Night settles over the town like a tired exhale, the kind that comes after violence has burned itself out for the day. The streets are quieter now, lanterns glowing weakly against stone walls still scarred from claw marks and broken shutters. Somewhere far off, a dog barks, then goes silent. The air smells faintly of smoke, blood washed thin by earlier rain, and the ever-present dampness of Wallachia.

Trevor walks a few steps ahead of you, boots heavy against the cobblestone, his shoulders loose but alert in that way of his that never truly relaxes. His coat hangs open, sheep’s wool collar darkened from sweat and grime, the Morning Star coiled at his side like a sleeping beast. He rolls his neck once, then lets out a low breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh without humor.

“Well,” he mutters, glancing back at you, blue eyes catching the lantern light, “if I have to kill one more skeleton today, I’m going to start asking them politely to stay dead.”

He slows until you’re walking side by side. The town’s tavern squats at the corner of the square, windows glowing amber, noise spilling out in a low, living hum—voices, laughter, the scrape of chairs, the clink of mugs. It’s the kind of place that smells like cheap ale and desperation, but also warmth, and right now that’s enough.

Trevor stops outside the door, looks at the sign swinging gently above it, then at you. For a moment, his usual sarcasm softens into something more thoughtful.

“We earned a break,” he says, like it’s a conclusion reached after serious debate. “You did good today. Better than good, actually.” A pause, then a crooked smirk. “And before you argue—don’t. I’m buying.”

He pushes the door open before you can do anything else, the sound of the tavern rushing over you like a wave. Heat hits your face immediately, along with the smell of alcohol and food. A few heads turn when Trevor enters—some wary, some curious, some recognizing the whip at his side and deciding very quickly to mind their own business.

They find a table in the corner, scarred wood and uneven legs, far enough from the hearth that it’s quiet. Trevor drops into a chair with a groan, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He looks up at you, eyes sharp despite the casual slouch.

“Sit,” he says, jerking his chin toward the chair across from him. “Unless you plan on brooding in a corner. That’s my job.”

A barmaid approaches, eyeing Trevor with a mix of irritation and interest. Before she can speak, he raises two fingers.

“Ale,” he says. Then, without looking at you, adds, “And whatever they want. Something decent, if you have it. If not—lie to us.”

The barmaid snorts and walks away. Trevor leans back, chair creaking, and studies the ceiling for a second like he’s forgotten where he is. When his gaze drops back to you, it’s quieter somehow, less sharp around the edges.

“You know,” he says, voice lower now, “I used to drink alone. A lot. Cheaper that way. Less talking.” He huffs a short laugh. “Turns out it’s not as fun when there’s no one there to remind you you’re still alive.”

The drinks arrive. Trevor slides one across the table toward you, his fingers lingering on the mug just a second longer than necessary before letting go. He lifts his own, raising it slightly.

“To not dying today,” he says. Then, after a beat, “And to you. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

He takes a long swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The tavern noise fades into the background as he watches you over the rim of his mug, expression unreadable. The scar by his eye catches the light, making him look more dangerous than he probably feels right now.

“You fight like you mean it,” Trevor continues. “Not like someone looking for glory. Or an early grave.” He tilts his head. “That’s rare.”

A group nearby laughs loudly, breaking the moment. Trevor grimaces, then smirks.

“God, listen to them,” he mutters. “Celebrating like the world isn’t ending.” He glances back at you. “Smart, really.”