"Didn't you hear me?" The man's grin vanished. Cold steel flashed in the dim tavern light—a knife, pressed against Oliver's gut. His voice dropped to a growl. "You're going to follow us."
"Alright, I will follow. Calm down," Oliver said, slowly raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the grimy alleyway, and I could see the calculation flickering behind Oliver's eyes. Of course he could easily dispatch these four street thugs—his hand hadn't moved far from his sword hilt, and I'd witnessed firsthand the deadly precision he was capable of. But this ragged band of criminals represented our only concrete lead to Arlos, and Oliver was pragmatic enough to recognize that sometimes the best path forward required temporary submission.
"He's coming as well," the brown-haired man saoid, jabbing his rusty knife in my direction with a crude grin that revealed several missing teeth.
