The Not So Good Guy Series

Rain hammered against the cobblestone streets, a relentless drumming that swallowed the world outside. The steady splash of footsteps echoed in the darkness as Lady Luna strode forward, her boots sinking into shallow puddles. The water rippled around her feet, the sharp, wet slaps in sync with her own quickening heartbeat.

She moved with purpose but was haunted by the knowledge that she wasn't alone. The faint echo of footfalls behind her mirrored her own, just a fraction out of sync, mingling with the distant roll of thunder. Her pulse quickened, thudding in her ears as if urging her to run, but she resisted. There was no use in fleeing.

Lady Luna knew she would likely not survive the night.

Still, she pressed on, every muscle tensed, every breath measured. The realization settled over her like the rain soaking through her cloak—she wasn't just running for her life; she was running to ensure they did not find it.

The narrow alleyways twisted ahead, shadows bleeding into one another, and with each step, the weight of her fate pressed down harder. Her fingers tightened around the small, hidden pouch beneath her cloak, the one thing that mattered more than her life.

She couldn't let them have it. Not now. Not ever.

She stumbled forward, her breath ragged and shallow, eyes darting wildly until they landed on her destination—the worn, weathered sign of The Iron Griffin swinging in the wind. She quickened as she walked through the rain-soaked streets, boots splashing through puddles as she reached the tavern's door.

The wooden door of the dimly lit establishment groaned open, drawing every eye within. Framed by the storm, she stood in the doorway for a heartbeat, her silhouette etched against the flash of lightning, before stepping into the warm, amber glow of the hearth's fire.

Lady Luna was striking. Her midnight blue velvet dress shimmered under the dim tavern lights. Thin gold and silver embroidery adorned the bodice, hinting at a regal heritage. Her dress clung to her body like a second skin, accentuating every curve with an effortless, provocative grace. Short, blonde hair, slick from the rain, was pushed back from her face, and droplets traced delicate paths down her flushed cheeks. The fabric of her refined and opulent dress marked her as someone of higher status, an oddity amidst the rougher, simpler patrons who filled the tavern's smoky air.

But there was more to her than her fine clothing. A sword hung at her side, its hilt emitting a faint red glow that pulsed softly in the dim light. It was a telltale sign—everyone knew what it meant. She was a Channeled. The realization sent a subtle ripple through the room, an unspoken message that this was not a woman to be trifled with.

Her eyes, sharp and searching, flickered across the room, halting at the bartender stationed behind the bar.

She moved forward, the echoing click of her boots against the wooden floor cutting through the silence that had settled over the room. The bartender named Gareth Holt paused, wiping his hands on a stained cloth, his gaze locked on her with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. She reached the counter and leaned in slightly, the firelight casting a warm, golden glow over her features.

"I need a drink," she said, her voice low, carrying an edge of desperation that belied her otherwise composed exterior.

Gareth nodded, pouring a generous measure of ale into a tankard, his eyes never leaving her face, and he couldn't help but wonder why such a beautiful woman found herself in his humble establishment.

Despite his curiosity, he knew better than to pry, choosing instead to offer her the simple comfort of a drink and a listening ear should she choose to share her troubles. Glancing over her, he couldn't help but admire her striking features and the way the damp fabric outlined her form. There was something undeniably magnetic about her—an allure wrapped in danger as if the very air around her hummed with an unspoken, forbidden promise.

He slid the drink across the counter, and she caught it deftly, raising it to her lips.

As she drank, the room seemed to hold its breath, every gaze fixated on her. The rain outside persisted in its relentless murmur, a steady rhythm against the silence within. She set the tankard down with a soft thud, her eyes meeting the bartender's.

The door creaked open again, ushering in a cold draft that prickled the skin. A group of men entered, their presence impossible to ignore. Clad in dark, weather-worn leather armor with faintly glowing symbols etched into the fabric, they carried weapons that pulsed with an array of eerie colors, each flickering dimly with its own distinct light. It was an unmistakable mark of the Channeled.

The aura of power around them was palpable. Their eyes scanned the room with a predatory intensity until they locked onto their target—the woman at the bar. They exchanged silent glances before taking seats near the entrance, their focus never wavering.

The tavern fell into a deeper silence, an unspoken tension thickening the air. So many Channeled gathered in one place; it was an occurrence that rarely ended well.

A sudden creak broke the stillness coming from the side door. Gareth's gaze flicked toward it, catching a brief glimpse of movement as someone slipped out into the rain-soaked night. His heart skipped a beat when he recognized the departing figure—Steve, the city guard. Gareth knew Steve well enough to realize what this meant. He had likely gone to summon reinforcements. He was filled with unease as he grasped the situation; things were about to escalate, and whatever happened next would be far beyond his control.

Lady Luna's eyes shifted momentarily, catching the subtle movement of the side door as it closed behind the departing figure. Her mind raced, assessing the situation, before looking at the group who had just entered. Her eyes showed a hint of recognition and her steely determination.

Finishing her drink in one swift gulp, she reached into a hidden pocket, pulling out a handful of coins. With deliberate care, she placed them on the counter.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice softer now as if drawing strength from some unyielding reserve within.

Gareth's gaze lingered on the coins, narrowing when he spotted one that looked out of place—a coin marked with an ancient sigil.

As she turned and moved toward the door, the mercenaries rose in unison, their movements slow, calculated, and menacing.

The bartender's gaze returned to the odd coin. Recognition flickered in his eyes, and his heart quickened in his chest. He shifted, fingers curling around the coin with practiced ease, and slipped it into his pocket, his action smooth and precise, as if he'd done this countless times before. His expression remained impassive, betraying nothing as he continued his work, but his mind raced with the gravity of the secret now hidden within his grasp.

Outside, the rain fell harder, the downpour muffling the world beyond the tavern's walls, masking the footsteps of both hunter and hunted. The warmth of the tavern felt like a distant memory as Lady Luna stepped into the night. She moved slowly at first, each step deliberate, her senses straining to catch any sound past the rain's incessant patter.

Then she heard it—the soft but clear sound of footsteps reverberating behind her, gradually getting louder.

She was being followed.

Gradually, her pace quickened, urgency swelling with each step. As she neared a corner, she risked a glance over her shoulder, catching sight of shadowy figures, their forms distinct even through the downpour, moving closer, closing in.

She made a sudden turn and started running at full speed, her breathing uneven, her heart pounding in perfect sync with the relentless rhythm of the rain. The narrow alley twisted ahead of her, walls pressing in on either side. Behind her, the sound of splashing grew louder, more urgent—they had seen her run, and now they were chasing her.