The rain had started again, a soft hissing against the warm stone of the Reaper's Hall. From the shadowed arch of an alley opposite, she watched him emerge. The man called Lam. His movements were unhurried, a stark contrast to the coiled readiness she had sensed even through the tavern's grimy window. He seemed entirely unaware, just another stranger melting into the wet dark.
She drew the heavy cloak tighter. Its enchantment was a familiar comfort, a constant, faint whisper against the world that told it that it was unseen, a part of the shadows she walked in. It was an Intonement of the highest quality, and it had never failed her.
Lam appeared to walk without a care, his path taking him across a street where the last of the evening's merchants, two men, were haggling loudly with a woman over a price. The brief flare of a street lantern illuminated him, and then he was gone again, swallowed by the gloom.
She followed, her own steps silent on the slick cobblestones. Now she was adjacent to him, hidden behind the skeletal frames of emptied market stalls. He was an easy quarry, his pace steady, his head never turning.
She smiled under the hood. He hadn't noticed. Good.
She was close now, close enough to see how the water glistened on the dark leather of his coat, how his hand never strayed far from the knife at his belt. Careful, she thought. Methodical. Dangerous, perhaps, but unaware.
He rounded a corner into a narrower, darker lane, and she followed, her confidence absolute.
The world exploded into a blur of violence. One moment she was a predator, the next she was prey. An iron grip seized her cloak, pulling her forward with impossible speed. Her feet left the ground as she was spun and slammed against a cold, damp brick wall. The impact drove a sharp gasp from her lungs, a sound of pure shock. Before the echo of it died, cold steel kissed her throat, breaking the skin instantly.
She froze, every muscle screaming. A knife, held in a grip of terrifying stillness, was pressed to her neck. She could feel the slow, warm trickle of her own blood. In the sliver of moonlight that pierced the alley, she saw him. Young, deep brown eyes and a sharp, very handsome face that belied the danger he was.
In the same light, Lam observed her, auburn hair, plastered to her forehead by the rain, framed a face of pale shock. Dark green eyes were wide with a fear she couldn't conceal, and a necklace around her neck, a silver symbol he didn't recognize, resting just above two swells, between which could be hiding a small stiletto or knife. She was young, barely a woman.
"Your family's men will have no idea I was the one who killed you here," his voice was low, a calm, chilling thing in the dark. "A fact you have yourself to thank for. Why then, should I not?"
The girl's fear was a tangible thing. An audible gulp she swallowed only made a few more drops of blood drip down her neck. "This...isn't the first time I've done this," she said, her voice trembling but trying for strength. "They'll know it was someone who caught my interest, and that could lead to you."
The reasoning was weak, full of holes, and they both knew it. He didn't even dignify it with a response. "Why were you following me?"
His silence was more unnerving than the threat. Gaining a sliver of courage, she finally looked at his face properly. So young. And so handsome, in a severe, sharp-edged way. She shook her head, forcing the stray thought away. "You looked to be dangerous," she said, her voice steadier now. "A truth now proven, given how you managed to sense and apprehend me despite my cloak."
"You are not one of the Margrave's men," he stated, not as a question, but as a fact. "You come from a high station to afford this cloak, but not enough that you can escape the desperation that has led you to whatever you are attempting here. And it's clearly not sanctioned, or you would have Razors apprehend me for questioning. So I'll ask again, what does a girl from the Margrave's manor want with me?" Her eyes widened at how precisely she had been read.
The blade dug a bit deeper, a sharp promise of pain. The last of her composure crumbled. "Help," she sighed, the word a wisp of defeat. "I need help. There's a task that needs someone unknown but skilled enough to execute it."
He regarded her for a moment longer, his eyes impassive. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the knife was gone. He took a step back. "I am not a mercenary for hire," Lam answered her, his tone final. "And even if I were, you would likely not be able to afford my services. Be careful following strange men into dark corners next time."
She flushed red, a mixture of shame and indignation, and looked down at the cobblestones. Before she could find the words to argue her case, to plead, he was gone. He simply vanished back into the darkness, leaving her alone in the silent, dripping alley.
She had been certain of her own skill. Certain of her cloak. Certain of her plan. But that man—he had seen her, read her, undressed her mind with nothing but a glance and reason sharper than his knife.
He was right. She was desperate for help. And as she raised a trembling hand to her bleeding neck, she knew she would have to try again. He might not be a sellsword, but every man had a price, and she had seen from what she had just seen, he was more than perfect for what she needed him for. She had to find out the motivations of this young, dangerous... and very good-looking stranger.