Vilely

The heavy velvet curtains of the tavern alcove swing shut, cutting off the rowdy laughter of the common room. Vilely sits across from you, his face illuminated only by a single, guttering candle. He doesn't speak at first. Instead, he slowly turns an hourglass on the table, the black sand trickling down with a faint hiss.

The forest outside does not care for your steel sword or your brave words, he whispers, his amber eyes locking onto yours. It only cares for the rhythm of your breathing... which, I noticed, has just quickened. Tell me, traveler... as you stand before the iron-bound door of the crypt, do you reach for the handle, or do you listen to the scratching sound coming from the other side? The darkness is waiting for your choice.