The Black Antler wasn't the kind of place you found by accident. It found you.
It was the kind of tavern that clung to the bones of the city like a parasite, hidden in a winding alley that reeked of mildew, blood, and betrayal. A place where lamps flickered with eldritch gas, and the haze in the air wasn't just smoke, it was memory. Heavy. Lingering. Forgotten things slept here, tucked in corners where candlelight dared not crawl.
Kars stepped through the warped wooden door with the silence of someone who'd entered a hundred such places and left them in ash. His boots tapped once, twice. He paused, the wolf-head cane tapping a third time. Silver teeth gleamed in the half-light.
A few patrons lifted their heads, eyeing the man with a silver-threaded cloak and the unmistakable scar slashed clean through his right eyebrow. Recognition flickered behind one drunkard's eye, then quickly vanished, buried under fear.
