Nawasir's Discovery!

The man who had stepped forward to confront Luther looked utterly flabbergasted. His confidence wavered for a moment as Emma, the very woman he was trying to "rescue," suddenly clung to Luther's arm like a desperate lifeline. The crowd, too, seemed caught off guard, their murmurs fading into a confused silence as they tried to make sense of her abrupt change in demeanor.

Luther, on the other hand, remained calm, though his sharp eyes flicked briefly toward Emma. Her trembling voice, the way she clung to him; it wasn't just an act of fear. There was something calculated about it, and he could sense the layers of desperation beneath her sudden shift.

The burly man who had initially confronted Luther cleared his throat, his expression now a mix of confusion and indignation. "Miss," he said, his voice slower now, trying to piece together what was happening, "are you saying this… man didn't harass you? Didn't hurt you?"

Emma sniffled loudly, burying her face into Luther's sleeve as if hiding from the weight of the stares around her. "No," she mumbled, her voice barely audible. "I… I misunderstood him. I overreacted. He was only trying to help me."

The man's fleshy face contorted in disbelief. "Help you? Then what was all that fuss earlier about thirty shillings and poison?"

Emma tensed, her grip on Luther's arm tightening. Her voice cracked as she replied, "It's nothing… nothing worth bothering anyone about. Just a… private matter."

Luther tilted his head slightly, watching Emma's performance with faint amusement. The woman was quick on her feet, he had to give her that.

"Well," Luther said finally, his voice cutting through the awkward tension like a blade. "It seems this entire situation has been blown out of proportion. My friend here," he gestured to Emma with a slight tilt of his head, "is simply a little… overwhelmed. She meant no harm, and neither did I."

The man standing opposite them squinted, clearly still suspicious. He glanced around at the gathering crowd, looking for validation, but found only confusion mirrored in their faces. Slowly, the righteous fire in his eyes dimmed. It was as if the entire confrontation had lost its momentum in the face of Emma's sudden apology.

"Fine," the man muttered grudgingly. "But if I catch you pulling something like this again…" His words trailed off, his threat hanging weakly in the air. With one last scornful look at Luther, he turned and shuffled back toward the bar.

The crowd began to disperse, their interest in the situation fading now that the tension had diffused. A few cast lingering glances at Luther and Emma, but eventually, the tavern returned to its usual din of chatter, laughter, and drunken revelry.

Luther glanced down at Emma, who was still clinging to his arm, her head bowed as if in shame. "Well," he said softly, his tone dry, "that was… unexpected."

Emma finally let go, stepping back slightly but keeping her head lowered. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I… I panicked. I didn't know what else to do."

Luther studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You're smarter than you look," he said, his voice neutral. "But you're also incredibly reckless. Care to explain what that little display was about?"

Emma hesitated, her hands twisting the fabric of her dress nervously. She glanced around to ensure no one else was paying attention before leaning in closer. "I… I need the money," she admitted in a hushed voice. "For my brother. He's sick. The kind of sick that doesn't get better on its own. And I… I thought if I didn't do something, if I didn't de-escalate, you'd leave, or they'd hurt you, and I wouldn't get anything."

Her words tumbled out in a rush, her desperation raw and unfiltered. For the first time since meeting her, Luther saw a flicker of something genuine beneath the layers of greed and cunning, something fragile.

"Your brother," Luther repeated, his tone carefully neutral. "And how, exactly, does poisoning yourself—or faking it—help him?"

Emma winced, her face flushing with embarrassment. "I thought… I thought you'd feel guilty," she admitted. "I thought you'd give me the money faster. But I messed it all up."

Luther sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You really have no idea how to play the long game, do you?" He straightened, his voice taking on a slightly softer edge. "If you need help, you ask for it. Deception only works if you don't overplay your hand."

Emma's eyes widened slightly at his words, a glimmer of hope flickering in her expression. "Are you… are you saying you'll help me?"

Luther smirked faintly, his tone turning sharp again. "I'm saying that if you keep pulling stunts like this, you won't live long enough to see your brother get better. Now, tell me everything you know about the Church of the Hidden Deep, about this tavern, and why you're so connected to them."

Emma blinked, startled by the sudden change in his tone. She hesitated, but the memory of his earlier trick; the "poison bubble" was still fresh in her mind. And despite the chaos she'd caused, she couldn't shake the feeling that Luther wasn't just another thug. There was something dangerous about him, yes, but also something… purposeful.

"Alright," she said finally, her voice trembling but resolute. "But you have to promise me. If I tell you everything, you'll help me save my brother."

Luther met her gaze, his expression serious. "If what you tell me is useful, I'll do more than just help you. I'll make sure you and your brother are safe. But only if you're honest. No more games."

Emma nodded, a mix of relief and fear washing over her. She took a deep breath and began to speak, her voice low and steady. "It all started with the Gloam's Veil…"

The air in the tavern grew heavy after Emma's tearful outburst. Faces around the room were painted with confusion, anger, and the grim detachment of those who had decided this wasn't their problem. The murmurs of the crowd rose and fell, a quiet chaos of opinions whispered into mugs of ale. Only a few lingered, their eyes following Luther and Emma with suspicious intent—chief among them the sturdy, scarred man, his gaze sharp and flickering with unspoken malice.

Luther stood silent, his sharp eyes sweeping across the room, noting every shift, every shadow. Something wasn't right. He'd come here to dig into why Lowry and his crew were so interested in his villa, but the situation had spiraled in an entirely different direction. There was an almost scripted quality to the night's events, as though some invisible hand was guiding the pieces into place.

And then there was Emma.

His gaze lowered to the woman clutching his arm, her face streaked with tears. Her sudden appearance, her conveniently tragic story, it all felt too perfect, too well-timed. The thought made him wary, but before he could act, Emma wiped her tears with the back of her hand, leaned closer, and whispered urgently into his ear.

"Listen to me," she said, her voice trembling but firm. "Leave now. I'll handle the people watching you. Walk along the stone brick road at the port, head west, and stop at the wooden sign that says 'Daval's House.' Wait for me there. I'll explain everything."

Her words came in a rush, but before Luther could respond, she turned sharply and stepped away, preparing to face the room on her own.

Luther's lips curled into a faint smile. 'Hero saving the damsel? Not quite,' he thought. If this was all part of some larger ploy, he had no intention of playing his assigned role. His hand shot out, grabbing Emma's arm and pulling her firmly behind him.

"Stay where I can see you," he muttered, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument.

Emma, startled by his move, stared blankly at Luther's back for a moment. Then her gaze dropped, and her expression shifted to one of quiet contemplation. No one could tell what thoughts were churning in her mind, but she followed without resistance.

Luther turned his attention back to the room, his sharp eyes sweeping across the gathered faces. He didn't say a word, but his presence and the way he moved; calculated, deliberate, radiated an unspoken challenge. Then, without so much as a backward glance, he guided Emma out of the tavern. The door creaked shut behind them, cutting through the tense atmosphere like a blade.

Inside, the remaining patrons watched the pair leave, some in silence, others in rising agitation. One of the burly men in the corner finally broke the tension, pulling a dagger from his belt. He held it up, admiring the blade as though it carried a familiar weight, his memory flickering with the image of past victims.

"That bastard," he growled, his voice dripping with venom. "Using us as a distraction to pick up women? I've had enough of this."

Another man, shorter but equally mean-spirited, chimed in with a grin. "Yeah, let's teach him a lesson. That girl wasn't half bad either. How about we have ourselves some fun tonight?"

Their words drew murmurs of approval from the others. The tension that had gripped the tavern moments earlier now gave way to malicious excitement. The men rose from their seats, the scrape of chairs against the floor punctuating their resolve. But just as they began to move, one of them; Pama, the strongest of the group, suddenly staggered, clutching his chest.

"Pama? What's wrong with you?" one of the others asked, his voice tinged with annoyance.

"I… I don't know," Pama muttered, his breathing labored. "I just… feel weird. I'll catch up. Just give me a minute."

His companions exchanged glances, irritation creeping into their expressions. "You're always useless when it matters," one of them snapped. "We brought you in because you're supposed to be tough, but you're nothing but dead weight."

With a dismissive shove, they left him behind, filing out of the tavern and into the night with murderous intent.

As the door swung shut behind them, Pama collapsed to the floor, his body convulsing. His eyes rolled back, and a strange smile spread across his face; a smile that didn't seem to belong to him. The sight drew the attention of the remaining patrons, who began to crowd around him in alarm. Their confusion and fear spread like wildfire through the room.

Meanwhile, outside, another figure slipped quietly through the growing commotion. A tall, dark-skinned man with an unsettlingly cheerful smile passed unnoticed through the crowd and exited the tavern. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world.

Back inside, Nawasir, who had been hiding in the shadows near Lowry's unconscious form, finally emerged. His movements were slow, almost serpentine, as he approached Lowry's pocket with practiced stealth. His spindly fingers darted inside, retrieving an object of interest; a coin, faintly glowing with an unnatural light.

For a moment, Nawasir hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the door where the tall man had exited moments earlier. A faint ripple lingered in the air, the aftershock of a presence far more powerful than anything Nawasir had encountered before. It sent a shiver through his small, wiry frame.

'Who was that?' he wondered, clutching the glowing coin tightly. 'And why did I feel the touch of time and space shifting?'

He glanced around the room, his sense of self-preservation flaring. 'They didn't notice me… did they?'

For now, it seemed he had gone unnoticed. His existence, perpetually overshadowed and forgotten by others, had worked in his favor once again. But for the first time in his long, hidden life, Nawasir felt a flicker of excitement, a sense that he had stumbled into something far larger than himself.