"Fine," Hanzo whispered, his voice raspy from years of forced silence. "No more shadows."
As the sun rose, a young girl approached him. She was carrying a flyer for a quest to slay a Necromancer in the Whispering Woods—a job Alaric’s party had already refused because it was "too messy" and "bad for their image." "Are you a hero?" she asked. "Fine," Hanzo whispered, his voice raspy from years
Hanzo stood in the dusty street of the capital, his black scarf fluttering. For ten years, he had been the unseen hand: the one who disarmed the traps before the Paladin stepped on them, the one who poisoned the Wyvern’s meat so the Mage’s fireball actually looked lethal. " Hanzo whispered