The warmth of the tavern wrapped around Kieran as he stepped inside, the smell of roasting meat and spilled ale mingling in the air. The flickering glow of the hearth cast shadows across the wooden beams, creating an atmosphere of faded comfort. A few villagers sat at tables, talking in low voices, but most of the bar's energy came from a group of loud, rowdy men at the far end.
Kieran had come to this small village bar not for entertainment, but for a brief escape from the weight of his journey. The quiet murmur of the patrons, the clink of mugs, and the occasional crackling of the fire were a stark contrast to the constant chaos he had been living in.
Sitting at the counter, Kieran ordered a mug of ale, the cool bitterness of it grounding him for a moment. His fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of his cup as he watched the flames dance. For once, he allowed himself to feel like a regular person—someone without the burden of the world on his shoulders.
It didn't last.
A loud voice broke through his thoughts.
"Hey, look at this one! A stranger in our town!" A man, clearly drunk, staggered up to Kieran's side, grinning widely. He was followed by two others, both with drunken, lopsided smiles.
Kieran didn't look up. He didn't need to. He could feel their eyes on him, the unspoken challenge in the air. He'd learned to ignore such things, to walk away when necessary, but tonight felt different. Maybe it was the quiet that had been smothering him for days. Maybe it was the way they laughed, the condescending tone that dripped from their words.
"You really think you're something, don't you, stranger? Coming in here like you're a hero or something," the first man said, his words slurring as he leaned over the counter.
Kieran took a slow sip of his ale, still not acknowledging them.
But the drunkards weren't done yet. The second man poked him in the shoulder. "What's wrong, pretty boy? You too good for us?" His voice was laced with mockery, his breath reeking of alcohol.
The third man snickered. "Maybe we should show him who's boss around here, eh?"
At that, Kieran set his mug down with a soft thud, the wood of the counter creaking under the weight of his hand. The room seemed to fall quieter, though the drunkards didn't notice. Their laughter and jeering were growing louder, egging each other on.
Then, Kieran finally looked up, his eyes meeting the first man's gaze with a calm that was almost unnerving.
"It would be better to stay away from me," Kieran's voice was soft at first, but there was a coldness to it that cut through the air. The words hung there for a moment before he continued, his tone sharpening. "Or this night will be your last."
The drunkards paused, unsure whether they had heard correctly. But it was too late. Kieran's aura shifted, a suffocating presence that seemed to press in from every corner of the room. The shadows around him deepened, stretching toward the men like tendrils of darkness reaching out to claim them.
And then it came—the weight of his intent.
Shadow's Murderous Intent.
The air itself seemed to freeze. The temperature dropped, and the atmosphere grew thick with malice. The men's laughter died in their throats, their faces paling as they felt the weight of Kieran's power settle around them. It wasn't just the chill in the air; it was the overwhelming sensation that something far darker was present. Something that could end them in an instant.
The first man, his earlier bravado crumbling, took an unsteady step back, eyes wide with fear. "W-What... what is this?" His voice trembled.
Kieran didn't move. He didn't need to.
The shadows around him seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, growing darker, sharper. He knew he had them—knew the mere hint of his power was enough to bring them to their knees.
"Leave," Kieran's voice was the barest whisper now, carrying an edge of finality that brooked no argument.
The men stood frozen for a moment longer, their fear palpable, before the second man mumbled something incoherent and grabbed his companions. They backed away quickly, stumbling over each other in their haste to get as far from Kieran as possible.
The tension in the room slowly began to fade as they hurried out of the tavern, the door slamming behind them with a force that echoed in the silence.
Kieran remained still for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the shadows that now returned to their usual quiet state. The warmth of the fire, the sound of the tavern returning to life—it all felt distant now.
He picked up his mug, the liquid inside cool against his throat as he took another sip. The brief moment of violence was over, but he could still feel the echoes of it inside him. It was a reminder of how close the world was to breaking—how fragile the line was between peace and chaos.
The tavern owner, who had been watching from behind the counter, let out a shaky breath. "Never seen anyone handle a bunch like that," he muttered, though his voice was more respectful now than before.
Kieran simply nodded, not bothering to answer. He wasn't here for accolades. He wasn't here to prove anything. He was just a man, sitting in a bar, trying to drink away the weight of his world.
But in that moment, he knew that even in the quietest of places, the shadows would always follow him.