The last vestiges of daylight bled from the sky, casting long, distorted shadows across the weathered floorboards of the Raven's Rest tavern. Ethan hunched over his drink, lost in the amber depths that glowed like dying embers in the guttering candlelight. The air hung heavy with wood smoke and the acrid tang of cheap ale, a miasma that cloaked the room in a hazy shroud.

Ellie, he thought, his heart constricting. My love, my light.

He raised the glass to his lips, welcoming the familiar burn as it scorched its way down his throat. The pain was an old friend now, a constant companion to the hollow ache that had taken residence in his chest since that fateful night.

How long has it been? Ethan mused, his eyes unfocused. A year? A lifetime? Time had lost all meaning in the wake of his loss.

The tavern's hearth crackled, and unbidden, the memories surged forth like vengeful spirits. Smoke filled his nostrils, screams echoed in his ears, and phantom heat licked at his skin. Ethan's knuckles whitened as he gripped his mug, willing the images away.

"No," he whispered hoarsely. "Not again."

But the ghosts of the past were relentless. A woman's shriek - was it memory or present reality? - sent a fresh wave of despair crashing over him. Ethan found himself as empty as the mug before him.

He cast his gaze about the room, seeking distraction. The serving girl was nowhere to be seen, and the patrons... Ethan's lips curled in a mirthless smile. Even with his eyes closed, he could map their sorrows.

There, by the window, sat a merchant whose jovial laugh barely masked the desperation in his eyes. In the corner, a soldier nursed his ale and his wounds - some visible, others hidden deep within. Their silent plays of grief were etched into Ethan's mind, offering no respite from his own torment.

If only I could be as blind as they are, he thought bitterly. But an actor without a stage is still an actor, cursed to see the performances that others miss.

His wandering gaze settled on Jake, the tavern's owner and barkeep. The usually stoic man's hands trembled slightly as he polished a bottle of whiskey, his brow furrowed with unspoken worry. As if sensing Ethan's scrutiny, Jake's eyes flicked up, meeting his gaze. With a barely perceptible nod, the barkeep approached, pouring a generous measure into Ethan's empty mug.

"On the house," Jake murmured, his gruff voice carrying an unexpected note of kindness. "Looked like you could use a top-up."

A ghost of a smile touched Ethan's lips. "Thank you," he said softly, then leaned in, lowering his voice. "What's troubling you, Jake? You seem... on edge."

Jake's eyes darted nervously around the room before he bent closer, his whisper barely audible over the tavern's ambient noise. "There's witch hunters in the area. Word is, they're looking for a girl. Shy. Intelligent."

Ice flooded Ethan's veins, Ellie's final screams echoing in his mind. The specter of the Inquisition, never far from his thoughts, loomed large once more. From the fear etched on Jake's face, Ethan could guess their likely target.

"Your Mary?" he breathed, dreading the answer.

Before Jake could respond, the tavern door flew open with a thunderous crack that silenced every voice in the room. A gust of chill air swept in, extinguishing candles and carrying with it the unmistakable scent of impending doom.

A pall of silence fell over the tavern, thick as a burial shroud. The once-boisterous chatter died on patrons' lips, replaced by a collective gasp that seemed to suck the very warmth from the air. Two figures materialized from the storm beyond, their dark cloaks billowing like the wings of fallen angels. Mud caked their boots, and a cold aura clung to them, an almost palpable miasma of dread.

The taller one, a veritable mountain of a man with eyes like chips of winter ice, surveyed the room. His gaze, predatory and calculating, seemed to strip away all pretense, leaving each soul bare and trembling. Beside him stood a wiry man, lips curled in a perpetual sneer as he toyed with a wicked-looking dagger. The blade caught the firelight, its edge promising swift and merciless violence.

But it was the third figure that sent ice coursing through Ethan's veins. Cloaked entirely in shadow, its face concealed behind a silver mask that reflected the guttering candlelight in mesmerizing, nightmarish patterns. It moved with an otherworldly grace, materializing through the back door as if conjured from the very darkness itself.

Dear God, Ethan thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. What manner of unholy trinity is this?

Every entrance to the tavern now framed an omen of doom, and a cold certainty settled in the pit of Ethan's stomach. This night would not end in the comforting oblivion of drink, but in blood and fire.

"We seek the witch." The tall man's voice grated across the silence, a rusted blade scraping bone. "Bring her to us, and your suffering will be... minimal."

The tavern, so recently alive with revelry, now bore a striking resemblance to a tomb. A woman in the corner clutched her child to her breast, as if her embrace alone could ward off evil. The burly man who had been regaling all with bawdy songs mere moments ago seemed to shrink into himself, his face a mask of primal fear.

At the word "witch," Ethan's world tilted sickeningly. In an instant, he was transported back to that hellish night a year past. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils, the roar of flames deafened him, and Ellie's screams of innocence pierced his soul anew. But this time, the memory didn't drown him in despair. Instead, it ignited a fierce, white-hot anger that burned away the fog of alcohol and hopelessness that had shrouded his mind for so long.

Never again, he vowed silently. I will not stand idle while innocents burn.

Jake's face had drained of all color, his complexion now matching the froth on a freshly poured ale. "There are no witches here, sir," he managed, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "Just... just honest folk having a drink."

The shorter man's laughter was a cruel, mirthless sound that sent shivers racing down Ethan's spine. "Lying already? Tsk, tsk. How disappointing." His eyes, glittering with malice, fixed on Jake. "Why don't you fetch that pretty daughter of yours? Unless, of course, you'd prefer to join her on the pyre?"

Ethan's mind raced, possibilities and consequences flashing through his thoughts like summer lightning. He saw the naked fear in Jake's eyes, the anguish of a father torn between love and self-preservation. In that agonized gaze, Ethan saw a reflection of himself from a year ago - paralyzed by terror as Ellie burned.

No, he thought, resolve hardening like steel in his core. This time will be different. This time, I stand against the darkness.

His grip tightened on the pewter mug, the soft metal warping beneath his fingers. For a moment, the urge to lash out, to fight, nearly overwhelmed him. But reason, that most fragile of flowers in the garden of fear, somehow prevailed. Violence would solve nothing, might even play directly into their hands. He could almost hear their sneering accusations: "See how he's possessed? Bewitched by his witch-daughter!"

Ethan forced himself to think, to plan. Mary was likely upstairs, torn between terror and loyalty to her father. She wouldn't flee, not while Jake faced this nightmare. Sooner or later, she'd come down, walking straight into the maw of danger.

Jake's desperate eyes met Ethan's, and a silent understanding passed between them. To fight was to ensure Mary's death. Flight was the only option - but how?

We need a diversion, Ethan realized. And I'm the only one who can provide it.

A bitter laugh threatened to bubble up from his chest as he recalled his brother's words. "You should return to acting, Ethan. It was always your calling." How right he had been, though surely not in this context. Now, Ethan was about to give the performance of his life, with the dingy tavern as his stage and a drunken fool as his role.

With exaggerated clumsiness that was only partly feigned, Ethan lurched to his feet. His chair clattered to the floor with a sound like breaking bones in the tense silence. All eyes turned to him as he swayed, fumbling with his mug as if it were the only real thing in a world gone mad.

"I... gotta... y'know," he slurred, stumbling towards Jake. "Where's the... the thing?"

Jake's face was a study in conflicting emotions - concern, confusion, and the faintest glimmer of desperate hope. He steadied Ethan with a trembling hand. "Out back," he muttered tensely.

"Thanks, mate," Ethan croaked, weaving an intricate dance of inebriated gratitude. Every stumble, every unfocused blink was a carefully choreographed step in this desperate charade. As he passed Jake, he leaned in close, his whisper barely stirring the air. "Take Mary. I'll handle them."

In Jake's eyes, Ethan saw a flicker of understanding kindle, then blaze into silent, fervent gratitude. It was enough. Whatever came next, Ethan knew he was no longer a bystander in this dark pageant of cruelty and fear. He was an actor once more, and the stakes had never been higher.

"See!" the guard bellowed, his voice dripping with disdain. "This is the fetid underbelly these taverns breed - degenerates and heretics! Can't even hold their liquor!"

Ethan weaved towards the back door, grunting as if barely registering the insult. His heart nearly stopped as he beheld the figure standing there - a lone guard, silent and imposing in a silver inquisitor's mask. The brutal design of twisted metal, with frayed edges near the mouth, spoke of unspeakable acts. Hollow eyes peered through, a gaze designed to inspire terror, to compel confessions, to force even the most stalwart soul to avert their eyes or surrender to whatever twisted fate awaited them.

Yet, as their eyes met through those soulless sockets, a jolt of recognition shot through Ethan, powerful and unsettling. Who is this man? The feeling gnawed at him like a starving rat, but the urgency of the moment and his feigned inebriation pushed the thought aside.

This is where it begins, Ethan thought, steeling himself. This guard, this instrument of fear, is the key to my desperate plan.

With a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening, Ethan stumbled into the guard, feigning a clumsy collision. The leather-clad figure responded with a brutal shove that spoke volumes of barely contained violence.

"Watch it, you drunk fool!" the other guards roared from across the room. "Next time it'll be your head!"

Clutching his nearly empty mug, Ethan stammered an apology, his words slurred and pathetic. "I-I'm terribly sorry, sir. Didn't see you there in the shadows." He attempted a half-bow, a parody of deference, while 'accidentally' letting the mug slip from his grasp. The remaining ale splashed onto the guard's boots, the liquid gleaming like fresh blood in the firelight.

A tense silence fell over the tavern, thick enough to choke on. Ethan's heart thundered in his chest as he awaited the guard's reaction. Through the mask's hollow socket, he caught a flicker of... something. Annoyance? Grudging respect? The uncertainty was maddening.

Seizing the moment, Ethan gasped dramatically, his eyes wide with feigned terror. "I am sorry! Something... compelled me. Like magic... like someone here cast a spell on me!" A ripple of unease spread through the crowd like a poison.

Stumbling away from the bar, Ethan's wild gaze settled on a burly man near the fireplace. With an exaggerated sway, he pointed an accusing finger. "You!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with apparent fear and rage. "You're the witch they're after! I saw you muttering a spell!"

"What! You addled fool, I'm no witch!" The burly man stood abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor like the toll of a funeral bell.

Panic, that most contagious of diseases, swept through the tavern. Patrons edged away from the accused, while the guards exchanged uncertain glances, their earlier confidence wavering.

A reedy voice called out from the shadows, "If not him, then it's old Marge! Always muttering to herself!"

"How dare you!" Marge shrieked, her face contorted with indignation. "If anyone's a witch, it's that shifty-eyed Cooper! Always sneaking about at odd hours!"

Accusations flew thick and fast, years of petty grievances and coincidental suspicions erupting like pus from a lanced boil. Ethan watched the unfolding chaos with grim satisfaction, his eyes darting to Jake, who was slowly making his way upstairs, every step a silent prayer.

The tension snapped like a hangman's rope as the first fist flew. In moments, the tavern erupted into a full-scale brawl. Chairs toppled like felled trees, mugs shattered like delicate dreams, and bodies collided in the confined space with sickening thuds.

Amidst the maelstrom, Ethan spotted Jake slipping out the back door, a cloaked figure at his side. Relief flooded him, quickly followed by iron resolve. He had to buy them more time, whatever the cost.

Ethan plunged into the fray, his stage combat experience serving him well. He dodged and weaved like a wraith in a storm, but the alcohol in his system made his movements sluggish. Blows he should have avoided found their mark, each impact jarring his bones and threatening to shatter his fragile ruse.

The tavern dissolved into a hellish tableau of violence. Fear-laced sweat, spilled ale, and the metallic tang of blood permeated the air. Ethan navigated the chaos, glass crunching underfoot like brittle bones, as he fought to keep the guards distracted from the back door.

An elbow to his jaw filled his mouth with blood, the taste of copper overwhelming his senses. Pain exploded in his ribs from another blow, but he pushed through, managing to land a solid hit on the tall guard's chin. The satisfaction was fleeting, lost in the sea of agony that threatened to drag him under.

Through the mayhem, Ethan noticed the masked inquisitor standing unnaturally still, slowly surveying the scene like Death himself choosing his next victim. That sense of eerie familiarity continued to nag at Ethan, but he forced the feeling aside, focusing on survival with single-minded intensity.

Ethan's foot slipped on spilled ale as he grappled with a patron, the world tilting sickeningly. In that moment of vulnerability, a flash of movement caught his eye. Pain exploded across his skull, and reality fractured like a shattered mirror.

As consciousness began to fade, a grim satisfaction settled over him like a funeral shroud.

Tonight, he hadn't been a bystander - he had fought against the encroaching darkness. His sacrifice wouldn't be in vain. Through blurring vision, he saw the tavern's back door swing shut. Jake and Mary were safe, for now. That knowledge was a balm to his battered soul.

With that final, comforting thought, Ethan slipped into the welcoming arms of oblivion. The cacophony of the brawl faded to a distant roar as the tavern floor rushed up to meet him. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the masked inquisitor looming over his prone form, an unreadable, terrible presence in the chaos.

Ellie, he thought, as consciousness slipped away. I hope I've made you proud.