The stranger arrived at the village gate on a stormy night.
William saw him from the window of his house—a figure wrapped in a dark cloak, his horse exhausted, his steps unsteady. He carried no weapon that William could see, but there was something about the way he moved that suggested he was not a man to be underestimated. The rain was coming down in sheets, the wind howling through the trees.
William opened the door and walked to the gate.
The stranger looked up. His face was young—younger than William had expected—with sharp features and eyes that missed nothing. He was soaked to the bone, his cloak heavy with water.
"I need shelter," the stranger said. "My horse is spent. I have nowhere else to go."
William studied his face. "Who are you?"
"My name is Kael. I'm a mercenary. I've
