The sun was still high over Astavo, but for Sheng, the light had turned cold. As he stepped out from behind the marble pillar, his face was a mask of stone, but his eyes—usually sharp and calculating—looked strangely hollow. Behind him, Orthox followed like a beaten dog, his heavy boots dragging across the polished floor of the plaza.
Arthor and Elvric were waiting. The Knight had his arms crossed, his brow furrowed in a way that usually preceded a tactical briefing. Elvric was leaning against a fountain, tossing a small silver coin into the air and catching it with a flick of his wrist.
"Well?" Arthor asked, his voice low and steady. "Is the world ending, or is it just the dwarf's tab at the local tavern?"
Sheng didn't answer immediately. He walked past them toward the city gates, his pace fast—almost frantic. He needed to get away from the crowds. He could swear he could already hear the giggles of the flower girls and the hushed tones of the merchants. In his mind, every laugh was directed at him.
"Sheng? Talk to us," Elvric said, pushing off from the fountain. He tucked his coin away, his playful demeanor vanishing. He knew Sheng better than almost anyone. This wasn't the silence of a man planning a mission; this was the silence of a man who had been hit by a blow he didn't know how to parry.
They walked in a tense formation through the bustling streets. The "Holiday" was over. The jasmine-scented air now felt thick and suffocating. They passed a group of travelers coming from the direction of the mountain passes—merchants from Belvart. As they passed, Sheng heard a snippet of their conversation.
"...and then he stood on the table! Shouting for the Shadow-King's number!"
Sheng flinched. It was starting. The "Gossip Fire" had already reached the trade routes.
"Outside," Sheng muttered, his voice cracking slightly. "We talk outside the walls."
They didn't stop until the white marble of Astavo was a mile behind them, replaced by the dusty green of the olive groves. The road was quiet here, save for the occasional chirp of a cicada. Sheng finally halted, staring out at the horizon where the mountains of Belvart loomed like jagged teeth.
"Orthox," Sheng said, not turning around. "It's ok you can Tell them."
The dwarf stepped forward, looking at the Knight and the Mage. He cleared his throat, but the sound was more of a croak. "I... I made a mess of things. Sheng gave me a task. A simple one, he said. A 'challenge' to see if my feet were still light."
Arthor raised an eyebrow. "What kind of task? A scout mission? A retrieval?"
"A retrieval," Orthox whispered. "I was supposed to go to Belvart. I was supposed to get the Communication Gem number for the elf... Sylvia."
Elvric froze. A slow, mischievous grin began to spread across the Mage's face—not out of malice, but out of pure, unfiltered shock. "Sylvia? The 'Jewel of the Peaks' Sylvia? The one who has half the lords of the North writing poetry in their basements?"
"The very one," Orthox groaned. "But I didn't go to her. I went to Miran. I thought I'd be clever, you see? Use a middle-man. But Miran... she's got a tongue like a whip. She mocked me. She mocked the request. And I... I lost my temper."
Orthox proceeded to recount the disaster in agonizing detail. He described the tavern in Belvart—The Iron Cask—and how it was packed with adventurers and 'simps' vying for a glance from the elven beauties. He described how he climbed onto a table made of solid oak, his boots leaving muddy streaks on the wood.
"I shouted it for the whole world to hear," Orthox said, burying his face in his hands. "I told them Sheng the Assassin wanted her. I told them he was 'demanding' her attention. I made it sound like a royal decree from a man who usually hides in the rafters."
The silence that followed was heavy. Arthor, the humble and honorable knight, looked down at his boots, his shoulders shaking. He was trying desperately to maintain his dignity, but the image of the world's most feared assassin being outed as a "lovesick seeker" by a shouting dwarf was too much.
"And then," Orthox added, the final nail in the coffin, "Sylvia herself came out. She didn't whisper. She didn't send a note. She looked at me—right at me, in front of everyone—and said, 'Tell your shadow-friend... No.'"
Elvric let out a bark of laughter that he quickly tried to turn into a cough. "Oh, Sheng. My dear, legendary, king-slaying friend. You survived the War of Oblivion only to be taken down by a 'No' in a dwarven pub."
Sheng finally turned around. His face was flushed—a rare sight for a man who usually had the complexion of marble. "It wasn't supposed to be like that," he hissed. "It was a professional inquiry! I needed... I had my reasons!"
"Reasons," Arthor said, finally looking up. His eyes were watering from the effort of not laughing. "Sheng, you're a man of trust and reputation. You've built your life on being the man no one sees and no one knows. Now? You're the man every bard from here to the Great Sea is going to be writing songs about."
Sheng looked at the dwarf. Orthox looked so miserable that Sheng couldn't even find the energy to be angry. The damage was done. In the world of assassins, reputation was a shield. If people feared you, they stayed away. But if people laughed at you? The shield was shattered.
"It's a taboo," Sheng whispered, his voice full of dread. "A human asking an elf of her stature? Especially me? The rumors won't just be about a rejected crush. They'll say I've lost my edge. They'll say I'm compromised."
"Or," Elvric said, stepping forward and clapping Sheng on the back, "they'll just say you have very, very poor taste in messengers. Look at the bright side, Sheng—at least they didn't throw a chair at him."
"Actually," Orthox muttered, "someone did. But I ducked."
Sheng closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. The trio stood on the dusty road, the golden sun of their holiday now feeling like a spotlight on their failure.
"We need to move," Sheng said, his professional instincts finally kicking back in through the embarrassment. "If the rumors are traveling this fast, we need to get to Belvart ourselves. We need to see how bad the fire is before the whole kingdom starts smelling the smoke."
"To Belvart then," Arthor agreed, his voice regaining its command. "But Sheng? Next time you want a lady's number... maybe send the Mage. He's much better at talking than the Dwarf is at shouting."