The Reaper's Hall squatted at the edge of the outer ring. It wasn't really a hall so much as an old barracks converted into a tavern, its walls blackened by decades of smoke and laughter that never quite reached the eyes. The sign above the door was a cracked iron mask, one eye gouged out, a joke, perhaps, or a warning.
Lam stepped inside.
The noise hit first: tankards clashing, dice rattling on wood, the thick smell of oil, sweat, and cheap spirits. Off-duty Razors filled the place, half-soldiers, half-mercenaries, all dangerous when sober and unbearable when drunk. Their laughter was jagged, like knives scraping plates. A bard in the corner strummed a cracked lute, the tune drowned under the roar of men who preferred their own stories.
He kept his hood low and his movements measured. A stranger in this district drew questions, but a silent one drew notice. He took a seat at a corner table, near enough to hear, far enough to see.
"Fourteen men!" one Razor bellowed, slamming his cup down. His companions groaned, half from disbelief, half from habit. "Fourteen! And we had him trussed like a pig."
"You've said fourteen so many times I'm startin' to think you can't count past it," another jeered.
The first man puffed his chest, face ruddy from ale. "Cursed one, mind you. Not some back-alley cutpurse. Glowed like a forge when he bled. Took half the watch to pin him. Fourteen's a blessing number, you ungrateful bastards."
Laughter broke like glass around the table.
Lam listened. A Marked captured alive was rare, more so if it took only fourteen Razors; either the man was weak for a marked or he was more injured than they knew. He made a note of it, tracing the words like etchings in his mind.
One of the drinkers, older and less loud, caught his eye. The man's armor was dented but cared for, a dozen small etchings along the plates marking battles won or survived. He looked the sort who'd fought long enough to find pride in scars instead of kills. He returned Lam's glance with a nod that could have meant greeting or challenge.
Lam raised two fingers to the barkeep. Two drinks arrived moments later, one set before the Razor.
"To your fourteen," Lam said, voice easy, practiced calm. "A feat worth a drink."
The man grinned, teeth yellowed but honest. "Aye, cheers to that." They clinked cups. "Name's Rorren. You're not from here."
"Passing through," Lam said. He let his tone drift between soldier and merchant. "Looking for work. Heard the Reapers kept good company."
"Company? We keep the best, if you like the smell of blood and piss." Rorren barked a laugh and took a long pull from his cup. "You fight?"
"Enough to know when not to," Lam replied, and that seemed to amuse the man.
They traded half-truths as the night grew heavier. Rorren drank, loosening in the way soldiers do when they mistake stillness for safety. The talk turned, as it always did, to the captured Cursed One.
"Poor bastard's in the garrison now," Rorren said, slurring only slightly. "Margrave's orders, he'll be brought before him when he returns. Should be tomorrow."
Lam feigned interest rather than hunger. "Alive still?"
"Only the Margrave can safely handle that situation," Rorren squinted, as if trying to recall a detail. "They said this one looked near human, 'cept for the eyes. Always the eyes. Say he had a mark just above the brow."
Lam was silent for a moment, analysing that nothing was being said about the halo, which means they either thought it was part of the mark or, more likely, it was too insignificant to pick out, which meant the man in question was below senior Glaive.
Lam offered a small, humorless smile. "Maybe he wasn't much of a cursed one at all."
Rorren laughed, clapping Lam on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his cup. "You've a golden tongue! That's what I said. Maybe just a sick fool with bad luck. Still—" he leaned closer, breath thick with ale "—we had to take his headgear off, right? And underneath, the bastard smiled. Even with half his ribs showing."
As he laughed again, Lam's right hand had already moved, reflexive—a dagger, unsheathed beneath the table, a ghost of silver in the dim. The muscle memory of violence flared and cooled. No threat. He slid it back into place before the man even noticed.
"You don't seem to be drinking much, for a man in a tavern," The older man said as he glanced towards Lam.
"A drunk weapon," Lam murmured, mostly to himself, "is an unreliable one."
Rorren guffawed, misunderstanding entirely. "Ah! Planning to use your weapon tonight, are you? With the ladies?" He elbowed Lam and nearly spilled his drink.
Lam blinked once. Ladies? It took a second for the meaning to catch up to the words. He filed the reaction away, the automatic assumption that the night's battles involved women. Either Razors had a strange sense of humor, or it hinted at something more literal. Perhaps both.
"In any case, I'd rather always be at my sharpest," Lam said dryly.
The Razor roared with laughter. "You're a cold one, but gods, you've got wit. Golden sense of humour!"
At that moment, another drunk stumbled past, catching their table with his hip. The tankards rocked, threatening to spill. Before it could, Lam's hand shot out, steadying both drinks and the man's arm in a single motion.
"Careful," Lam said evenly. "A few moments of carelessness can lead to amputation."
The drunk paled, muttered an apology, and staggered off. Rorren watched, wide-eyed, then burst into laughter again, slapping the table.
"You're a grim bastard, friend. I like you. Name again?"
"Lam," he said after a pause. "Just Lam."
Rorren repeated it, testing the sound. "Lam, then. You ever looking for coin, the Reapers' Hall always has work. There's talk the Margrave's garrison might need a few good blades tomorrow." He winked. "Maybe you'll get a look at our prize yourself."
Lam raised his cup in silent thanks. Inside, the gears of thought turned. The garrison. Tomorrow. A day's ride. It fit too neatly to ignore.
Outside, rain began to fall, hissing against the warm stone. Lam stayed until Rorren slumped into sleep, then rose without sound and left the tavern. The laughter behind him faded into the wet dark. The world outside smelled cleaner, colder. He exhaled, letting the night air strip away the taste of ale and false camaraderie.
Tomorrow, then.