Epilogue
Fairmarket | Red Oak Inn | Night
The night had fallen over Fairmarket, casting the Red Oak Inn in shadows, though the fire crackled warmly in the hearth. Inside, the dim light flickered across the sour faces of Thorne and Farlen, the two men locked in bitter conversation. Thorne leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression twisted in frustration.
"I tell you, Farlen," Thorne growled, his voice low and full of resentment, "that knight was nothing but trouble. Came waltzing into Fairmarket like he had all the answers. Should've let us deal with the Rovashka ourselves."
Farlen, equally frustrated but less prone to outbursts, took a long swig of ale before replying. "Aye, meddled where he didn't belong. Now those damn travelers act like they're saints, and we're left lookin' like fools."
Thorne's scowl deepened, his voice dropping to a mutter. "And just like that, he slips away, leaving a mess behind. Mark my words, someone'll pay for this."
Farlen grunted, shoving his chair back with a scrape. "Need another drink to wash down the taste of that whole business." He stood and trudged toward the bar, leaving Thorne alone to brood.
From the darkened corner of the inn, a figure moved with the silent grace of a predator, slipping into Farlen's vacant seat. Ser Ramsay Cobb sat down, his cold, calculating eyes locking onto Thorne's. Thorne, already simmering from his conversation, scowled, but something about Cobb made his breath catch—a cold menace emanated from the man.
Thorne gripped his ale, trying to muster some bravado. "Oi! That seat's taken, stranger," he muttered, his voice filled with irritation.
Cobb didn't flinch. He leaned in slightly, his voice low, smooth as steel, and laced with danger. "That knight you were talking about," he said. "Tell me more."
Thorne blinked, thrown off by the stranger's intensity. "What business is it of yours?" he grumbled, his voice faltering.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Cobb slid two silver coins across the table. The metallic clink seemed to echo in the quiet space between them. Thorne's eyes flicked from the coins to Cobb's unblinking stare, the lure of easy money breaking through his hesitation.
Thorne's fingers twitched, his hand closing around the coins. "Lucan Farrow," he muttered in a low, conspiratorial tone. "A real pain in the arse, if you ask me."
Cobb's expression didn't change. He nudged another coin across the table. "Which way did he go?"
Thorne smirked, greed flickering in his eyes. "Left town not long ago. Headed south to the River Road near the Whispering Wood. Thought he'd be long gone by now."
Cobb paused for a moment, his hand resting on the last coin. His gaze was cold, unreadable. "For your sake," he said, his voice quiet but laced with threat, "this conversation never happened. You never met me. Got it?"
Thorne swallowed, his smirk fading. "Y-yeah, I got it," he stammered, his bravado slipping away.
Cobb's lips curled into a faint, chilling smile as he stood, his eyes lingering on Thorne for a moment longer. "Good," he said, turning to leave.
Just as Farlen returned with two frothy mugs of ale, he collided hard with Cobb's shoulder, sending ale sloshing over Farlen's woolen tunic. "Bloody hell!" Farlen snapped, glaring at Cobb. "Why don't you watch where you're walkin', you bloody wanker!"
Cobb stopped briefly, his pale eyes flicking back over his shoulder. The look he gave Farlen was as cold as the night air outside. "My mistake," he said, flicking a silver coin toward the table. It sailed through the air, landing with a soft plunk in Farlen's tankard. Without another word, Cobb pushed open the inn door and vanished into the night, the cold breeze sweeping in behind him.
Farlen, his shirt soaked, stared after the man, then looked at Thorne, his expression a mix of confusion and anger. "Who the fuck was that?"
Thorne shook his head slowly, his eyes still fixed on the door where Cobb had disappeared. "No one you ever want to meet again."
He slumped back into his seat, his mind churning with unease. The silver coins in his pocket felt heavier now, tainted by the encounter. He didn't know who Cobb was, but he knew the type—a stone-cold killer, a man who hunted without mercy or hesitation. For just a brief moment, Ser Lucan Farrow flashed in his mind, and a flicker of sympathy stirred within him.
I wouldn't want a man like that hunting me, Thorne thought grimly, gripping his tankard as he took a long, deliberate sip, trying to wash down the creeping dread that lingered after Cobb's departure.
Fairmarket | Town Square | Night
The darkness shrouded the town of Fairmarket as a biting wind swept through the narrow streets. The once-gentle breeze had turned colder, sharper, cutting through the air like a knife. It carried the earthy scent of pine from the distant Blackthorn Wood, a chill that seemed to whisper of secrets hidden deep within the forest. The cold sank into the bones, a harsh reminder of the unforgiving night to come.
Ser Ramsay Cobb mounted his horse with fluid, effortless grace, his movements deliberate—like a predator preparing for its next kill. His dark eyes, cold and calculating, flicked toward the direction Thorne had indicated. Somewhere out there, Ser Lucan Farrow was riding, blissfully unaware of the danger now stalking him through the shadows. Cobb's lips curled into a grim smile. Lucan wouldn't see him coming until it was far too late.
With a sharp tug on the reins, Cobb spurred his horse into motion. The sound of hooves broke the stillness of the night as the wind kicked up dust from the path. The town of Fairmarket quickly faded into the distance, swallowed by the darkness as Cobb focused on the road west to the Whispering Wood. Thorne's information had been useful, but now the time for talk was done. Now it was time to track his prey.
The horse shifted beneath him, responding to the light press of Cobb's boots as they moved at a steady pace into the night. His silhouette dissolved into the landscape, a shadow on the long road leading toward the edge of the Riverlands—a dark, relentless figure closing in on his target.
Lucan Farrow, somewhere out there beneath the night sky, had no idea that death was riding hard on his heels.
[The End]
