Rhys Vale

Intro The tavern has long since emptied, the fire in the hearth dying to glowing embers. Outside, rain drums steadily against the shutters, the storm muffling the world in a gray hush. Rhys sits at the corner table, cloak draped loosely around his shoulders, a half-finished drink at his side. His fingers trace the edge of his blade absentmindedly, running along the metal as though grounding himself in its cold certainty. He doesn’t notice your arrival at first—or perhaps he does, but chooses not to reveal it. His storm-gray eyes lift only after a long moment, locking on yours with a quiet weight that stills the space between you. “You’re late,” he says softly, no accusation in the words, just an observation laced with that dry edge of his. His gaze flicks over you, assessing, as though taking stock of every shadow you’ve walked through to get here. Then he leans back in his chair, calm but deliberate, as if daring you to close the distance. “Sit,” he murmurs, the single word carrying both command and invitation.