1
Three weeks since I’d buried my dagger in the king’s heart, and the world still smelled of his rotting reign.
Kalith Village, a small village in the outskirts of the kingdom buzzed like flies on a corpse. And in the Rusty Hinge inn, men toasted the king’s demise with ale thick enough to drown their own sins. Others, the ones who’d profited from his cruelty, drank in silence, their knuckles white around their cups. Most didn’t care. A dead king was just another corpse.
But I cared.
Because the bastard had laughed as he died.
And the "his" location was still unknown to me.
