The bar had been stripped of tables and benches in a frenzy of shoving hands and scraping boots.
Patrons lined the walls, pressed shoulder to shoulder, their whispers churning into a storm of nervous energy.
Tankards rattled where they'd been dropped, puddles of ale soaking into the sawdust floor.
Bruno stepped into the cleared space first, swagger in every motion despite the smirk on his lips.
His thugs cheered behind him, pounding fists on tables, their voices hoarse with excitement.
Jack followed, taller, broader, his jaw set like stone. His knuckles flexed as if already itching for blood.
A murmur of approval rose from the other side of the bar, the ones who still respected his rule, who saw him as the rightful king of the slums.
From his darkened corner, Noah leaned forward slightly, staring at the combatants.
His drink sat forgotten on the table. He hadn't come here for spectacle, but this… this was interesting.
