Scar swept his gaze over the entire room, his single eye glinting with something unreadable. It wasn't a simple observation. It felt like he was scouting, weighing each person's worth, judging who would be an asset… and who would be a liability.
"The caravan will move in a few days," he began, his tone low yet carrying through the room with ease, "and we should reach our target soon. I have already disclosed information that only a few are meant to know."
A sudden chorus of metallic clicks and smoldering tension rolled through the pub.
The sound of swords leaving their sheaths clattered sharply against the wooden floor and walls, silencing even the most drunken mercenary. One by one, Scar's lackeys stepped forward, forming a semicircle behind us. Their boots thudded in perfect unison, their blades positioned with clear intent. Ready to strike the moment Scar commanded.
So that's how he wants to play it.
