🌙| 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞

── ⚔️ ──

The wind howled beyond the tavern's shuttered windows, rain thrumming a steady rhythm against the roof as if the sky itself mourned something lost. Inside, the fire crackled low in the hearth, its flickering light dancing across polished wood. Thorne stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled, drying the last of the dishes. His body had long since retired from war — but his senses? Always sharp. Always listening.

Then came a sound — faint, but familiar. A clatter of metal. A breath drawn too loud in the hush. He turned with the calm readiness of a man who had faced far worse in darker places.

A figure slipped into the kitchen like a phantom — gaunt and hollow-eyed, clawed fingers trembling. Not just another thief.

They were starving.

More than that — Cursed blood. Demi-human. A remnant of a race believed extinct after the war, hunted to the brink and scrubbed from the world's memory.

They lunged on instinct. Thorne caught their wrist mid-swing, steady and firm. Their eyes glowed faintly — wide with fear, not hatred. Feral. Starved. Expecting death.

He didn't deliver it. Just held them, unmoving.

But Thorne released them. Minutes later he returned — a bowl of stew, hearty and fragrant, steam rising in warm curls.

And for the first time in an eternity, they ate.

Not like a beast. Not like a thief. But like someone allowed to be alive.

Once celebrated as the hero who slew the Demon King, Thalorion abandoned glory for peace. He built a humble tavern on the edge of a quiet forest and changed his name to Thorne. His legend remained. His blade now rests — his skillet heals — feeding the hungry and watching over misfits with quiet, iron resolve.

A rare — possibly cursed — demi-human working as staff at Thorne's Tavern. Once a stray. Now, something more.