You’re late.

  No, don’t apologize. I don’t care. You’re here. That means you made a choice. That’s all the gods care about, anyway… Choices. You picked the door, you walked the road, and you came to me. So let me be the one to tell you:

  Gods can die.

  No, really. They die. Same as kings. Same as cows. They bleed, they beg, they rot. The difference? You need a little help doing it. And a very, very bad idea.

  But not so fast. I didn’t drag you all the way to this god-forsaken inn just to start swinging swords and burning temples. That part comes later.

  For now? You’re probably wondering how I’m talking to you. Relax, you're not going mad... Not yet. Thing is, I don’t have to speak. My voice just shows up in your head. It’s a gift. Came with the mark. Right here.

  The man turned his forearm toward you, showing a charred ring seared into the flesh.

  You see it? That little burn that looks like a god’s idea of a joke? That’s our link. Easy to miss if you’re not looking. But not for everyone…

  He nodded toward the bar.

  See the woman behind the counter? Been watching the mark for a while now. Pretending not to, sure. Wiping mugs, counting coins, the usual bluff. Most folks wouldn’t give a damn what it is. The others? They know. They know it means trouble, alright.

  Gods hate the thing. But innkeepers’ wives hate it even more.

  Ah. There she is.

  Look busy.

  You turned just as the woman approached.

  “What’ll it be, boys?” she asked, setting down a pair of mugs.

  He spoke again. Only to you.

  Easy. Keep it friendly. You don’t want to make her nervous, do you? Remember... I’m the one doing all the talking.

  You opened your mouth. But the words came out rehearsed… as if someone else had handed them to you.

  “Evening to you, miss,” you said. “We’ll take whatever passes for strong in these parts. Straight from the distillery, yeah? Wouldn’t dream of offending the master of the house. Something to eat too, so long as it’s done twitching.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Not the usual choice,” she said, wiping down a mug with a cloth that had already done its job. “Most folk’d rather keep their distance from Delmer’s brew.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Her tone stayed casual, but something behind her eyes had changed.

  “First time in Bell’s Hollow, I take it?” she went on, leaning on the table. “Then again… you two don’t look like simple merchants. So go on, then. What brings you out here, to this piss-pot corner at the edge of nowhere?”

  You tried to answer. But the voice moved faster, slipping the words through your lips.

  “Depends who’s asking,” you said — or rather, he did. “If it’s the Tax Guild, I’m dead. If it’s my ex-wife, I’m doubly so.”

  She didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile. She did blink once. Then again.

  “That supposed to be funny?” she asked flatly. “We don’t much care for jokers in Bell’s Hollow. Even the bard’s been running out of laughs lately.”

  She leaned in a little closer.

  “You stick around long enough, you start to notice… the ones who talk too much usually leave with less than they came in with.”

  You smiled — small and pleasant.

  “And boy, you sure do love talking… don't you?” she added, squinting at you like she was listening for something behind the words. Something not quite in your tone.

  Then her eyes slid past you — just a glance — toward the man at your table.

  He hadn’t said a word.

  “That one’s awfully quiet,” she muttered suddenly.

  There it was.

  The moment the math stopped adding up. Two travelers. One voice. The wrong one.

  You saw her hand hesitatingly reach toward the tray. She didn’t grab it. But she pressed her palm against the wood as if it might protect her. Or summon something.

  Her gaze dropped — quick — to the edge of your wrist.

  She saw it.

  The faint, circular scar.

  And just like that, the blood drained from her face.

  “This can’t be it…” she whispered. “You’re… the mark… FUCK ALL, you’re one of THEM!”

  The tray hit the floor, loud and sudden.

  “DELMER!” she shrieked now, already stumbling back. “Delmer, gods damn your eyes, you let two Godslayers stroll in like they’re here for soup!”

  She backed away fast, as if the floorboards had just caught fire.

  And there came Delmer, bless him, charging in like his cleaver was going to make a difference.

  Move. Now.

  No, not slowly. Flip the table. Always flip the table. It’s dramatic, and more importantly, it puts something solid between you and whatever Delmer thinks he’s doing with that meat cleaver.

  The wood snapped on impact. Ale flew. Someone yelped in the corner — probably the bard. He was always the first to panic.

  “Right,” he muttered through your clenched teeth as you drew steel. “Now would be a very fine time to stop looking confused and start swinging like you mean it.”

  Delmer charged.

  Brace. Set your stance. You ready? Let’s teach a few mortals what a bad idea looks like. He’s fast, I’ll give him that. But cleavers aren’t swords, and I’m not some tavern drunk to scare off with kitchenware.

  Steel’s already out.

  First swing… low, angled. He didn’t see it coming. You caught him just above the boot, deep enough to make him rethink every life choice that led him in here. He howled like he’d just discovered pain for the first time.

  Second swing, up and in, but not too deep. Just a taste. Let him backpedal, make some noise, scare the others good.

  “Still want to charge, Delmer?” you challenged him, stepping over some stew stain. “Or do we start throwing gods in here to make it fair?”

  And then? Poetic justice.

  He slipped on the tray his wife had dropped. Beautiful. Straight to the floor with a meaty sound.

  Movement behind you.

  Someone lunged, but you twisted, brought the pommel up into their jaw, and they dropped like flies.

  Advance. Behind the bar.

  The fat one in the apron stood there, bottles raised up in some strange altar defense. Useless, but bless him for trying.

  “Breathe in,” you told him calmly.

  He blinked.

  “Now bleed out.”

  Your blade moved quick — a slice across the gut, clean and final. It ended with one last breath leaving fast.

  And then…

  The quiet one got up. The man across from you, the silent companion who hadn’t moved through the entire fight.

  “Well?” he glanced your way, just in time to see you duck a chair. “You plan on doing anything heroic, or is this just a training montage for me?”