A man in a long black cloak walked down the forest path, a hood protecting him from the spraying rain. The drops of water hung in the air and disappeared when they touched the blackness of his clothes. Next to the rich color of the coniferous trees, he looked like a dirty spot that you clean with your sleeve. A glimpse of a wrinkled face and a silver cross on his chest spoiled the darkness of his clothes - one revealing his age, one his faith.

The raindrops fell from his chin, trickled down the cross, and crashed into the hilt of a shortsword. He didn’t carry any bags or provisions. One way or another, the man’s stay in the forest wouldn’t be long. Once the men in black were on their way, they didn’t look back. The man didn’t rush, but he didn’t pause either. He walked with the pace of someone who knew his arrival was inevitable.

Each step on the path muddied the lower edges of his cloak, and each drop of rain on his cross brought him closer to his prey.

He followed the trail until the trees gave way to a meadow covered in tiny houses. The village of Tamno was making the most of its rich land. Sitting on the edge of the forest on one side, hugged by a river on the other. It had a supply of fresh water, timber, and animals. Two women carried buckets of water, and a group of children fighting with sticks ran around them. A small scruffy-looking dog barked at them, protecting its yard. Two old men played dice on the steps in front of a house, swearing and laughing at their luck.

But if Tamno were as idyllic as it looked, the man in black wouldn’t be here.