The tavern bustled with life as regular patrons and newcomers alike celebrated the Festival of Eventide, most of them having been celebrating since the early afternoon. It came as no surprise to the townsfolk, the festival often brought the jolliest types to the capital, and it was inevitable that most of those people were going to toast the festivities with multiple glasses of wine during the celebrations and oversized tankards of ale in the tavern once the jubilation had died down. It happened every year, without fail, the streets littered with inebriated folk as they stumbled back to an inn or their homes, but some would never reach home.

A happy time it may have been, but in the shadows lingered murderers and thieves, anticipating the next drunk to come along. It was all a game to them, could the thieves steal from the drunk before the murderers got them, or could the murderers there before the thieves laid a finger on them?

One said murderer had decided to take the night off, the annual game of thievery and slaughter having become tedious to him, and so he made his way down the main street of Nightfall and entered the nearest tavern.

He mostly went unseen, those within the cosy four walls far too busy drinking until they couldn’t see straight and partying the night away to notice him, but those who did spot him didn’t stare for long, their eyes ghosting over the familiar scar running down his cheek and their gazes instantly shifting to the tables.

The man approached the bar and nodded to the landlord, receiving a large tankard of ale. He placed a bronze coin down on the work surface, the tiny metal piece quickly snatched away and safely put in the pouch on the tavern owner’s belt.

“Didn’t think I’d see you in here, Devrin,” the stout tavern owner said, leaning against the bar. “Thought you’d be out with the rest of them. Didn’t the thieves beat you last year?”

“I have no time for games, Galter,” Devrin replied, taking a sip of the frothy ale and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I’m on duty.”

“Didn’t know murderers had duties.”

“This one does.”

Galter laughed, the amused snort coming directly from his stomach and exploding on his lips. “You do make me laugh.”

“I’m glad I amuse you,” Devrin sighed, looking around at the room before turning back to the landlord. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the place so busy.”

“It’s the festival,” Galter said, crossing his arms over his chest and shrugging his shoulders. “And the knowledge that if they stay out there after hours they’ll either be pickpocketed or butchered.”

“Or both,” Devrin reminded him, raising his tankard and taking another mouthful of the sweet brew, the taste of honey lingering on his tongue. “Last year only two people got out alive. It was a close call.”

Galter chuckled under his breath and shook his head, accustomed to their antics after years of serving them. A lot of his regular patrons were assassins, or murderers, or thieves, but he didn’t mind them. They may have been criminals and they may have had more blood on their hands than they were willing to admit, but they were loyal, and whenever he’d had trouble in the past they’d come straight to his aid, removing the problem and ensuring that he and his tavern remained safe, so he entertained them willingly.

“I won’t keep you,” Devrin said, nodding towards a raucous rabble of people that came stumbling through the door.

He gave the landlord a half-hearted salute and found a seat at the back of the tavern, slipping into an unoccupied booth and nursing his drink. Loud bellows and laughter echoed around the vast room, multiple conversations going on all at once, and ensuring that nobody was watching him he placed the tankard down on the table and sat back in his seat, closing his eyes and focusing on the voices around him. Most of it was nonsense, drunken slurring and strange words that didn’t make any sense, but then, from the other side of the room, came a hushed voice.

Devrin sat up in his seat, keeping his attention focused on the foreign man by the tavern window, speaking privately to another man who swayed uneasily in his seat.

“That’s funny,” the drunk said, pointing in the foreigner’s general direction and narrowly missing his mark, “but there’s no such thing. Stars don’t-” The man put his hand on his chest, rubbing it until he belched, and then continued. “Stars don’t exist. It’s just something-” Hiccup. “Just something made up by a load of lunatics.”

“I’ve seen them,” the foreigner told him. “There are places in this world where they can be seen, where the veil of darkness above us has broken, I swear. If you ever go to the west, stand on the fields of Breanin. You may get a glimpse.”

“All I’ll glimpse is a load of cow shit, Osnar,” the drunken man insisted, getting out of his seat and giving the foreigner a dismayed look before he staggered back to the bar for another drink.

Devrin watched the outsider closely; he was a man from the west, Terith by the looks of him, his pale skin and his blond hair unmissable in the sea of dark-haired folk around him.

The murderer kept his eye on him throughout the night, watching as he spoke to the locals, often of stars and a bright blue sky, but very few entertained the idea, dismissing his words as nonsense with a flick of their hand and an unimpressed look.

It was lucky really, since Devrin didn’t want to have to murder everyone in the tavern. He wasn’t a murderer by choice, nor did he do it as a full-time job; it was more of a hobby, something to pass the time between protecting the people of Nightfall from the truth and eradicating anybody who wished to expose it.

As the night progressed, Osnar became more and more intoxicated until he was up on the tables declaring his love for the stars and the true night sky. He was booed and heckled, and with a disappointed grunt he jumped down from the table and left the tavern in defeat.

Devrin took that as his cue to leave, slipping out of the booth and hastily following after the man of Terith.

Osnar didn’t get very far, his stumbling form zig-zagging down the street, easy bait for anybody, and it wasn’t long before he became the next target for the game of thievery and slaughter.

Devrin caught sight of a thief in the shadows and the masses of murderers bolting from the opposite street, but Devrin was quicker than all of them, dashing down the cobbled road and grabbing hold of the outsider. He pushed him against the wall of the tailor’s shop and held him steady as he wriggled in his unrelenting grasp.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Osnar demanded, feebly scratching at the calloused hand clutching onto him. “Get off me.”

Devrin ignored his words and pitiful attempts to squirm free, holding a blade up to his throat and staring at him with darkened eyes. “There is no such things as stars,” he snarled at him. “There is no such thing as natural light, or a daytime with blue skies. Your words are false.”

Before the first thief could get to him, he sunk the edge of the blade into Osnar’s neck and dragged it across his throat, the man from Terith spluttering blood all over his shirt as his life quickly slipped away from him.

Devrin let his lifeless body slump to the cobbles, wiping his knife on a rag of fabric attached to his belt and looking up at the pickpocket as he skidded to a halt. “Better luck next time,” the murderer said with a satisfied grin, leaving the thief to kick the wall in frustration as he made his way home. His job for the night was done.