Malric began frequenting the village tavern almost without realizing it. At first, it was just once, seeking a bit of warmth and noise to drown out the memories that haunted him at night.
But soon, that occasional visit turned into a routine. Each day, when the sun went down, he could be found at the farthest table, a mug of liquor in hand, his eyes fixed on some invisible point.
The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat, but it gave him the illusion of calm. As if the fire inside him had dimmed, if only for a few minutes.
He knew it didn't solve anything, that it only dragged him deeper, but he didn't care.
Nothing mattered anymore.
His once-gentle nature turned harsh. The first time someone brushed against his shoulder by accident, Malric reacted like a cornered wolf. He struck the man with such force he knocked him to the ground. Everyone stared in shock, because Malric had never been violent.
In the days that followed, it happened again.
