Moments later, the soldiers were already attending to the corpse.
They moved with a grim efficiency, digging a shallow grave into the soft earth. The smell of decay lingered faintly on the breeze as they worked, the soil quickly absorbing the remnants of life that had now passed. Edward watched silently for a few moments before turning and heading back to the village.
Beside him, Thoren Blackwood, the Chief, walked with measured steps, silently following the young man.
As they entered, the village felt unusually still, the quiet only broken by the muted scraping of shovels and the occasional whistles of wind cutting through the trees. Edward could feel the Chief's gaze settle on him a couple of times, but no words followed.
It wasn't until they neared the center of the village that Thoren spoke, breaking the silence that had hung between them like a taut string.
"Well…" His voice came low and measured, yet there was an undercurrent of something almost humorous in it.
"I suppose you will be busy using your… ways, to find the killer. I wish you luck... oh, and remember to stay safe. I don't want the death of a young boy on my hands."
Edward let the words linger in his mind, weighing the Chief's tone. He sounded half serious, though it was impossible to tell what he truly meant.
He merely nodded in acknowledgement.
"Thank you," he replied simply, voice steady. With that, he excused himself, turning down the dirt path toward the village streets, leaving Thoren to return to his building.
Edward's gaze shifted to the villagers as he moved. Faces turned toward him occasionally, only to resume their mundane tasks: a mother tending to her child, a man hauling bundles of firewood, a merchant sweeping dust from his stall. He scanned each carefully, searching for the man with a scar on his left eye.
Though it wasn't so simple.
Scars appeared to be a common thing—most villagers had cuts and burns accumulated from harsh lives, but none matched the exact mark he sought. Edward's brow furrowed slightly, frustration pricking at the edges of his patience.
He allowed his mind to wander as he walked, piecing together the possibilities.
If the killer was still in the village, where would he hide? With the village's size, hiding seemed improbable.
"Could he have fled the village?" he wondered.
His thoughts briefly drifted to the patterns he had observed in his previous life.
More often than not, the murderers didn't flee far. Criminals liked to stay near the scene, drawn to familiar surroundings, their overconfidence leading them to linger as if justice would somehow overlook them.
Suddenly, Edward's thoughts were interrupted as his eyes caught a glimpse of a building that buzzed with life in a way most of the others didn't.
People drifted in and out, laughter spilling into the air as curls of smoke slithered from within.
Above the door, a small wooden sign swung gently in the wind.
Tavern.
He paused for a moment, letting his gaze linger on it.
A faint smile flashed across his face as his instincts rose high.
He recalled the footmarks he saw at the scene. The spacing between the steps was uneven. He hadn't thought much of it at first, but now another possibility took shape.
"Could the culprit have been drunk?"
As if that was the only way to find out, Edward approached the entrance and walked inside the Tavern.
The smell of fire smoke and stale ale hit him as he pushed the door open.
The inside was warm, crowded and overly noisy.
Patrons crowded around tables, some laughed boisterously, while others muttered low conversations while nursing tankards. The smell of roasted meat mingled with the tang of alcohol, filling the room like a thick fog.
The tavern keeper's eyes swept over Edward as he stepped inside. A frown creased his brow, as if assessing if the boy was old enough to be here.
Edward's small frame and youthful appearance immediately drew suspicion. The man opened his mouth, as if to speak, but stopped. Perhaps he assumed Edward was too young to be trouble—or maybe too young to warrant a fight. Either way, he allowed the boy to pass without comment, though his gaze lingered with quiet suspicion.
Edward moved deliberately through the room, his eyes scanning each face in search of the scar.
He noted the patrons' postures, the way their hands rested, the subtle lines of fatigue and tension etched on their faces. Each scar, each twitch of the eye, each defensive glance was catalogued, examined for the telltale signs he had learned to recognise.
And then he saw it.
By the fireplace, a massive man sat with an air of dominance that immediately set him apart from the rest. His broad shoulders filled the chair, his hands resting casually on a massive warhammer propped against the hearth. His bald head caught the firelight, glinting faintly, and the long, dark beard framed a face that was otherwise unremarkable… except for one thing.
Edward's heart skipped a beat.
A thick scar ran diagonally over the man's left eye—it was unmistakable.
"Found you," Edward thought, a grin tugging at his lips.
He slipped into a nearby chair, only a few steps away, keeping his movements casual. He knew better than to rush. Patience always revealed more than force ever could.
The boy sat quietly, watching as the man drained mug after mug of ale with the ease of a seasoned drinker. For a while, nothing happened. The tavern buzzed with noise, laughter, and the clatter of tankards, but the scarred man seemed unbothered by it all.
Until someone bumped into his table.
The jostle tipped the mug, spilling ale across the wood.
The scarred man gave a low grunt and waved the flustered passerby off.
"Don't worry about it," he muttered, his voice even, almost calm.
But Edward caught it—the flicker in his eyes. There was something cold and wrong in his look. A glint that spoke not of inconvenience, but of calculation.
Edward had seen that look way too many times before, and it never meant anything good.
The man's gaze lingered on the passerby long after the spill was forgotten, his eyes following him with quiet intensity. He drank in silence, but never stopped watching.
Eventually, the passerby stood and made his way for the door, leaving the tavern with a stagger in his step.
Moments later, the scarred man rose too.
He hefted the warhammer with casual ease and left the tavern with a quiet purpose.
Edward's pulse quickened, instincts clawing at him. He was already moving before he realised it, slipping from his chair and trailing after them into the night.