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Inside, the air was thick with the smell of ale, roasting meat, and smoke from the fireplace in the corner. A few patrons sat scattered around the room, their voices low and murmuring.

No one looked up as I entered, which was just how I preferred it. I made my way to an empty table near the back, where I could keep an eye on the room while still blending into the shadows.

The tavern keeper, a burly man with a scruffy beard and a stained apron, approached me after a few minutes. His eyes flickered briefly to my face before he averted his gaze. "What'll it be?"

"Just something to eat and drink," I replied quietly, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. I didn't want to draw any more attention to myself than necessary.

He grunted and shuffled off, leaving me to my thoughts. The events of the day replayed in my mind the fearful villagers, the panicked whispers, the realization that they recognized me as someone to be feared. It was all too much, too overwhelming.

I had to push it down, had to focus on the task at hand. But the weight of it all sat heavy on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

The tavern keeper returned with a plate of stew and a mug of ale, placing them on the table with a dull thud. I murmured my thanks and dug into the meal, though I had little appetite. The food was bland, but it was warm, and it filled the gnawing emptiness in my stomach.

As I ate, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The atmosphere in the tavern had shifted. The low murmur of voices had quieted, and when I glanced up, I noticed that several patrons were watching me with wary, suspicious eyes. A knot of unease tightened in my gut.

I quickly finished my meal, paid the tavern keeper, and stood to leave. As I turned toward the door, I noticed a group of men near the entrance, their eyes fixed on me. One of them, a tall man with a scar running down the side of his face, stepped forward, blocking my path.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, his voice laced with an edge of hostility.

I tensed, my senses on high alert. "I have somewhere to be," I replied calmly, trying to sidestep him, but he didn't budge.

"Not so fast," he said, his hand reaching out to grab my arm. "We've heard some interesting things about you, stranger."

I jerked my arm free, my heart pounding. "I don't want any trouble."

"Trouble?" He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You brought the trouble with you, didn't you? We know who you are, what you've done. The Brotherhood's assassin, aren't you?"

A cold shiver ran down my spine. "You're mistaken," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, but the look in his eyes told me he didn't believe me.

"You think we're fools?" another man spat from behind him. "We've heard the stories, seen the wanted posters. You've got a lot of blood on your hands."

"I'm not that person anymore," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but it was clear they didn't care. Their faces were twisted with anger and fear, a dangerous combination.

The tavern had gone deathly quiet, and I realized that every person in the room was watching, waiting to see what would happen next. I could feel the tension in the air, crackling like static before a storm.

"Get out of my way," I said, my voice hardening. I didn't want to fight, but I could see that there was no talking my way out of this.

The scarred man sneered. "Or what? You'll kill us like you killed all those others?"

Something inside me snapped. The memories of my past, of the things I had done, the blood I had spilled, surged to the surface. I tried to push them down, to focus on staying calm, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with bare hands.

I felt my pulse quicken, my breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts. My vision narrowed, and all I could see was the man in front of me, his smug, cruel grin making my blood boil.

Without thinking, I lashed out. My fist connected with his jaw, sending him stumbling back into the table behind him. The other men in the group surged forward, and suddenly, the tavern erupted into chaos.

Fists flew, chairs were overturned, and the sound of breaking glass filled the air. I fought with a ferocity I hadn't felt in years, my movements quick and precise, almost as if on autopilot. I didn't think, didn't hesitate just reacted.

One of the men lunged at me with a knife, and I twisted out of the way, grabbing his arm and wrenching the blade from his grasp. I turned it on him, driving it into his side with a sickening crunch. He let out a strangled cry and crumpled to the floor.

The sight of the blood, the smell of it, sent a jolt through me. For a moment, everything seemed to slow down, the noise fading into the background as I stared at the man on the ground, his life ebbing away in a growing pool of crimson.

It was like I was outside of myself, watching from a distance as my hand released the knife, as I stepped back, horrified by what I had just done. The realization that I had taken a life—a life that wasn't threatening mine in that exact moment crashed over me like a wave.

But before I could process it, another man came at me, swinging a chair. I ducked and rolled to the side, grabbing the nearest weapon I could find a broken bottle. I slashed at him, catching him across the chest. He stumbled back, clutching the wound, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

The other patrons had backed away, some fleeing the tavern entirely, but a few still stood frozen, watching in horror as I fought off the attackers. They didn't see me as a person just a killer.

And maybe that's all I was.

The fight ended as abruptly as it had started. The men who could still move had either fled or were groaning on the floor, nursing their wounds. The tavern was in shambles, overturned tables and shattered glass littering the floor.

I stood there, panting, covered in blood some mine, most not. The knife was still in my hand, dripping red onto the wooden floorboards. I looked down at the man I had stabbed, his eyes vacant, staring up at the ceiling.

My stomach churned, and I dropped the knife, backing away as if I could distance myself from what I had done. But the blood on my hands was proof enough. There was no escaping this.

I heard the door to the tavern creak open, and I looked up to see a man standing in the doorway, his face pale. He took one look at the scene inside, then turned and ran, shouting for help.

Panic flared inside me. I had to get out of here, had to leave before more people arrived. But my legs felt like they were rooted to the spot, my mind reeling from what I had just done.

It wasn't me, I wanted to scream. It wasn't my choice. But deep down, I knew that wasn't entirely true. The darkness inside me the darkness I had tried so hard to suppress had taken over. And in that moment, I had let it.

I stumbled toward the back door of the tavern, pushing it open and stepping out into the cold night air. The shock of it hit me like a slap, and I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside me.

But there was no calming it. The memories, the feelings, everything I had tried to bury came rushing back. The blood, the violence, the thrill of the kill—it was all too familiar, too easy to slip back into.

I had thought I could escape my past, that I could change, but tonight had proven otherwise. No matter how much I wanted to believe I was different, the truth was undeniable.

I was a killer. And that part of me would always be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

I needed to leave this village, needed to find a way to stop this darkness from consuming me entirely. But as I walked away from the tavern, the weight of what I had done pressed down on me like a suffocating blanket.

I had killed again, and this time, there was no one else to blame but myself.