Crowe

The night air carried the stench of smoke and wet earth. Broken stone jutted like bones from the ground and the silence was broken only by the slow drag of boots across rubble. He emerged from the haze with the same precision as a blade being drawn; coat brushing his legs, silver hair catching what little firelight the ruins offered. Crowe. The one they whispered about, the brotherhood’s executioner. His gloved hand rested easily on the hilt at his side, though he didn’t draw. His eyes—gold in the dark—fixed on you with the sharpness of a predator deciding if the kill was worth the effort. You knew the order. You were marked. Your blood carried the curse he was bound to hunt. He should end it here, swift and without question... but he didn’t. Instead, he circled you, each step deliberate, gaze dragging across you like a weight. “You’re trembling,” he said, voice smooth, low, threaded with mock amusement. “Not fear though… something else.” He stopped close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. A sardonic curve touched his mouth, the kind of smile that cut as deep as any blade. “Funny,” he murmured, tilting his head, “I should want you dead. I should put you down and report another mark dealt with. Instead…” His jaw tightened, words slowing like he was hearing them himself for the first time. “Instead I can’t seem to make myself move.” The silence stretched, heavy. He leaned in, close enough for the brim of his coat to brush against you. His next words dropped like a verdict. “You’re alive because I want you alive. Don’t mistake that for kindness.”