The alley reeked of stale ale, spilled wine, and the general grime of a city that cared little for its forgotten corners. Rain had fallen earlier, leaving the cobblestones slick and reflecting the dim light of a single flickering lantern hanging precariously above. The air was thick with the boisterous laughter and drunken shouts of a group of young men, their voices echoing off the brick walls.

  They stumbled into the alley, a pack of five, their faces flushed with drink and excitement. They were barely more than boys, really, on the cusp of manhood, eager to prove themselves, to push the boundaries of acceptable behavior. Tonight, their target was a stooped figure huddled in the shadows near an overflowing bin – Old Man Thistlewood, a hedge wizard known for his dubious potions and even more dubious charms.

  Thistlewood wasn’t bothering anyone. He was simply trying to find a sheltered spot to sleep off the effects of a cheap bottle of wine he’d managed to acquire. He was old, frail, and his magic, always more practical than powerful, was waning with age. He posed no threat to anyone.

  But to the drunken youths, he was an easy target, a source of amusement, a convenient outlet for their pent-up energy.

  “Look what we have here,” one of them slurred, nudging Thistlewood with his foot. “A real live wizard.”

  Thistlewood groaned, blinking his bleary eyes. He recognized the group; they were regulars at the local tavern, known for their boisterous behavior and penchant for trouble. He tried to ignore them, hoping they would simply move on.

  But they weren’t going to move on. They were looking for entertainment, and Thistlewood was it.

  “Hey, old man,” another one said, grabbing Thistlewood’s hat and tossing it to another member of the group. “Show us some magic.”

  Thistlewood mumbled something unintelligible, trying to pull his cloak tighter around him. He just wanted to be left alone.

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  The youths began to circle him, their laughter growing louder, more menacing. They pushed him, shoved him, poking him with their fingers. Thistlewood tried to shield himself, his old bones aching, his head throbbing.

  The playful jostling quickly escalated. One of the youths shoved Thistlewood hard, sending him stumbling against the brick wall. He hit his head with a sickening thud, a sharp pain shooting through his skull.

  He cried out in pain, a weak, pathetic sound that only fueled the youths’ drunken frenzy. They started to punch him, kick him, their blows landing on his frail body with brutal force.

  Thistlewood crumpled to the ground, his body wracked with pain. He tried to curl up into a ball, to protect himself, but there was nowhere to hide. The blows kept coming, raining down on him relentlessly.

  The youths were caught up in a frenzy, their drunken revelry turning into a brutal assault. They weren’t thinking, weren’t considering the consequences of their actions. They were simply driven by a primal urge, a need to inflict pain, to assert their dominance.

  Thistlewood’s cries grew weaker and weaker, until they were nothing more than faint whimpers. His body lay still on the cold cobblestones, his life slowly ebbing away.

  Finally, as if a spell had been broken, the youths’ drunken haze began to dissipate. They looked down at Thistlewood’s motionless form, their faces slowly draining of color. The laughter had stopped, replaced by a heavy silence.

  They realized what they had done. They had gone too far.

  Panic seized them. They scattered, running in different directions, leaving Thistlewood’s broken body lying in the alleyway, a victim of their drunken, senseless violence. The single flickering lantern cast long, distorted shadows across the scene, a silent witness to the tragic end of the old hedge wizard. The only sound was the drip, drip, drip of the rain, washing away the blood, washing away the evidence, but unable to wash away the terrible deed that had been done.