The bar was quieter than usual that night, the air thick with the scent of cheap liquor and desert dust. A lone candle flickered on the counter, casting a dim glow over Jhon's weary face as he took another deep gulp of his beer. His throat burned, but the alcohol dulled the ache in his chest—at least for now.
The bartender, an old man with tired eyes, leaned against the counter and watched him.
"Good today?" he asked, his voice rough from years of smoke and sand.
Jhon nodded, though the gesture was sluggish, his movements slow from the weight of drunkenness creeping into his bones. He didn't need to say anything more. The bartender had seen enough men like him before.
The chair beside him scraped against the floor, and Jhon barely lifted his gaze as a stranger sat down. A man cloaked in a worn-out robe, his presence heavy yet quiet.
Jhon took another swig, staring at the bottom of his cup like it held the answer to his nightmares.
"Still can't forget what they did to your friends, huh?" the man muttered, his voice low and weathered.
Jhon's grip on the mug tightened, his lips curling into a smirk, though there was no humor in it.
"And what the hell do you know about me?" he scoffed, barely looking at the stranger.
The man didn't respond right away. Instead, he slowly lifted the hood from his head, revealing deep, jagged scars that ran from the side of his forehead down to his jaw. The candlelight made them look even deeper, like they had been burned into his flesh rather than cut.
Jhon froze.
His drunken haze didn't dull his perception enough to miss what those scars meant.
This man had suffered.
He had been a victim.
A survivor.
Just like him.
A person to tell the tale.
The bar felt smaller suddenly, the air heavier between them. Jhon swallowed, his smirk fading into something more serious.
The stranger met his gaze, his eyes hollow yet filled with stories.
"I know enough, boy," the man said. "Enough to say that revenge isn't as simple as putting a blade in someone's throat. It doesn't end when the last of them falls."
Jhon exhaled, staring at the scars again. His own wounds may not have been carved into his flesh, but they were there—etched into his soul just the same.
For the first time in a long while, he found himself listening.
Jhon tried to listen.
Tried to drown out the noise of the bar, the clinking of glasses, the murmurs of drunken men in the corner. He tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted, knowing that whatever story this man carried, it was one soaked in blood.
The stranger took a slow breath, his scarred face illuminated by the candle's flickering glow. Then he spoke.
"I was a merchant once. Just a simple man selling spices, fabrics… things that don't matter anymore." His voice was hoarse, the words scraped from deep inside his throat. "We were passing through the eastern dunes. Six wagons, twenty men, three women, a few children. We thought we were safe."
Jhon didn't blink.
"Then they came."
The words hung in the air like the toll of a funeral bell.
"The Iron Foot."
A shiver crawled down Jhon's spine despite the desert heat.
The stranger's fingers clenched against the table. "We never heard them coming. They moved like shadows across the sand, faster than any man should. One moment, the night was silent—the next, the first man's head was rolling in the dirt."
Jhon tightened his grip around his mug, his knuckles white.
"We tried to run, to fight—didn't matter. They didn't just kill us, they… they played with us. Cut tendons first, so we'd crawl. Stripped flesh from arms, legs, so we'd scream. They took their time. Like they enjoyed it. Like they were…" His voice faltered.
"Like they were feeding on it."
Jhon swallowed, bile rising in his throat.
"I saw my brother gutted like an animal. They dragged his wife into the sand, made us watch as they—" The man's voice caught, but he forced himself to continue. "And the children... they didn't even let them die quickly. They made sure they saw everything before the end."
The candlelight barely reached the man's eyes now. They were lost in something darker.
"When they were done, they left me. Not out of mercy. Just so I could crawl back and tell people what they did. So their names would never be forgotten."
Silence fell between them. A silence so thick it seemed to swallow the entire room.
Jhon breathed in, slow and unsteady. His own memories of that night—the screams, the smell of blood, the sound of flesh being torn apart—clawed their way back into his mind.
He clenched his jaw.
"I survived," the stranger murmured, tracing the jagged scars along his jaw. "But part of me didn't."
Jhon exhaled sharply, staring into his drink. He understood that. Understood it too damn well.
The Iron Foot didn't just kill.
They took everything.
And left nothing but ghosts.
The silence between them stretched long, heavy as a noose.
Jhon stared at the man, at the scars that twisted across his face like old battle lines. He knew that kind of pain. It lingered, burned itself into the bones.
Finally, Jhon spoke, his voice low.
"Did you ever try to take revenge?"
The stranger didn't move at first. Didn't even blink. Then, slowly, a dry chuckle rasped from his throat. It wasn't amusement—it was something broken, something old.
"Try?" The man shook his head, fingers tapping against the wooden bar. "Boy, revenge is all I've ever done."
Jhon watched as the stranger leaned back, exhaling through his nose, his gaze distant—lost in time.
"Thirty years," the man said. "Thirty goddamn years, and I still ain't finished."
Jhon said nothing. He let the man speak.
"After they left me to rot in the sand, I thought about dying. Thought about it a lot. But dying wasn't enough. Not for me. Not for what I saw." He picked up his drink, swirled it once, then downed it in a single gulp. "So I started hunting. First, I tracked deserters. Bastards who fled the Iron Foot but still carried their mark. They were the easy ones. Weak. Scared. A blade to the throat, a knife between the ribs. Simple work."
Jhon remained still.
"Then I went for their scouts. Their runners. The ones they sent ahead to mark new victims. Harder kills. They knew how to vanish in the sands, knew how to slit a man's throat before he even knew they were there. But I learned. Found them. And I tore them apart."
The stranger's fingers curled against the counter, knuckles pale.
"I gutted them like they gutted my people. I hung their bodies on the dunes so the vultures would feast. I burned their skin so their own gods wouldn't recognize them. And still..." He let out a long breath, his voice dropping lower. "Still, it wasn't enough."
Jhon felt something stir in his chest.
"I spent years chasing whispers. Years following blood trails across this cursed land. Every time I got close, they were already gone—like ghosts." His eyes darkened. "They are ghosts. Not men. Not anymore."
Jhon swallowed, the weight of the words pressing against him.
"And now?" he asked.
The stranger smiled. It was hollow, bitter.
"Now, I wait. I drink. I listen. And when I hear their name spoken in the wind, I sharpen my blade again." He turned his scarred face toward Jhon. "Because the hunt never ends. And if you think revenge will give you peace..."
His fingers tapped against his empty glass.
"You're more of a fool than I was."
Jhon exhaled, staring into the dark amber of his drink. He swirled the liquid, watching it ripple under the dim candlelight. The stranger's words carved themselves into his thoughts, branding them deep.
He clenched his jaw, then spoke, voice quiet.
"What should I do?"
The stranger sighed. "Wait."
Jhon frowned. "Wait? For what?"
The man turned toward him, eyes like burnt coals. "For Gathering Time."
The name felt heavy in the air. Jhon had heard the villagers murmur about it earlier that day, but never asked. Now, he knew he should have.
"Every last month of the year, the rain comes," the stranger said. "Not much, but enough to stir the land. The animals crawl out of their burrows to breed, the rivers swell just enough for men to drink without tasting death. And we, the people of this goddamn wasteland, we do what we must to survive."
Jhon's fingers curled around his glass.
"And they," the stranger muttered, his voice dripping with venom, "they take what they want."
The air in the bar felt heavier. The background chatter softened, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.
"The Iron Foot come down from the highlands, armed like kings, hungry like wolves. They ride in, laughing, drunk on blood and dust, and they make their demands. Gold. Food. Livestock. And when that's not enough, they take women too."
Jhon's grip on his drink tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"They don't just take them," the man continued, his voice hollow, "they break them. Strip them down in the middle of the Oasis, under the moon, and make sport of them like rabid dogs. The Oasis King—" he spat at the floor, "—that fat, gutless coward—he hands them over, smiling, because as long as he pays tribute, his people are left breathing. If you can call that living."
Jhon said nothing. He didn't need to. His silence was enough.
The stranger turned his face slightly, the candlelight deepening the scars across his cheek.
"The first time I saw it, I was fifteen. I watched my mother dragged into the sand. My sister was next. She was younger than me. A child."
Jhon swallowed, his stomach churning.
"She was supposed to be his," the man whispered. "Greythor Redbeard."
The name dripped like poison from his lips.
"The King of the Iron Foot. He only comes when his men are done feasting. He picks what's left—the prize of the damned. He was supposed to take my sister." The man exhaled sharply. "But he never showed."
Jhon frowned. "Never?"
The man shook his head.
"That's why I never struck during Gathering Time. It would be meaningless. The one who violated my sister? Dead before I could get to him. The others? They were just animals, nothing but rabid dogs. And Greythor—" his fists clenched, "he never came."
Jhon sat back, the weight of the words settling in his bones.
The Iron Foot would return in a matter of months. Their guard would be lowered, their minds clouded with drink and flesh.
It was their weakest time.
Jhon exhaled through his nose, looking back at the scarred man beside him.
"And if I do what you never could?" he asked.
The stranger's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Then, Captain..." his voice was dry, brittle, but there was something behind it. A flicker of something long-dead.
"I pray you make it count."
As the stranger stood to leave, he paused for a moment, his fingers gripping the edge of the bar with an unnatural force. Jhon could feel the weight of his words before they even left his lips, like a shadow stretching across the room.
The man's voice was lower now, almost a whisper, as if the words themselves carried a curse.
"You want to know what they do, boy? What they do when they come in, when the rains fall and the animals breed and the land smells of blood?"
Jhon nodded slowly, though he wasn't sure if he truly wanted to hear it.
"They take everything," the man began, his gaze distant. "The Iron Foot—they take everything. The men, they're cattle to be slaughtered. They strip them bare and leave them to die, beaten until they can't even scream. They don't care how long it takes, how many hours of agony. They just break them, one by one, until there's nothing left but a broken shell. They don't even let them die fast, no... no, they make it a slow burn, a show for everyone. For the villagers who can do nothing but watch. And if they try to run? They cut them down like dogs in the street, their bodies left for the vultures."
Jhon's stomach turned, his hands tightening into fists. He could feel the bile rise in his throat, but he forced himself to listen.
"And the women?" The stranger's voice trembled now, but not with fear—no, it was something darker. Something twisted, like the memory of a wound that never healed. "The women are worse. They're prizes. But they're not given to Greythor yet. No, no, they're used up first. Every last one. Every man in that gang gets their fill. They rip the women from their homes, drag them into the streets, and make them stand there for the villagers to see."
Jhon closed his eyes, the horror creeping through him like a poison, seeping into his blood.
"They don't care. They make them beg. They make them scream. They take everything they have, and then, when they're done... they pass them around, like meat."
The stranger's voice faltered, and for a moment, Jhon could see the pain in his eyes. The kind of pain that came from remembering something so vile it threatened to devour you from the inside.
"I've seen it," the stranger continued, his voice barely audible now, almost lost in the weight of his memories. "I've seen them tear women apart in front of their families, in front of their children, and the worst part? The worst part is... they enjoy it. They enjoy every second. And when they're done with them, they throw them away. They toss them aside like garbage, and the village... the village watches, helpless. Helpless as the kings of the Iron Foot feast on the ruins they've left."
The man's breath was ragged, his hand shaking as he grabbed his drink once more. But his eyes never left Jhon.
"Do you understand now?" he asked, the words thick with anguish. "Do you understand why I never took my revenge? Because what they did... it doesn't end with death. It doesn't end with pain. It gets worse. And I couldn't stop it."
Jhon didn't say anything for a long time. The silence between them was heavy, suffocating. He wanted to speak, to say something, but the words were stuck in his throat. How could anyone respond to that? How could anyone hear such a tale and not be consumed by it?
Finally, the stranger turned away, his footsteps slow and measured as he headed toward the door.
"Gathering time is the last chance, Jhon," he muttered over his shoulder. "The only chance. If you're going to do anything, do it then. But know this: it's not just blood you'll be spilling. It's something much worse. And when it's over... when you're left standing in the ashes, you'll be a part of it too."
With that, the door to the bar creaked shut, leaving Jhon in the suffocating silence, the weight of the man's words pressing down on him like the heat of the sun outside.
He didn't know what to do with this information. He didn't know how to carry the knowledge that, come the end of the month, the Iron Foot would come again. And this time... he wasn't sure if he could stop himself from becoming the very thing he despised.