Charles had been sitting on the leather sofa for nearly two hours, and patience was wearing thin. The cushions, which had seemed comfortable at first, now pressed into his back like a mockery. His stomach rumbled, and his throat was parched. The dry air of the guild hall didn't help, nor did the complete lack of hospitality.
If he didn't need the money, he would have walked out long ago—with a few choice words. But coin wasn't something he could afford to throw away.
Would it kill the man to offer water? Tea? A biscuit? Anything?
He glanced toward the front desk. Swen sat with the permanent expression of someone who despised both his job and everyone it brought into his life.
"Hey, Swen," Charles called finally, "can I get some water or something? I'm dying over here."
Swen looked up, face sour. You again, his eyes seemed to say.
After a long sigh, he lifted his voice. "Monnike! Bring this… gentleman… a mug of beer."
The pause on "gentleman" was sharp. Swen didn't see Charles as one. Not in his dusty cloak, sweat-streaked shirt, and boots still streaked with dried blood.
Charles caught the jab but shrugged. He'd kill for a gulp of anything cold.
Monnike, the errand girl, emerged. Maybe seven or eight, she wore a neat blue dress and carried the mug like a knight on a holy mission. She wobbled under its weight—absurdly adorable, like a squirrel hauling a watermelon.
"Here is your beer, sir," she said proudly.
Charles smiled and fished a few copper coins from his pouch. "For sweets."
Her eyes lit like lanterns. "Thank you, kind brother!" She bounced off, already dreaming of candied apples.
The beer was bitter and lukewarm, but he drank it like liquid gold. Survival was its own luxury.
---
When the first client arrived, Swen transformed. The bored clerk straightened, smoothed his robe, and donned a waxy smile. Gone was the man who barely looked at Charles; in his place was the perfect host, bowing and fawning over the arriving guest.
"Let me introduce you. This is the hunter who completed your request—Charles Mansour. And this charming lady is Lady Elara Loom, esteemed owner of the most fashionable boutique in the city."
Charles nodded. "Pleasure. Your hare pelts are here for inspection."
Lady Loom's gaze swept over him, assessing everything from his posture to his boots. Middle-aged, fair-skinned, graceful. Her gown of dark red and deep azure, gloves, and black hat could have stepped straight out of a fashion poster.
Charles laid a pelt across the table. She lifted it, checking color, texture, and imperfections.
"Color's rich. Texture, smooth. Properly bled, cleaned, stretched, and smoked. I assume you brought all ten?"
"Twelve," he replied. "I'd be happy if you bought the whole lot."
"Well," she smirked, "if the rest are this quality, I may not resist."
The deal was sealed for one gold and three silver. Charles weighed the coin in his hand, feeling the relief of earned reward. Not a fortune, but enough to cover supplies and a room without scraping by.
"Bring more like these directly to my store. We might work out a long-term arrangement," she added.
Charles grinned. "I'll keep that in mind, Lady Loom."
Once she left, Swen's fake smile vanished, leaving him silent again.
---
The Nagorros delivery came next. When the doors creaked open, a man entered like a storm cloud given flesh—tall, willowy, long white hair, and a beard nearly reaching his belt. His blue robe was embroidered, expensive yet wrinkled, sleeves ink-stained. His eyes darted as though late to a duel.
"Lord Ambrouse," Swen gushed.
"I had to come," the man interrupted, waving a scroll. "The Nagorros—the giant desert snake. I need it immediately. My research depends on it! Where is it?"
Charles didn't wait. "Deal."
The old man fumbled with his purse, eager to pay. Charles felt the satisfaction of another mission completed, knowing the risk he'd taken to handle the creature was worth more than the coin.
Swen tried to intervene. "Give the carrier my instructions. Pack it properly. Every inch preserved."
Charles chuckled. "That's the kind of customer I like."
---
The Clothing Guild district glittered with storefronts and perfumed air. Charles ducked into alleys, ignoring gold-threaded tunics. Most shops were overpriced—until he found Thorns and Thread.
The sign was simple: black letters on dark wood, elegant but unpretentious. Inside, the shop smelled of fresh cloth, beeswax polish, and faint lavender—homely, honest. Two women stood behind the counter, arranging folded garments with care.
Both were pale, red-eyed, wearing matching black gowns and corsets that looked as functional as they were beautiful. Their hair was sleek and controlled, one a raven black, the other dark chestnut with faint copper highlights. Their mirrored expressions hinted at more than ordinary shopkeepers—they radiated competence, awareness, and perhaps a little mischief.
"Welcome," the younger said, voice calm and measured. "Looking for something specific, or just browsing?"
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Something durable. Something that won't tear if I fall on my face—or fight someone."
The older woman stepped forward, graceful yet deliberate, her eyes appraising. "Then you need fabric that breathes and stretches without losing shape. Armor for the streets, not the battlefield, but close enough." She gestured to a rack of dark, lightweight tunics and trousers. "Try these. Movement is just as important as protection."
The younger woman, meanwhile, moved closer to Charles, picking up a jacket woven from fine, almost imperceptible chainmail threads. "And these," she said, holding it up so it caught the light. "Discreet, but strong. You'll look normal to the casual eye, but they'll think twice if they try to grab you."
Charles studied the fabrics. The weight, the texture, the way they draped over a body—it all spoke of skill and attention to detail. He nodded slowly, impressed. "Not cheap, I assume."
The older woman smiled faintly. "Not cheap. Worth it. You buy what lasts; not what breaks at the first scrape."
Charles grinned. "You sound like my kind of people."
The younger woman tilted her head. "Perhaps. But let's see if your kind appreciates the finer points." She handed him a tunic and some trousers. "Try them on. Movement. Comfort. Look like someone who belongs in the streets, not a parade."
Charles stepped into the changing alcove and returned a few minutes later. The fit was perfect: flexible, light, and protective. He turned, twirling slightly, and the women watched, their expressions unreadable but attentive.
"Not bad," he admitted. "I'll take these. And a few extras."
The older woman nodded. "Wise. Always better to have spares. Especially when the city has a habit of testing newcomers."
He laid down four gold and five silver. As the women packed his purchases for delivery, the younger spoke softly, leaning just enough for him to hear: "If you ever need advice on blending in… or standing out without drawing danger… we might help."
Charles raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "I'll remember that."
As he left the store, cape fluttering lightly behind him, he felt lighter. Not just because of the clothes, but because he'd glimpsed competence, cunning, and perhaps—if the rumors were true—more than a little danger hidden behind polite smiles.
---
But the street grew too quiet. Dust and stone smelled sharper. The hum of the city hushed. Shadows stretched too long.
Six men stepped into view. Four ahead, two behind. Their smiles were wide, cruel, eyes familiar. Recognition sparked in Charles' mind—trouble he couldn't ignore.
One stepped forward, voice smooth as oil. "I told you we'd remember you."
Charles's hand twitched toward his dagger. His gut clenched, a cold taste of blood on his tongue. Every instinct screamed: move—or die.