Alric didn't blink. He slowly lowered his gaze, his eyes tracing the expanding lake of crimson pooling beneath the massive corpse.
"The man lying dead on the floorboards," Alric stated, his voice a low, steady rumble. "He isn't just some ordinary, drunken sailor. If he was just another rowdy thug looking for a tavern brawl, he wouldn't have been silenced with such a flawless, surgical strike in a mere two seconds of pitch darkness. The killer knew his target perfectly. Who was he?"
Thorleif paused. His heavy brow furrowed as his gaze shifted from Alric to the slain giant, then back again. The suffocating, deafening roar that usually defined the tavern had completely vanished, replaced by a heavy, venomous hum of whispers from the surrounding sea warriors. To ensure none of his fellow Akrans were eavesdropping, the Guard Leader leaned in slightly, his bear-pelt mantle rustling.
"His name was Thidrik," Thorleif practically spat the name, as if the syllables tasted like ash. "They called him 'Bloody Thidrik'. He was the first mate of the Silent Revenge, one of the oldest, most infamous galleons to ever sail out of Akrafjall. He was a brutally hard man. Utterly ruthless."
"You can find a hard man in every tavern on this continent," Alric interrupted smoothly, dismissing the reputation with a wave of his hand. "But they don't all end up with their hearts pierced from behind, the blade guided by millimeter-perfect calculation. Why would someone assassinate him with such terrifying professionalism—and instead of using their own weapon, deliberately use the dagger stolen from my boy's scabbard?"
Thorleif's ice-blue eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. His thick, heavily scarred fingers tightened around the leather grip of his executioner's axe, the leather groaning under the pressure. For a fleeting second, his gaze drifted back to their table, landing on Nicolas. The boy was still sitting there, hyperventilating, staring at his blood-soaked hands in absolute, pathetic terror.
"Maybe that boy of yours, Nicolas, is the one who drove the blade in," Thorleif growled with heavy suspicion, his voice as unforgiving as the howling winter winds. "You claim to know the boy. I don't. Why in the hells should I trust a single word you say?"
Without hesitation, Alric took a single, deliberate step forward.
He closed the distance between them to a level that bordered on lethal, stepping right inside the Guard Leader's striking range. He locked his dark, seasoned eyes directly onto Thorleif's icy stare.
"Don't trust me," Alric said. His tone was perfectly calibrated—sharp enough to cut through the tavern's murmuring tension, yet pitched low enough that only Thorleif could hear the words. "But I know you trust your own eyes and your own decades of battlefield experience. Look at him."
Alric didn't even turn his head, merely tilting his chin toward Nicolas.
"Do you honestly believe that a boy trembling in his own sweat, paralyzed by fear, could deliver such a flawless, lethal strike in two seconds of absolute darkness, and then sit right back down screaming? This wasn't an act of drunken rage. This was executed by a mind made of absolute ice. Thidrik wasn't just a simple sailor, Thorleif. Who was he, really? What dark, abyssal waters was he swimming in to draw the attention of a hunter like this?"
Thorleif went dead silent.
Alric's logic was an unbreakable fortress, and the Holy Knight's unwavering, dominant posture made it crystal clear he wasn't spinning lies to save his own skin. Thorleif's eyes flicked to the corpse one last time, then swept over the surrounding Akrans, their faces painted in harsh shadows by the flickering torchlight.
Satisfied that no one was close enough to catch their words, the massive Guard Leader finally yielded. He leaned in even closer, the hostility in his eyes slowly melting into a grave, guarded dread.
Thorleif drew in a long, heavy breath. As he exhaled, the frigid air of the tavern crystallized the breath escaping his nostrils into a thick plume of white vapor.
"Thidrik... he swam in the absolute darkest of waters, Alric," the Guard Leader murmured. "He didn't just haul salted fish or legally sanctioned spices. The Law of the Docks does not extend into the open ocean. The Harbor Master always turned a blind eye because Thidrik paid his docking tariffs in pure gold, down to the last copper. But..."
Thorleif's voice dropped even lower, the words dripping with a venomous disgust.
"...some of the 'passengers' who boarded his galleon never set foot on solid ground again. Specifically the refugees fleeing from the south, the desperate wretches drowning in debt, or the stray orphans no one would miss. Whatever horrors unfolded out there in the middle of the sea... only the black waters know."
Alric's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. The gears in his veteran mind instantly locked into place, merging Thorleif's dark confession with the chilling, clinical analysis Alex had just provided.
"So, he was human filth," Alric stated, grinding out each word with absolute contempt. "A monster that your pristine Law of the Docks and your corrupt justice system deliberately chose not to touch. And someone... someone decided to personally deliver the justice you ignored for the sake of your gold taxes tonight."
Thorleif's jaw clenched so hard his scarred cheek twitched, but he didn't deny it.
"The Law of the Docks governs the docks, Knight," Thorleif shot back, completely unapologetic. "Whose blood Thidrik drank out on the open sea is no concern of mine. But blood was spilled in my port, in this tavern, under my protection. Find the assassin who thinks they can deal out 'justice' on my watch before dawn. Knowing Thidrik wasn't a saint won't stop me from sending your little knight-in-training straight to the bottom of the ocean."
Alric gave a slow, deliberate nod, sealing the lethal pact. "I will bring you your justice."
Letting out a dissatisfied grunt, Thorleif pushed past the Holy Knight. His heavy, thudding footsteps echoed as he approached the blood-soaked table where Alex and Emily still stood on high alert. He loomed over Thidrik's colossal corpse, staring down at the mountain of dead muscle slumped over the wood. There was no pity in Thorleif's ice-blue eyes, nor was there any fiery rage. There was only the chilling, pragmatic acceptance of an Akran acknowledging death.
"Step aside," the Guard Leader barked, making a harsh, sweeping gesture at Alex and Emily.
Alex took a single, calculated step back, though his grip never once left the hilt of his sword.
Thorleif leaned in. Grabbing a handful of Thidrik's thick leather vest, he roughly yanked the dead man's face to the side. He studied the grotesque contortion of the pirate's features and the hollow, glassy stare of his unblinking eyes.
"Bloody Thidrik..." Thorleif muttered into the tense silence. "Looks like the sea finally caught you sleeping."
He was just about to release the dead man's collar and let his head drop back onto the table when he suddenly froze.
Thorleif's thick brows furrowed into a heavy scowl. Using his calloused, weather-beaten thumb, he forcefully wiped away a smear of grime from the back of Thidrik's thick neck, right near the base of the skull. His eyes frantically searched the patch of unbroken, bloodless skin.
"There's something missing..." Thorleif whispered.
For the first time since he had drawn his axe, the Guard Leader's voice held no threat, no malice. Instead, it was laced with profound, unsettling confusion.