The silver crescent of the moon loomed over the city of Gutard, its eternal brilliance piercing through the smog of the chimneys to cast a faint, luminous white glow over the cobblestones. In the dead of night, the silence was absolute—until it wasn't.
The rhythmic thud-click of leather boots on slate tiles broke the quiet. A hooded figure, clad in blackened light armor that seemed to swallow the moonlight, blurred across the rooftops. This was Sheng. He moved not like a man, but like a shadow cast by a passing cloud, leaping across the gaps between buildings with practiced, lethal grace.
As he reached the edge of the residential district, Sheng dropped from a low eave, his boots hitting the pavement with barely a whisper. He moved with urgent speed, ghosting past shuttered windows and narrowed alleys. He took a sharp, aggressive turn around a stone corner—and slammed into a wall of solid muscle and iron.
The impact was like hitting a mountain. Sheng recoiled, his hand instinctively flying to the hilt of his blade. Opposite him, a short, broad-shouldered figure with a burly face buried under a magnificent, braided beard skidded back, a heavy axe clearing its leather loop in a heartbeat.
For a breathless second, the alley was charged with the threat of death. Blade met lamplight; axe met shadow. But as their eyes locked, the murderous tension snapped. The assassin's cold gaze softened, and the dwarf's fierce scowl crumpled into a grin. Simultaneously, they halted their strikes, the steel sliding back into their sheaths with a synchronized clink.
"Sheng, you shadow-stalking rascal!" the dwarf boomed, his voice like grinding gravel.
"Orthox," Sheng breathed, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. "I nearly took your head."
"And you'd have broken your sword trying!" Orthox let out a boisterous laugh, stepping forward to catch Sheng in a bone-crushing handshake that rattled the assassin's ribs.
They stood there for a moment, two ghosts of the War of Oblivion standing in the mud of a city that had forgotten the blood they spilled. Sheng's eyes, however, never stopped moving, scanning the dark windows above. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a cautious murmur.
"The walls in Gutard have ears, and the shadows have teeth, old friend. Let us find somewhere the beer is cold and the listeners are few."
Orthox nodded, his expression turning sober. "I know a hole-in-the-wall tavern three streets over. The owner is deaf, and the ale is strong enough to peel the paint off a shield."
They retreated into the amber glow of a nearby tavern, the only establishment still breathing in the sleeping city. Over foaming mugs of dark stout, the world felt smaller and safer. Orthox spoke with the thunderous enthusiasm of a man who had spent too much time alone, recounting his travels through the mountain passes and the fine smithing work he'd done in the dwarven halls. Sheng listened intently, offering only sparse details of his own life—just enough to let his friend know he was still the same professional, still surviving the peace as well as he had the war.
As the night began to bleed into the early grays of morning, Sheng set his mug down with a deliberate sound.
"Orthox," Sheng started, his voice slipping into a tone of formal challenge. "I've spent the last few years refining my craft. I want to see if you've grown soft in your 'retirement.' I have a task—perhaps a challenge is a better word. Are you still the dwarf who can get into places no one else can?"
Orthox's eyes beamed with a competitive fire. He leaned across the scarred wooden table, his thick fingers gripping the edge. "Try me, lad. There isn't a lock I can't pick or a secret I can't dig up."
Sheng leaned in, his hood shadowing his face as he whispered the details into Orthox's ear.
Orthox sprang from his seat, nearly knocking his stool over. A wide, confident grin split his beard. "A challenge indeed! I'll get it done as fast as my short legs can carry me. Who knows? The next time we meet, I might just have that prize in my pocket. Rest assured, Sheng, the task is as good as done."
They spent the final hour of the night in an oddly heartwarming conversation, the kind only veterans of a terrible war can share. When the first rays of the sun finally crested the horizon, turning the soot-stained city into a kingdom of shimmering gold, they emerged from the tavern.
At the crossroads, they exchanged a final nod. The morning light caught the metal of their gear, a brief reminder of their glory days, before they turned and headed toward their separate destinies.