Kyle slumped onto the sagging mattress in his rented room above the Rusty Nail tavern.
The place was a dump, the sheets smelled like old beer, the mattress springs poked his back, and he could hear every drunkard's brawl from the bar below through the paper-thin walls.
But it was cheap, and more importantly, no one asked questions here.
After the fight with the Red Fangs, every muscle in his body protested.
He had gobbled down a questionable meat pie from a street vendor on the way back, the greasy kind that sat heavy in your stomach like a rock.
As he lay staring at the water-stained ceiling, he replayed the fight in his mind. Holding back had been harder than going all out.
Each strike had to be perfectly controlled - enough to disable, not kill. His arms trembled slightly from the effort of restraining his power.
A particularly loud crash from downstairs made him wince.
Tomorrow he would meet Garrick, the real prize. That sword was so close yet so far.
