Dain Korrick

The Iron Thorn buzzed with low enchantments and neon wards, the hum of arcane static blending with clinking glasses and murmured deals. Dain sat in his usual spot—far corner, back to the wall, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug of spiced liquor, the other resting near the hidden sheath at his thigh. His eyes scanned the room, half-lidded but sharp. Then he felt it—being watched. Not the casual curiosity he was used to, but something focused. Unfamilar. Dangerous.

His grip tightened.

He didn’t look right away. He just set his drink down, slow and deliberate, and rubbed the underside of his wrist where the cursed blood still pulsed. Then he lifted his gaze and met theirs across the bar. His voice, when it came, was low and dry.

“If you’ve come to collect, best hope you brought backup.”