Gullyman's fear carried me like a bloodhound following a scent through Astar - down and down roads I wasn't familiar with, but that wasn't a surprise as it was still kind of my first visit to the city.
The air grew rank, and the stone beneath my bare feet got damp.
It felt like we were in places you wouldn't want to be even in daylight and would disappear into at night.
Rusting iron gates loomed ahead, decorated with scraps of paper and old blood. Beneath an archway, a painted sign read:
STORNOWAY & SON
Discretion - Logistics - No Refunds
It already seemed kind of scummy.
Gullyman hesitated, so I nudged the dagger harder into his ribs.
We passed rows of crates stacked like crooked tombstones.
There were a few crates, and some of them smelled strange.
Weapons? Contraband? Bodies?
I chose all of the above.
A door creaked open ahead, and a voice dripped smugness across the stones.
"Well, well. Look what crawled home."
Stornoway wasn't tall. He was a slouchy man with a big grin and teeth so white they seemed made of porcelain, except for a single gold tooth.
He clapped slowly, mock applause.
"Gullyman Wasserung - don't be surprised, I know your name well, like those of your comrades. I trusted you with a simple job: kill the king. I assume you've done it?"
He finally noticed me - a dark blot against his dim warehouse.
His smile faded somewhat, but it was still one, as if he had no other expression to give his face.
"Uh, what is that?"
I stepped forward - just enough for the shadows to writhe in anticipation.
His confidence flickered.
"…What are you?"
Perfect timing.
"I am a child of Entropy," I said, my voice a whisper wrapped in menace. "And you are about to learn humility."
His mask tilted, measuring the odds. Then he smirked - a real smile, the kind of smirk a man has when he thinks he's holding all the cards.
"So… you think you're divine?" he asked, businesslike.
A flick of his wrist.
Half a dozen guards, men and women, jumped out of the crates - thugs dressed in makeshift armor, some with clubs, others with blades.
"They will teach you a lesson in mortality," Stornoway said smoothly.
The thugs advanced. Slow. Confident. They didn't wear the dark armor, nor did they seem especially competent. A dozen people was still a hurdle, but if they weren't super-able, they'd pose no challenge.
And then I moved, a ghost of violence.
All of them down. A heartbeat hadn't fully passed.
Stornoway stumbled back, mask cracking straight through the porcelain smile.
"You…" his voice trembled, "you're not- that's not human-"
"Entropy cares little for shape," I said. "Only for results."
He tried to run. Naturally.
I was beside him before he took the second step - a small hand catching his collar, jerking him backward.
He hit the ground gasping.
Kneeling on his chest, I pressed the dagger to his mouth - so close I almost scraped his porcelain.
"Who ordered the king dead?" I demanded.
He convulsed, eyes wide with panic. "I- I don't know! I swear-" His voice was breath and sand.
He was better at lying, but if someone, a broker especially, tells you that he doesn't know, he knows.
"Who benefits?" I rasped. "Who stands to gain if Deimos falls?"
He stammered, words tumbling out in a frantic spill. "There are patrons… there are names… they- they pay through ledgers, through shell accounts, through dead drops. I don't see faces. I never see faces."
That was useless. I leaned in, colder than before. "Names. A name. Just one, and I'll let you go."
He licked his lips, searching for a story his throat would tolerate.
"It's - oh, damn it all," he said, realizing there was no way out. "It's Lord Woodborn." The name scraped out of him like a confession forced through a bad tooth. "High House Woodborn. He wants the king and his line gone. He's close to the throne, a cousin to Amoon. If he were king. He's been buying favors for months."
Woodborn? Never heard the name before. But the motive was obvious: power.
Stornoway's eyes darted. "He uses brokers - me, men like me. I move things. I move men. I collect debts. I collect bodies. He keeps clean hands."
It was as much as I needed. But getting it had cost me - the assassin had been stubborn and frightened and clever at hiding the truth until the blade whispered.
He hadn't wanted to say Woodborn's name. He'd chewed it like a bitter seed and nearly swallowed it whole before deciding to spit it out.
I pressed the question that kept crawling in my head: the goo, the armor.
"What of the material?" I asked again, sharper this time. "The sheen the assassins wore - the armor that melts like color spilled in water if the wearer is killed. Tell me what you know."
"It doesn't come with instructions," he muttered at last. "It comes with a job. It's thinner than cloth, more like a membrane, but it's heavy. You can't cut it or stitch it. It's… weirdly defiant."
He glanced up, eyes wet and hawkish. "But I swear, I don't know what it's made of. We tried burning a scrap once in the yard, just to see, and even if its worth was its weight in gold, it didn't burn at all. Not like leather, or paper, or wax. I asked one of Woodborn's men, and they laughed and told me not to be curious - it would have been better for my health. I'm a mover of boxes and orders, not an alchemist."
"You're both done with this stupid charade," I told them. I didn't want to have to deal with any more assassins or assassinations.
At least not for the moment, especially if I didn't order them.
"Sending half-trained killers to the palace for scraps of coin? Pathetic. You waste your talents. If you continue your pointless pursuit of spilling the king's blood," I went on, "I will end you. Permanently. Quickly if I'm in a good mood. Slowly if not."
I paced for a moment.
"But," I continued, letting the edge soften, looking at Stornoway, "if you want to make real change - through faith…" I tapped my own chest. "Or through wealth." I flicked a glance at their packed crates. "Then you will look for me."
Smooth. Real smooth. I didn't know if he'd take up my offer any time, but giving him an option would make me seem more reasonable and worth dealing with.
His fear paused - interest creeping in like weeds pushing through cracks.
"I protect my allies," I promised. "No harm to those who stand beside me. That is a vow."
Even I was surprised how steady and official the words sounded - like something a real believer would say, not a stupid boy in darkness trying to keep his authority.
I looked back at Gullyman, hunched by the crates.
"You're coming with me, I'm afraid," I said.
He swallowed hard. "I- me? What for?"
"Entropy," I said. "And this pays for the future." I stepped closer, close enough that the candlelight caught the edge of my shadow and made my voice softer. "I got a whisper. Not from a man. From something older. From God. " I let the word hang like a coin in midair.
His eyes went wide; less fear now.
"And?" he breathed.
"And it said," I continued, "you had a part to play. You're meant for something greater, Gullyman. You can climb out of the mud and ride a storm with me to greener pastures. Come with me to Woodborn. Help me fix the world. Live that life, and make a difference."
He blinked like he didn't entirely believe me, but to be honest, I wasn't pretending much. The whisper was a fiction; the god was a performance. But the promise was honest enough: make a choice now, and your life shifts. Plus, there could be a lot of money in it.
And putting someone off the path of assassination should give me some good karma.
He chewed the inside of his cheek, looking like a man deciding between two poison bottles. Then he straightened a little and spat. "Fine. I'll come. Lead the way, 'dark child.'"
We went outside, and I had to think for a bit. What would my next move really be?
I had an idea.
A ridiculous, reckless idea: confront Woodborn directly.
Smart? Absolutely not.
But it felt deliciously like a classic story beat - the sort of midnight confrontation that lived in anime, games, plays, and pulp thrillers.
The image arrived whole and loud in my head: a candlelit lordly manor, velvet drapes, a noble startled at his desk or waking from a troubled dream at night, and me - a silhouette at the window or sitting in his armchair, either in his study or his living room, voice all gravelly, a shadow-man demanding an accounting of his recent actions. Perfectly dramatic. Perfectly stupid. Perfect.
The plan didn't need to be clever. It only needed to look clever.