Within mere minutes, the Obsidian Tavern had transformed into a battlefield of broken bodies and splintered pride.
Tables lay shattered like matchsticks. Chairs were tossed against cracked walls.
Blood splattered the once polished floorboards, now covered in debris, glass, and the twitching limbs of those unfortunate enough to stand in Arawn's path.
The tavern's once warm, bustling air was now thick with the stench of sweat, iron, and fear.
And in the eye of the storm stood Arawn—unruffled, unscathed, and utterly ruthless.
His boot pressed down with deliberate force on a man's trembling hand, crushing it slowly against the floor.
The bone beneath gave a sickening creak, followed by a muffled scream. The victim squirmed and whimpered, trying to pull away, but it was no use.
Arawn stared down at him with cold indifference.
"You'd better start speaking," he said, his voice a razor's edge laced with venom. "Because my patience is hanging by a fucking thread."
