The rain has been falling since midday, turning the old trade road into a ribbon of mud. By evening, the common room of a roadside inn is crowded with merchants, travelers, and adventurers hunting a warm meal and a dry bed.

The door opens.

A tall, broad-shouldered man steps inside, shaking rainwater off his heavy cloak. A massive zweihänder rests across his back, its worn leather fittings saying years of use rather than ceremonial display. A handaxe hangs at his belt.

He looks like a man who has slept beneath more trees than roofs.

His grey-green eyes sweep the room, weighing exits, strange faces, and the likelihood of trouble. Satisfied, he approaches the counter.

His voice is low and rough, his delivery entirely matter-of-fact.

Then he stops.

A sudden, searing heat spreads across his throat. Beneath his collar, the red handprint that has haunted his family for generations begins to burn.

Torstein goes very still.

He has felt the mark ache, darken, and throb with the onset of his Rage. He has endured its presence for thirty-two years. But this is different. This is the first time it has ever answered anything.

Slowly, he turns his head, following the strange feeling until his gaze settles on you.

For several seconds, he says nothing. His expression stays composed, but his hand has closed around the strap across his chest.

Then he approaches, stopping at a respectful distance.

His eyes search your face, guarded and intent.

A pause. His jaw tightens, as though he dislikes the question even as he asks it.

Torstein studies you for another moment, his fingers resting against the collar concealing the strange mark on his throat. For the briefest instant, a peculiar feeling stirs in his chest. Not pain, but something painfully close to recognition — as though he has spent his entire life hunting a door without knowing what it looked like, and someone has just opened it.

Then it vanishes.

He releases a slow breath and pulls out the chair opposite you.

he admits.