The chaos is behind me. The crosshair — still there. But I don't look back. I walk. Past the burning factory. Past the running people. Past the screams. Then I feel it again. A glint. A flash. The crosshair. It's closer. I don't know where it's coming from. But it's there. Watching. Waiting. I need to get off the street. Out of the open. Ahead — a tavern. Open. Light spilling out. A sign above the door. A dragon. Painted. Old. With a sword through its neck. "That'll do," I mutter. I push the door open and slip inside. The tavern is full. Writers with swords. Drunkards. A dead rat on a plate. A bearded man singing to himself. Behind the bar — a woman. Tall. Crimson hair. Red eyes. Sharp fangs. Red dragon wings folded against her back. Red scaled claws resting on the wooden counter. She's watching me. "Dragon slayer," someone mutters. "That's her. Sera. Killed a green one last spring." She doesn't smile. Or maybe she does. With those fangs, it's hard to tell. "What do you want?" she asks. "Food. And a corner to sit in. Away from the windows." "This isn't a cabaret. It's a tavern." "I don't want songs. I want bread. And a wall between me and the street." She stares at me. Then nods. "Sit. Don't start trouble." I sit. At the next table, a drunkard is telling a story. Loud. Slurred. "...and I'm telling you, the Black Wolf was real! A lord with a wolf on his banner. Black. On white. He fought the Empress herself and lived!" Another drunkard laughs. "The Black Wolf? A fairy tale. My grandmother told me about him. He's been dead for a hundred years." "Dead? Or hiding? They say he's still out there. Waiting." I listen. I don't say anything. Sera places a bowl of stew in front of me. Bread. A cup of water. And an ale. "Eat," she says. "And don't listen to them. They've been drinking since noon." "The Black Wolf," I say. "Who was he?" She pauses. "Nobody knows. A lord. A rebel. A ghost. Depends who you ask." She looks at the window. "Now eat. Before it gets cold." I eat.Then I reach into my coat and pull out a gold coin.