradiction. Legends paint you as this unstoppable force, but here you are, sitting in an inn, looking more like a weary traveler than a god-slayer.”

  Zara’s gaze dropped to his chest, lingering on the ridges of scar tissue that crossed his ribs like mountain ranges on a map. She leaned forward further, the brim of her hat nearly touching the table, and traced the air above a particularly jagged mark without touching him.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “That one,” she said, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Claw marks. Deep. Four parallel lines.” Her emerald eyes flicked up to his. “You let something get close enough to embrace you before you killed it. Or did you hesitate?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. Her attention drifted to his shoulder, where a circular burn had healed into puckered silver. “And this. Dragon fire? No. Older. Something that wanted to mark you as territory.” She smiled, sharp and knowing. “You don’t just kill beasts, do you, Thal? You try to tame them first. You let them claw their way close, hoping they’ll soften. They never do.”

  Thal’s spine stiffened. She was speaking of things he’d never voiced, moments from centuries past when he’d reached out to wounded creatures and received wounds in return. The observation cut deeper than her flirtation, deeper than the teasing. It was a violation, reading his history from the marks on his skin as if he were an open book.

  Thal’s lips pressed into a thin line. He shifted his weight forward, preparing to stand, to tower over her, to make her understand that his patience had run out ten minutes ago. His thighs tensed beneath the rough kilt, scarred flesh coiling like stone serpents.

  Then she said it.

  “You carry a shadow not your own,” she whispered, and the warmth in her voice curdled into something cold. “The Black Empyrean. The Nakba.”

  Thal went completely still.

  Not the stillness of a man at rest. The stillness of a landslide holding its breath. His eyes, golden and burning, narrowed suddenly, the pupils contracting into vertical black slits, feral and reptilian. The air in the corner seemed to compress, the temperature dropping as something ancient and hungry looked out from behind his gaze.

  Zara saw it. Her breath caught, not in fear, but in delight. A flush crept up her neck, her pale skin pinkening as she leaned into that predatory stare, her own eyes widening with perverse pleasure. She loved it, the loss of control, the beast peeking through the cracks of the man. She didn’t flinch away from those slitted eyes. She drank them in, her smile turning hungry, almost intimate.

  “It knows your shape,” she continued, her voice steadier now, thick with fascination. “It wears your footsteps when you’re not looking.”

  Thal’s hand shot out, not toward a weapon, for he carried none, but toward her throat. He moved faster than a creature his size should have been able to move, his scarred fingers closing around her neck with crushing intent, the muscles in his forearm coiling to snap it like a dry branch.

  Zara didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into his grip, her neck arching like a cat seeking a stroke, her throat pressing against his palm with eager submission. A shudder ran through her, not of terror, but of pleasure, her eyelids fluttering as she felt the heat of his skin against her pale neck, the potential for violence coiled in that scarred grip. Her smile deepened, becoming something private and obscene, her pulse hammering against his palm in excitement rather than fear.

  “Two cracks in the foundation already,” she whispered, her voice breathless, husky with arousal. “The first fracture never healed—it only learned to hide. The second is buried deep.” She leaned further into his grasp, her lips inches from his knuckles. “Don’t let the shadow reach the third.”

  Thal’s fingers twitched. He could crush her windpipe before she could blink. He could snap her neck with the same ease he’d use to break a branch. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath, but it carried the weight of a snapped spine, guttural and inhuman.

  “What. Did. You. Say.”

  Zara pressed her throat harder against his hand, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, her eyes never leaving his slitted gaze. “You heard me, beast,” she breathed, her voice trembling with delight. “The Nakba didn’t break the world. It broke you, and through you, it hungers.”

  Thal’s fingers tightened, intending to finish it, to silence this woman who spoke names that should not be spoken, yet as his muscles contracted to crush, yellow crystals, jagged, sickly, pulsing with inner light, erupted from her pale skin around her throat, hardening instantly into a collar harder than diamond.

  His fingers slammed against them with a crack like stone striking stone. The impact shuddered up his arm, and he jerked back, eyes widening, the slitted pupils snapping wide with shock.

  Zara’s smile faltered, not with fear, but with genuine disappointment. Her pale throat had pressed so eagerly against his palm, her breath quick with anticipation of that final, violent squeeze. Now the crystals held his hand at bay, and she let out a soft, regretful sigh, almost pouting.

  "Pity," she whispered, her voice thick with unfulfilled desire. "I wanted to feel you break me."

  Thal tried to pull his hand back, but the yellow crystals held him fast for a heartbeat longer, biting cold against his skin, before dissolving into dust. He stared at her, the killing rage in his eyes now laced with something else, caution. She was not defenseless. She had let him get close, had wanted him to try, knowing he would fail.

  She settled deeper into her chair, her body relaxed as if she hadn’t just been seconds from death, her fingers trailing briefly against his wrist in a caress before he withdrew completely. The purple fabric of her robes shifted again, sliding over her pale skin. “I know that the foundation remembers every break,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. “I know the shadow feeds in the gaps. You’re not just a piece on the board, Thal. You’re the one who can finish what the Nakba started. You have the strength to mend what even gods turned their backs on, but strength isn’t enough, is it?”

  Thal didn’t lower his hand, yet he didn’t strike again. He sat there, frozen, a statue of contained violence, as she remained seated, her emerald eyes never leaving his.

  “The question isn’t if you’ll try,” she said, her voice echoing strangely as green crystals began to materialize around her feet, not with the sparkle of magic, but with the wet, organic crunch of ice forming on a winter pond. They grew upward in jagged, spiraling patterns, climbing her pale legs even as she stayed seated, encasing her waist, her chest. “The question is if you’ll lose yourself before you reach the third.”

  Her eyes never left his. As the crystals reached her neck, her smile began to stretch.

  It kept stretching.

  Far past the point of human anatomy. Her pale lips peeled back farther and farther, revealing too many teeth, the corners of her mouth splitting past her cheeks, reaching toward her ears in a rictus of predatory delight. The emerald light of the crystals caught in that impossible maw, illuminating rows of gleaming white that seemed to recede into a depthless throat.

  “I can’t wait,” she said, and her voice was no longer one voice but many, layered and wet, echoing from that cavernous mouth, “to see you finally crack.”

  Then, with a sound like a bone snapping, the crystals shattered. She was gone, leaving only the faint scent of wildflowers and the haunting weight of her words.

  Thal stood there for a long moment, his scarred hand still hovering in the air where her pale throat had been, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes slowly returning to their normal roundness. He turned his head slowly. The bartender was pouring ale, the stream of liquid suspended mid-pour or moving so slowly it appeared frozen. The Ork’s laugh hung in the air, a solid thing, unmoving. A child had dropped a cup, and the ceramic shards floated suspended above the floorboards, refusing to fall. The air in their corner was thick, viscous, like honey mixed with ash. When Thal exhaled, his breath didn’t fog. Time had not stopped, he realized. It had simply looked away, averting its gaze from the horror unfolding in the corner, allowing them privacy for the slaughter that hadn’t quite happened.

  Then the child’s cup hit the floor with a crash, and the sound rushed back in, sudden and loud, the inn’s noise flooding his senses like a dam breaking.

  He glanced toward the bar, toward the merchants, toward the Beastkin in the corner. None of them had looked over. No one had reacted to the sound of his fist striking crystal, to the murder that had nearly occurred in their midst. It was as if the space between him and Zara had existed outside of time, sealed away from the world while the horror unfolded.

  The inn continued around him, oblivious to the fact that a woman had just spoken a name that hadn’t been uttered in this city for centuries, and that the giant in the corner had come within a hair’s breadth of murder.

  Slowly, carefully, Thal sat back down, but he did not close his eyes. He did not lean back. He sat forward, his gaze fixed on the empty chair across from him, his mind racing.

  Nakba.

  The first crack. The second and then the third.

  Thal became aware of a sting in his palm. He turned his scarred hand over. Where the yellow crystals had touched his skin, faint burns glittered like frost—cold, not hot. The kind of cold that settled into stone and didn’t leave. The kind that waited in the northern wastes, in the snow around Snowdrift, where the third crack was fighting a storm Thal had trained him for but could not shield him from.

  He closed his fist, feeling the frost-bite ache against his scarred knuckles. The woman’s words, and that impossible, stretching smile, echoed in his skull like a bell struck too hard.

  ‘I can’t wait to see you finally crack.’

  Thal sat in silence, the weight of it all settling heavily on his broad shoulders. He couldn’t waste time dwelling on what might happen in the Haunt. He had his own fight to face here, with Na’reth, with the Harbinger that loomed on the horizon.