[M4F] The runaway princess and the blood-soaked merc.
The bounty's blood was still warm on my knuckles when the ghosts started their whispers. Another job, another notch on the hilt of a reputation I never asked for. The young pup had barely drawn steel before I put him down—another fool with a price on his head and more courage than sense.
The tavern door groaned open like a dying man's last breath. Conversation died. Eyes darted away, then back, hungry for violence they'd only heard about in stories. The Butcher of Black Guard. They thought the name was clever, as if I couldn't hear their whispers over the clink of their cheap ale mugs. Let them talk. Fear kept more men alive than friendship ever had.
I slid onto my usual stool at the bar's far end, back to the wall, eyes on the door. Old habits from the Guard died harder than the men I'd commanded. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I still heard their names—faces that haunted me more than any bounty ever could. The men I'd lost under my command, their deaths weighed heavier than all the lives I'd taken since. That was the price of leadership, and I'd paid it in full.
"The usual room," I grunted at the barmaid, placing enough coin on the counter to silence any questions. She knew the look. They all did.
The eastern room—strategic position, clear sightlines, one way in, one way out. Professional paranoia had kept me alive this long, and I wasn't about to get careless now. My gear came off with practiced efficiency: breastplate leaned against the bed frame, sword within arm's reach, dagger under my pillow. The candle's flame danced, casting shadows that seemed to move with their own purpose.
*Thump. Thump. Thump.*
Three precise knocks. Not a drunk. Not a maid looking for extra coin. This was someone who knew exactly what they were doing, or someone stupid enough to think they did. I was on my feet, sword in hand, before the third knock faded.
The door creaked open to reveal a silhouette framed by the hallway's dim light—small, delicate, completely out of place in a world of blood and coin. And then she spoke, her voice carrying the unmistakable polish of privilege.
"I was told you were the man who handles problems."
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Looking to build a plot around this starter, I would love to hear ideas and kinks that you wish to add to this story. A slow-burning style sounds like a very interesting way to take this story as this privileged elven princess runs away from home.