The alehouse pulsed with greasy warmth against the pre-dawn chill beneath a warped timber sign. Lanterns threw amber tallow light over splintered trestles and dark, sticky benches. A few bleary-eyed laborers nursed tankards of bitter dregs, their skin lined by the dry mountain wind. Thiago shoved the jingling sack into Gaspar’s chest, his glare never shifting from Inezia. “Find a game, dog. Buy a few rounds. Make yourself useful.” Gaspar, relief flooding his features at the unexpected gold, nodded so vigorously his head bobbed. “Consider it done, Capitan! Lord Kaelum’s debt will be… placated! For now, anyway.” He scampered towards a group huddled around a dice game, the coins clinking loudly as he went. Inezia tightened her stance. She recognized the look in Thiago’s eyes. Her brother used to wear that very smirk whenever he sought to challenge their father. But this wasn’t about proving strength in a ring. This was about… something else entirely. Her disguise felt like a shroud, suffocating and flimsy. “And you,” Thiago’s voice was a low growl, his hand landing heavy on her shoulder, pushing her forward. “You’ve lived like a cloistered novice too long. It’s time you learned how a man takes his ease.” He shoved her toward the taps, where a serving woman rubbed grease from the dark pine. She had a cascade of dark, wavy hair pulled back with a simple ribbon, and eyes the colour of polished obsidian. A faint scent of spiced wine and something floral clung to her. “Buenas,” Thiago said, leaning hard over the wood with a sharp grin. “Bring your strongest rotgut. And for my comrade, something sweet. He needs to shed his purity.” His hand on Inezia’s back pressed harder, urging her closer to the barmaid. The woman glanced up, lips curving slightly. “Something sweet? Another green hound from the fortress?” Heat climbed the nape of Inezia's neck. She had steered clear of taprooms since slipping into her dead brother's leathers. She was a pit-fighter, not some simpering suitor. Every instinct screamed for her to lash out, to deflect, to run. But Thiago’s gaze was a brand on her back, promising consequences if she failed. “Occupied with training,” Inezia muttered, deepening her chest to drag down her pitch. She kept her stare fixed on an iron nailhead, conscious of Thiago's breath against her neck. The woman let out a low laugh. “Training? You boys carry misery like an iron collar. What keeps you from the settlement’s pleasures?” Inezia racked her memory for her twin's boastful swagger. Ignazio would have offered some brazen quip, but she knew only broken noses, split knuckles, and shadows. “The fiends in the brush,” she muttered flatly. “Where to drive the steel. To keep places like this intact.” She forced herself to meet the server's dark eyes. “It’s important work.” The server’s mouth softened. “Dangerous trade. My kin went into the valleys with scouts two winters back. We found only their boots.” She looked closely at Inezia. “Few of your lot care about anything beyond blood and coin.” She poured a dark, frothing ale for Thiago and, after a moment’s consideration, a small glass of berry wine for Inezia. “On the house, Initiate. A small thanks for your… studies.” Thiago, who had leaned nearby waiting for a humiliating stammer, stiffened against the bar. The smirk vanished, replaced by a dark, simmering irritation. He stared as the woman passed the small cup across, fingers brushing knuckles. Inezia gave an awkward, unpolished nod of thanks. It wasn’t a charming smile, not in the way he understood charm, but it was genuine. The barmaid's posture thawed, and Thiago's knuckles whitened against the bar rail in bitter fury. “That sugary swill is for whelps,” Thiago snapped, reaching out. “Drink like a hound of the fortress.” He snatched the berry wine from Inezia’s hand, replacing it with his own tankard of harsh ale. “This. Finish it.” Inezia tipped the heavy mug back, choking down the sour malt. She could feel Thiago’s gaze on her, a furious heat. His earlier intent, to embarrass her, to expose her inadequacy as a man, had somehow backfired. The air around him crackled with a volatile energy. “Heavy-handed, aren't we?” the woman asked coldly, folding her arms. “The lad spoke courteously enough.” That was it. That was all it took. Thiago’s face darkened, a vein throbbing in his temple. He slammed his tankard down, splattering stale beer across the timber. “What did you say, wench?” he snarled, his voice carrying through the suddenly quieter tavern. “Do you question an Initiate of the Order? Are you blind to who we are, to what we do?” “Thiago, drop it,” Inezia hissed beneath her breath. This was escalating too fast. Her carefully constructed cover was about to be blown by his irrational temper. “Enough?!” Thiago roared, pushing off the bar, his eyes blazing with an unholy fury. “You think you know us, you village dogs? You think you know anything of the sacrifices we make, the blood we spill?” He turned, scanning the room until his eyes locked on a thick-shouldered woodcutter seated near the hearth. “What are you gaping at, dog? Never seen soldiers who bleed for your hide?” The woodcutter rose to his feet, broad shoulders bunched under coarse homespun. “I’ve seen plenty of fighters. Most carry better manners than a cur off its chain.” “Manners?” Thiago spat, lunging without warning. His fist struck the man’s jaw with a crack like snapped kindling. The woodcutter reeled back, roared, and swung wildly as Thiago ducked aside, sparking instant pandemonium across the taproom. Chairs overturned, shouts filled the air, and other villagers, emboldened by ale and local pride, threw themselves into the fray. Thiago, a maniacal grin spreading across his face, seemed to revel in the chaos. He gripped Inezia’s collar with iron fingers. “Move, boy! Show me you can survive a common scrap!” He dragged her through the tangle of swinging fists and flying stools, past Gaspar curled beneath a bench. A stray blow clipped Inezia’s cheek, but Thiago wrenched her through the heavy entrance into the cold mountain daylight. The fight spilled out behind them, a cacophony of grunts and shouts, but it was abruptly cut short by a sound that silenced even the most enraged brawler: a guttural, wet snarl that tore through the pre-dawn quiet, closer than it had any right to be. A massive shadow detached itself from the winding street, lumbering into the sparse light. It was a Gore-Stalker, a hunched abomination of muscle and bone, its hide a mottled grey, studded with wicked iron-hard spikes. Its head was a nightmare of gnashing teeth and one baleful, blood-red eye. It reeked of stale blood and carrion. The villagers froze, their brawl forgotten, their faces contorted in terror. Before anyone could scream, a figure moved with impossible speed from the shadowed alley across the street. Inquisitor Navarro. He seemed to materialize, a dark silhouette against the burgeoning light, his movement fluid and deadly. A blur of steel, and his consecrated blade, ‘Veritas’, arced through the air. The Gore-Stalker, still roaring, didn't even have time to react. The blade sliced through its neck with horrifying precision, severing bone and sinew in a single, devastating strike. The monster’s head toppled, hitting the packed earth with a wet thud, and its colossal body collapsed, twitching once before falling silent. Navarro stood over the corpse, breathing evenly, his blade clean. Not a drop of blood marred his dark tunic. He slowly turned, his gaze sweeping over the frozen villagers, over Thiago, whose furious energy had drained away into stunned silence. Then his eyes settled on Inezia. They were cold, calculating, and held a depth of knowledge that made her skin crawl. A silent question, a veiled threat. “A timely arrival, Inquisitor,” Thiago managed, his voice strained. “The beast was… unexpected.” Navarro said nothing, his eyes still fixed on Inezia. She felt an irresistible pull, a morbid curiosity, drawing her towards the fallen monster. The beast was massive, its spiked collar still intact around its thick neck. As she cautiously approached, her gaze fell upon a subtle glint amidst the rusty iron. Buried deep within the collar, almost entirely obscured by the Gore-Stalker’s matted fur, was a small, ornate iron crest. The metal was tarnished, but its distinctive, interlocking serpent design was unmistakable. It was the exact same bloodied crest she had found clutched in her murdered brother’s hand, stained with his lifeblood, the night she swore her vengeance.

Jealous Rage