Tzarek was the one to speak first. "We're looking for information on powerful individuals in the area. Anyone new in the last few months?"
One of the Durnokh, half-hidden in the dimly lit room, sneered. "Sure. 10,000 Durcell, and I'll give you a list of names. 100,000 Durcell if you want to know their strength."
Tzarek's expression darkened. The price was absurd. It was outright extortion, even by Durnokh standards. He was about to argue when Draeven spoke instead. "Forget it. Just tell me where Slark is. I have something to offer." The moment his words left his mouth, the entire room changed.
Every Durnokh in sight melted into the shadows, disappearing instantly. All except for one. The bartender. Unlike the others, the bartender was dressed in formal attire—a sleek black suit, clean, well-fitted. No visible weapons. But Draeven knew better. He knew that among the Durnokh, the ones who carried no weapons were often the most dangerous.
