A wizened husk of a Traveler arrived at the village tavern in the dead of night. Rags formed a midnight blue cloak about his shoulders. While his face still held the keenness of youth, he moved with a sharp deliberacy, limbs weighed down under burdens beyond his years. His sunken eyes were cursed with the shadow of countless memories—or perhaps the shadow of dehydration.

A horde of locals gathered around the Traveler, tugging at his sleeves.

“A tale,” one of the townsfolk begged. “Surely you have seen much. Tell us of your travels, oh wise adventurer.”

“Must a famished Traveler yet work for his supper? Very well,” the soon-to-be Storyteller said, a trace of indulgent humor in his mellow voice. “For food and drink, I shall regale you with a life’s worth of tales.”

The audience was eager, and the requested sustenance arrived promptly. The Storyteller began to speak of years past in a rich timbre.

“I know much of the Silver Militia. Their tale is old and unpleasant, but there is a happy ending. Few now still remember those noble warriors who fought to protect the common folk. Perhaps you have not heard of them. No matter; I shall speak of their legacy tonight.”

Embers glowed dimly in the hearth, casting a warm light across the Storyteller’s weary figure. His garb was tattered and his face tired, yet his voice rang with the strength and gravity of countless memories.

"The order of the Silver Militia fought for justice in times before the Sun King reigned supreme. They were few in number, but each was valiant and strong of heart. They protected the farmlands and peddlers from bandits. Where they walked, the good people rejoiced. The villages they passed were peaceful and prosperous, for the Militia always fought crime and toppled the corrupt. Their selfless deeds were known throughout the land. Many praised their acts of heroism."

The Storyteller's voice dipped in sadness.

"Tragedy struck. When the Militia grew complacent in times of peace, one among their order betrayed them all. Driven by the call of power, he slew his faithful comrades in an unprecedented rage. Those he had once called brothers drew their blades to stop him, yet none could match his might in the fields or streets. When they tried to hunt him, he hunted them in turn. He struck down the bravest with a single swing of his sword. Many tried to fight, and they too were slaughtered. Those who feared him tried to flee.”

The Storyteller’s head bowed, casting shadows across the weary lines in his skin.

“They did not get far. The Betrayer tracked the cowards through the villages and towns that he had once defended, confronting each in turn. He was merciful to those formerly kind to him, granting them quick deaths. Three were surprised by knives to the back, while two others fell victim to the dreamless sleep from which none wakes. The bodies of four more were never found, for he fed them to the man-eating fish of Mirror Lake. As for the other seventy-two men of the Silver Militia... some say their screams lasted for days, silenced only when their voices failed. Their friends, their families, anyone who helped them, anyone who praised their ways—all fell before his blade.”

Someone in the audience dropped a beverage. The ceramic cup shattered on the floor, but no one moved to clean the spilled drink. The Storyteller’s voice became rough.

“The Betrayer came by night and left only corpses in his wake. Even the dead could not escape his wrath, for he tore out their entrails to feed the birds. Over two hundred carcasses still mark his trail, slowly rotting away with no one to bury them or mourn their passage. Not one who crossed him was spared. Innocent or guilty alike, he did not care. They cursed him out of fear, and in that fear he saw weakness. In his world, the weak had no right to question the methods of the strong. He was the strongest. Their elimination was all the reward he sought.”

The Storyteller paused.

“They say he stalks the land to this day, lost in the thrill of the hunt."

The Storyteller lapsed into a grave silence. He peered at the coils of smoke rising from the fire pit. Seconds stretched into minutes, but the audience dared not interrupt him yet. They had been promised a happy ending to the story. They patiently awaited the heroic twist that would surely come next.

"Now... now, but one of the Silver Militia remains."

The Storyteller regarded the assorted citizens with solemn eyes.

"I am the last."

Silence reigned for a long, stunned moment. The audience was, indeed, not disappointed. Far from it, in fact. Dozens of faces brightened with awe, regarding the Storyteller in a new light. The village lads and unsatisfied farm hands who aspired to exciting adventures in the wide world now looked upon him as a fantasy brought to life. Here was an opportunity most had only dreamed of: the chance for one used to a mundane, everyday life to hear the wisdom of an emissary from the realm of myths and fables.

"You… no way. Truly?” One young man dared inch closer, searching for more information about the heroes of times long past. His words were thick with reverence. “Tell us more of your journeys, your battles, and your triumphs! The Silver Militia of old is the stuff of stories, and you… the last… why, you are legend personified!"

“Idle flattery merits no reward,” the Storyteller gently chided. “You know not of what you speak.”

“Hold on. That means you could be in danger," another member of the audience gasped, putting two and two together to create a dangerous picture. The boy shuddered with despair at the thought of losing a venerable mentor figure before his own heroic endeavors could begin. He thought quickly for a way to break the news of his dreadful revelation. “The Betrayer could be coming for you as we speak. You risked a great deal, telling us this story. Fear not; we won’t betray your trust. We must get you to safety at once!"

To this promise, the other listeners added their heartfelt support alongside offers of camaraderie. The Storyteller’s mouth curved upward. The audience fell still, transfixed.

"You misunderstand. I am truly the last."

The Storyteller straightened. Orange flames flashed upon hardened eyes, setting their dark pits alight with vicious promise. Cold steel glinted from the depths of his cloak.

"I am the Betrayer."