Commerce Emperor

Chapter Forty-Nine: Interlude: The Archer & The Assassin

Chapter Forty-Nine: Interlude: The Archer & The Assassin

• Fifteen years ago, City of Goldport in the Riverland Federation.

In the city of explorers stood a house that never slept.

Located on Goldport’s famous docks, where ships from all across the world gather to flood the continent’s markets with foreign wares, the two-floor building didn’t look like anything out of the ordinary. The Sunset House catered to visitors eager to put their hands on imported goods from beyond the sea: Fire Island masks, Shinkokan swords, Iremian runestones… this place offered a taste of the exotic to bored people who lacked either the funds or the spirit to explore the world themselves.

The official owner, a wizened Iremian immigrant called Menmose Qar, paid his taxes on time alongside a private ‘contribution’ to the city watch. Soldiers believed his establishment to be a mere smuggler’s den, and it was, in a way. Many Knot deliveries transited through the Sunset House.

But if authorities had dared to check, they would have noticed it hanging in the air.

The smell of blood.

People always hung out around the Sunset House, but the true clients, the ones the establishment truly catered to, only gathered on Knightday nights. Menmose would welcome them with smiles and refreshment, then invite them into the secret underground cove below through the hidden trapdoor. There they would find a vast basement layered with stones and adorned with symbols of blazing swords. Soundproof walls prevented the noise of war drums from reaching the surface, while a great smokeless brazier lit up the darkness. Lookouts and hefty bribes would ensure that no one would disturb the clientele. There they would chat and dance all night.

But sometimes, the true owners would bring in a ‘guest’ and a secret show would begin. Tonight was one of those nights.

A crowd of fifty had gathered for the occasion. Most of them were regular patrons, but a few were new recruits who would soon have the opportunity to join the ranks of the initiates. A hefty blend of drugs, alcohol, and music had driven them all into a frenzy… with one exception.

Unlike his compatriots, Chronius hung back in a corner and observed the celebration from afar. He didn’t drink or smoke; he had seen the degradations they dragged men into. His body was a temple, and he would let nothing despoil it. Nor was he social enough to enjoy the song and mindless chatter.

Chronius always disliked those celebrations, but it was the first time where he actively loathed them.

He couldn’t explain it himself. The night was nothing extraordinary. He had attended dozens of these gruesome celebrations since he settled in Goldport and reluctantly presided over a few. He’d powered through each and every time.

So why was he feeling so unbearably sick in the stomach? The apothecary didn’t find anything wrong with him on his last visit.

A chorus drew him out of his thoughts. A gentleman in purple had descended the stairs and made his presence known, his boots soundlessly climbing down the stepstones with inhuman grace.

“Howdy, chaps!” Jean-Chastel greeted the crowd with a soulless smile and his usual joyful predisposition. “You look breathtaking tonight!”

His ‘guest’ trailed behind him, his hands and neck bound by a thick red chain. It was a man this time, with Riverlandian features. The last one had been an Iremian immigrant, and the one before was a woman from the north. His garish clothes marked him as a member of high society, though his heavy bruises and the apple stuck between his broken teeth diminished his noble aura.

The Knot of Wrath didn’t discriminate among its victims, though they favored the rich and powerful.

The cultists, Chronius included, gathered in a sacred circle under the smokeless flame’s glow. One of them distributed clubs to his fellows. Chronius’ own club felt heavy in his hands. He preferred the intimacy of smaller blades and the precision of scalpels, but clubs were inexpensive and didn’t require much maintenance.

Chastel dragged his prey into the circle and swiftly paraded him before each cultist, heralding the start of the true festivities. To the establishment’s real clients, Sunset House was an inside joke, a mere smokescreen to weed out the uninitiated. The believers knew it by another name.

The Murder House.

A female member had the ‘honor’ of delivering the first blow. She was relatively new, so she gave the prisoner a light tap in the stomach. The one after her hit the guest in the face hard enough to shatter his nose. The third cultist struck him in the back, and the fourth drew blood.

“We are a family forged in criminal complicity,” Jean-Chastel once told Chronius. “Everyone must participate, otherwise they’ll feel left out. Shared fun is twice the joy, I always say!”

That was true enough. Forcing everyone to participate in an assassination created a sick kind of mutual loyalty. Nobody could say that they weren’t responsible afterward. The blood on their hands, the shared guilt, and the fear of the law bound the Knot of Wrath tighter than any oath to a Demon Ancestor. Nobody could back down after a Murder House ceremony.

The guest pissed blood by the time he reached Chronius. The pungent, metallic smell filled the assassin’s nostrils and awoke the urge. The sight of this exposed flesh, of this fruit of bones and meat ripe with sweet red fluids, overwhelmed him. His sight turned into a red haze through which no light could penetrate.

His body was no longer his own. His movements became distant echoes resonating through a crimson void. His mind retreated into the deepest recesses of his skull as his hands smashed with abandon. He vaguely sensed something warm staining his skin, the screams and laughs of the cultists muffled into silence.

A flash of blackness swallowed Chronius whole, and when the veil over his eyes lifted he stood before a body in a state of gore beyond recognition. A puddle of blood and mangled bones lay at his feet. His club had turned red, its surface stained with gray matter. He heard screams of joy and cruel laughter, then felt the light taps on his back.

No guest ever finished a circuit that included Chronius.

Joy flooded through him, followed by the sensation of being so marvelously alive. The sharp sting of immense distress followed immediately after, sharper than ever before.

Chronius stared at the corpse for a moment, his excitement suddenly replaced with a profound sense of sorrow and emptiness. The gloom always hit him after his urge’s satisfaction overwhelmed him, but it felt deeper and stronger than ever before. Overwhelming even.

Chronius sighed and surrendered his club to another cultist without a word. He was already halfway to the exit by the time the rest of the clientele prepared to throw the dead guest into the holy flame. Another soul would fuel Belgoroth’s return and the world’s purification, or so the priests among them said. Chronius didn’t care about any of that right now.

He just needed fresh air.

He moved upstairs to the main house’s toilets and cleaned his hands with methodical expertise. He watched the water run red between his fingers. How often had he repeated this motion? Hundreds of times? Thousands?

The bloodlust had haunted Chronius since childhood. He had gotten his first taste of it in Solara’s gutters, when he stabbed a rat who’d tried to bite his foot. The urge continued to haunt him for years. Man or beast, it didn’t matter. Blood looked the same everywhere. Since he was good at spilling it, becoming a bounty hunter and then an assassin had been the logical next step.

Chronius had grown better and better at it, until people came from all across the Everbright Empire to hire him. A baron even gave him his daughter’s hand in marriage after he dispatched bandits threatening his lands. Barbara had been a good match, and for a time, Chronius and her had been happy enough; enough that he’d been considering setting his knives aside for a while.

Then came the Coup of 671, when half the empire’s nobles rose up against the Everbright Emperor’s centralization reforms. Chronius’ in-laws picked the wrong side, but honor demanded that he fight on their behalf. He spent months killing his way through the realm until he managed to come home unannounced… only to find his wife in another man’s arms.

Chronius never learned why, nor did he have time to ask before the urge overwhelmed him.

What followed… Chronius tried his best not to think of it. He still felt the blood on his hands whenever the nightmares woke him up at night, alongside the sensation of Barbara’s panicked thumb pressing against his eye when his hands closed on her neck…

He had lost more than half his sight that night.

His father-in-law would have hung him had Mother Wolf and Chastel not broken him out of jail. Chronius didn’t know how they learned about him or why he caught their eye among this world’s many criminals. Perhaps they heard whispers of his urge, or found his skills valuable. They never told him.

Instead, they had come to him in his darkest hour with an offer: salvation and forgiveness in exchange for his services. They served the Heroes themselves, they said, and they could offer him what he’d sought for most of his life.

Purpose.

Chronius had nowhere to go after staining his own home with blood and listened. The Knot of Wrath took him in, giving him material support, companionship, and spiritual guidance. They treated him so kindly.

Then, when the urge returned, they asked him to kill for them.

They didn’t put him through the group ritual. They didn’t need to. Chronius was already stained before they picked him up. Killing was the only thing he was naturally good at. They turned something so sinful into a holy task. They made him into a holy soldier fighting a war on behalf of the ‘true’ Heroes.

Chronius had become the cult’s troubleshooter before he knew it. The Knot of Wrath always wanted somebody dead, but he was the man they picked when they didn’t want to take any chances. He never failed an assignment in his four years of service.

He never let them see his doubts either.

They’d started gnawing at him since the first murder and only grown stronger since.

Goldport’s Knot of Wrath was a disparate lot. Desperate people who nobody else would take them in; natural-born killers seeking an outlet for their bloodlust; people wronged by the Arcane Abbey, the establishment, the powers that be, and who now sought revenge against society; and individuals who materially profited from their murders. Many cut off contact with their friends and family over time. Once you were drenched in filth, you could only sink deeper and stain everything else.

The Knot was all too happy to provide in return. To the lost, it gave community and companionship; to the vengeful, it offered tools to take revenge on those who had wronged them; it gave money and housing to the poor, answers to the confused, and purpose to the purposeless.

All it asked in return was loyalty and bloodshed.

Once he had cleansed his body—but not his soul—Chronius walked outside the Sunset House. The alley was dark and empty, safe for the Knots’ lookouts, but the cold and chilly air felt so much purer than the suffocating stench of blood downstairs. Chronius looked up at the pale glow of the Earthmoon above and the shining stars dancing in the sky. Their light soothed him a little.

He sensed Chastel sneak up on him before he even uttered a word. “Why the long face, old chap?”

Chronius had grown used to identifying demons on sight over time. Their posture always betrayed a predatory disposition and utter lack of empathy. Humans were social creatures who constantly adjusted their behavior to those of others around them, but demons… demons were prisoners inside their own heads. They existed in a private mental world disconnected from reality.

That was why Chastel always smiled. The rest of existence did not concern him. His broken spirit was an abyss of childish joy untouched by sorrow, concern, or guilt. Chronius wagered that his own inevitable death wouldn’t bother the demon in the slightest.

Chastel didn’t care about anyone, let alone himself.

“I know that look,” the demon said with his ghastly, feline smile. “Someone is having dark thoughts tonight.”

Chronius looked away. He found Chastel unnerving at the best of times, but his presence especially bothered him tonight. “Why did we kill this one?”

“Our guest?” Chastel shrugged. “Who knows?”

Chronius frowned. “Who knows?”

“Maybe he talked too much, or he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, or somebody somewhere wanted him dead. Or maybe we killed him for no reason at all.” Chastel gave him a curious look. “You never bothered to ask before, old chap.”

No, he did not. There were plenty of reasons to explain a hit, and no word that could bring the dead back.

So why did it bother him so intimately this time? The answer soon bubbled at the surface of his thoughts.

Because I’ve found a treatment. After so long, Chronius had finally found one. There is a cure for madness.

“There is a cure for your dark thoughts, my good friend,” Chastel said. “To that sickness called a conscience.”

The demon flipped Chronius a coin. He caught the object in midair almost absent-mindedly, only to regret it once he examined it closely. A gilded skull stared at him on its surface, its ruby eyes radiating with malice.

“Try it, I say.” Chastel chuckled sinisterly. “It did wonders for me.”

Chronius grunted and put the Devil’s Coin in his pocket. He wasn’t blind to Chastel’s move; to receive one of these items—a piece of the true Merchant’s soul—was a great honor among the Knots, a sign that he was being considered for a position of power in the organization. Few were chosen to become demons.

But it also represented an ultimatum. An offer to commit forever to the true Heroes of the world, and to stand by their side once they returned to create a new paradise. Or so the higher-ups said.

Chronius never bought into it. He served the Knot because of a lack of alternative, not belief.

“I’ll think about it,” Chronius replied before venturing into the alley, his hands deep in his pockets. He sensed Chastel’s unblinking stare on his back for a very long time.

The demon sensed his hesitation, and it didn’t please him.

Chronius walked the streets of Goldport. The city was the second richest in the Riverland Federation, but its glory was paper-thin. The smell of brine and the wavering shadows of its great merchant gallons hardly hid the stench of decay coming from the old docks. The buildings there were a hodgepodge of weathered tenements and shacks with ragged cloths for windows. The city’s wealth gathered in the new docks on the west side, where the merchant princes and noble houses lived.

Chronius moved among cloaked figures along the harbor, the silence often broken by the slap of waves against the hull of ships, the low murmur of the homeless, and the fornication of dockside whores and sailors. The city watch rarely patrolled the backstreets, except to visit brothels or collect bribes. Even local alehouse patrons were more interested in drowning their sorrows and drunken brawls than revelry.

So much pain and sorrow. Chronius briefly exchanged a glance with a cloaked beggar. He caught a glimpse of a dagger hidden under the man’s cloak, and the distrust in his gaze. So much anger.

The Riverland’s Knot of Wrath had been founded in the wake of the Everbright Empire’s civil war by disgruntled soldiers in exile. It had grown steadily over the years to encompass hundreds of members spread over the entire country. Goldport’s group focused on recruiting among the city’s dockworkers, sailors, and immigrants; the poor, the desperate, the needy. The chapter was a pale shadow of the cult’s forces in the north—the Riverland belonged to the Knot of Greed first and foremost—but it had found fertile ground in which to take root.

The desperate needed Heroes to cling to. Any Heroes.

Chronius had hoped Belgoroth would be that idol too once. That the Lord of Wrath would make his curse a holy gift, tell his servant that all the blood he had shed was in the service of a greater cause, and that he would finally find peace. And when the first Knight’s faith failed to deliver, Chronius grew despondent. He’d been adrift once again.

Until he found a cure for the urge.

Goldport’s apothecaries tested a new drug on their asylum’s patients in order to quell violent thoughts. Chronius stole a batch and tested it on himself, the same way he’d tried dozens of treatments in the past. This time proved different. The drug couldn’t silence the urge, not completely, but it quelled it enough to keep it under control.

Chronius had earned enough money to retire twice over. He only continued to kill because his sickness made any other career impossible, and because the Knot would never let him leave peacefully. He simply knew too much.

Now that he had a choice about keeping his curse under control…

Now that he could free himself from the bloodlust, murder suddenly felt terribly wrong to Chronius. He could no longer deny the unfulfilling nature of his own existence.

I’m tired.

Chronius was tired of running around with only a change in targets to break the monotonous routine, hiding from the law and looking over his shoulder. He had fought the Emperor’s forces because his father-in-law demanded it and slew the Knot’s enemies because he owed them his life, but he couldn’t feel any sense of purpose in either cause.

He heard a cry.

Chronius glanced at a dark alley to the left. A form lurked there, surrounded by emaciated stray dogs foraging for scraps. They barked at him, barring their teeth. A steel dagger found its way to Chronius’ hand in an instant. His mere gaze sent the animals running, or perhaps they’d smelled the blood on him.

Chronius walked into the alley on a whim. He didn’t fear an ambush—locals stopped trying to mug him after he’d buried enough of them—but didn’t let go of his dagger just in case. He recognized the stench of a corpse.

A dockside whore lay dead among the trash, her pallid arms clutching a babe.

Chronius had seen the woman a few times when he prowled the area, though he didn’t know about her pregnancy. The frail babe she carried could only be a few weeks old. The frail creature cried out for its dead mother with what little strength it had left, to no avail. It would die soon, and its corpse would be tossed into a ditch alongside its parent on the morrow by the city watch. It was a common story in these parts.

One that never failed to sadden Chronius. He had hoped to have children one day, before Barbara… before Barbara. He stared at the babe with a strange confusion in his heart. The creature hardly seemed to notice his presence, but Chronius couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Is this a sign? Chronius had never believed in the Goddess—she didn’t believe in this world enough to stay in it after all—but it felt like a strange coincidence. He had spent so many years taking lives, and the night he reconsidered his existence, he was faced with a chance to save one. Would it be a mercy?

This child would grow up an orphan in the gutters even if it survived, like Chronius himself. A miserable existence.

Unless…

Unless he could give it a better one.

Fior leaned against the hedge wall, her gaze turned at the maze’s end.

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She had to stay vigilant, for the Assassin was after her. A single minute separated her from victory. One more minute, and then she could win by right of endurance. She held her breath and waited. She was bound to pass through this passage any minute now…

Fior sensed a hand grabbing her from behind, startling her.

“Got you!” her friend shouted with a laugh. “You’re dead!”

Fior had lost again.

“That’s not fair!” Fior complained after Mersie released her grip. “I’m the Druid and we’re in a hedge maze! I should win by default!”

“I’m the Assassin, dummy,” Mersie replied with a proud smirk. “Even pretty flowers die when a gardener comes!”

“There’s no Gardener class.” Fior pouted and crossed her arms. She had lost twice at Play Hero today, much to her dismay. “How did you sneak up on me from behind?”

“I used the secret passages,” Mersie replied with a sly smirk. Her dress was covered in leaves and slightly torn in places. “I climbed up the tree and jumped over the wall, like any Assassin should.”

“You climbed up the oak?” The news mortified Fior. “But it is so high… you could have hurt yourself!”

“If you want to win at Playing Hero, you must play smarter or braver!” Mersie replied proudly. “Me? I’m both!”

“Girls!” Mother called out from outside the hedge maze. “Come over here!”

Oh crap, she had heard their argument. Fior and Mersie exchanged a glance, then walked back into the garden; the former more meekly than the latter.

Mother sat there at a mahogany table under a wide umbrella, with a newspaper and a deck of cards set nearby. Their head butler, Camilus, served her tea without a word.

“Who won this time?” Mother asked with a kind smile. She looked so pretty with her golden hair woven into a braid and her black dress. Fior hoped she would grow to look as beautiful as her and as smart as Father.

“Me, ma’am!” Mersie replied proudly.

“She cheated,” Fior complained under her breath. “She climbed up the tree.”

“Is that so?” Mother shook her head and scolded Fior’s playmate. “Mersie, cheating is for people who don’t have the skills to win on their own merits.”

“But if I cheat and don’t get caught, then it means I’m skilled,” Mersie retorted.

“And a maid’s daughter shouldn’t talk back to her mother’s employer this way, Mersie,” Mother replied sternly. “Promise me to play fair next time.”

Mersie pouted, but apologized. Fior instantly felt guilty. She didn’t intend for Mother to scold her friend again. It wasn’t Mersie’s fault if she was too brave by half.

“Can we play again?” Fior asked, mostly to distract her mother.

“Of course!” Mersie said as they each drew a card from the deck. “I want to play as the Rogue this time!”

“Then I’ll play the Wizard,” Fior retorted.

“The Mage, Fiorella,” Mother corrected her. “The Mage, not the Wizard. Remember your lessons.”

Neither child got their wish. Mersie drew a familiar card: a bow and arrows adorned with the number ten. Fior’s own pick showed a two-faced mask under a half-moon. The number eighteen was underwritten at the bottom, barely visible.

“I drew the Archer!” Mersie rejoiced. “Lucky pick!”

“And I am the Spy,” Fior replied with a sigh. The Bard’s Vassals were the worst. “I must hide again.”

“And if I throw a stone at you, I win.” A prospect that Mersie clearly looked forward to. “I’ll count to a thousand before chasing you!”

“How gracious,” Fior said as she picked her dress’ hemline and swiftly ran back to the manor, much to her mother’s amusement. The rules said that the Spy had to hide in plain sight and Mersie couldn’t count to a hundred without messing up.

Although Fior had spent all her life in the Salvadoreen manor, she often struggled to find her way through the lower floors. The limestone walls glowed softly in the light filtering through its delicate quatrefoil windows; a host of servants toiled under golden arches and walked up ornate marble stairs. An imposing golden statue of a winged lion stood guard in the main hall.

Fior walked up the steps to the third floor while servants and staff members politely nodded at her. Nobody dared to stare at her in the eyes; nobody except Mersie herself, whom she had grown up with. It bothered Fior sometimes. She always felt that the servants were hiding something from her.

The air was cooler on the upper floors and filled with the faint scent of aged wood. Fior’s bedroom was located right next to her father’s and hosted a large wardrobe. She could have called upon a maid to help her dress up, but it would make it too easy for Mersie to identify her disguise.

Fior had experience though. Mersie and her looked so much alike that people often mistook them for the other when they switched clothes, which they often did.

Fior had noticed that people treated them very differently. The staff scolded her more often when she dressed as Mersie, and her parents’ guests would hardly pay attention to her when they would always dote on her otherwise.

It bothered Fior, and Mersie too. They were so much alike and equally cute, so why should one be treated better than the other? Mersie shouldn’t be scolded because she was a maid’s daughter rather than a duke’s.

When Fior grew old enough, she would let her friend dress like her every day of the week.

She passed in front of her father’s bedroom when she heard her father shouting from behind the doors. “—they know about the Sword of Belgoroth!”

The sudden noise startled Fior. The lack of guards in the hallway made her think that her father was holding an audience elsewhere. Father only sent his bodyguards away when he discussed very important business, so he wouldn’t be disturbed.

Fior leaned in closer to the door to listen in. She knew she shouldn’t—and that she was wasting valuable time—but Father’s tone bothered him. He sounded so… so angry.

Was he still bothered about her birthday? Fior had begged him not to invite too many people for that evening, since she felt sick when surrounded by crowds, but he would rather have half the city’s nobility attend the party.

“A future duchess must learn to be sociable,” he’d told Fior. “You won’t win any hearts hiding in a closet, my daughter.”

His harsh words had caused Fior to shrink in place. Father had only agreed to her wish only after Mother insisted on her daughter’s behalf. Did an uninvited guest hold a grudge against him?

“The Lantern Empress herself entrusted our family with this duty,” Father said. “House Salvadoreen has kept that vow for over six hundred-years, no matter the flag under which we fought. Why now of all times?”

“The worship of the Demon Ancestors is global,” a man replied. Fior didn’t recognize the voice. “It involves every class, every race, and every nation. Their cults’ seeds spread chaos and tensions everywhere they sprout. The rot has spread from Irem to Archfrost.”

Fior heard the sound of a glass hitting a table, followed by Father’s grunt. “They’re gaining momentum in this very land.”

“So you think the Duke of Ermeline is involved with them?”

“He is almost certainly compromised,” Father answered. “He and that Thief-Taker General are consolidating their grip on the Federation’s criminal underworld through bribes, blackmail, and force. Power in our institutions is slowly concentrating into fewer and fewer hands. I’m doing my best to reverse the trend, but–”

“Your decision to shelter Princess Isabel earned you her respect, wealth… and many enemies.”

“Yes, and…”

Father suddenly fell silent. After waiting a few seconds, a curious Fior leaned against the keyhole to take a better look.

She nearly collapsed when the door suddenly swung open and Father’s shadow loomed over her.

“Fiorella!” Her father sighed in obvious relief, his enchanted rapier shining in his hand. “What are you doing here?”

Fior blushed. She had messed up, so she quickly invented a lie on the spot. “I… I came to try on a new dress for my birthday party, Father.”

“That is not what I meant.” Father sheathed his sword, his wrinkled face twisting into a scowl. “Do not worry me so. Listening behind doors is unbefitting of a Salvadoreen.”

His concern filled Fior with guilt and shame. “I’m sorry…” she apologized, her eyes staring at the floor. “I heard you shouting and… I was worried.”

Her father’s expression softened slightly. “I am sorry I worried you, Fiorella,” he said. “I swear everything is well and good.”

Fior had noticed that adults often mistook her and Mersie for being stupid. They thought they could lie to children’s faces and expect to be believed on the spot. It never worked. Fior could see the concern in her Father’s gaze plainly enough.

Fior took a quick, furtive glance at the bedroom to see who her father was arguing with. To her surprise, it seemed utterly empty.

The window was wide open though.

“You wish to leave?”

Chronius straightened up, his hidden teeth of steel pressing against his chest. He was treading on dangerous grounds.

A tense atmosphere fell upon the Sunset House’s master office. Hardly any light pierced through the red velvet curtains, and the smell of burning incense filled the air. Chastel nonchalantly rested with his back against a wall, though his unblinking eyes didn’t let Chronius out of sight.

Chronius hardly paid the demon any mind. The one he had to convince sat behind a desk whose cabinets bulged with papers and navigational charts. Every inch of her skin was hidden behind an apothecary’s robes and a lupine-shaped breathing mask.

Mother Wolf led the Knot of Wrath from Arcadia. Chronius never learned of her true identity in all these years, but he’d heard rumors that she was a werewolf of some kind; one with big plans for Archfrost. She usually entrusted Chastel to communicate her orders to other chapters across the continent and rarely bothered to visit them as she did today.

Moreover, she was the one who personally inducted Chronius into the Knot of Wrath. Only she could release him of his obligations towards the organization… one way or another.

“Chronius, old chap, don’t you get it?” Chastel shook his head, his fiendish smile unwavering. “You can’t leave your family. In for life, in for death.”

Chronius had expected that answer. He had learned too much working for the Knot of Wrath. He’d been taught the ‘true’ Heroes’ secrets, been granted a Devil Coin, and witnessed sinister truths.

Nonetheless, Chronius carefully considered his options and concluded that coming clean was better than running away. He might have a slim chance of leaving the Knot on good terms if he convinced its leader to let him off the hook.

Mother Wolf studied him carefully for a moment before asking, “Why didn’t you run away, Chronius? It would have been wiser to flee on your lonesome.”

Truth be told, Chronius had considered it and prepared his belongings accordingly. If the meeting didn’t go well, he was fully prepared to kill Mother Wolf and Chastel before skipping town.

One thing prevented him from doing so. One tiny little thing.

“I’ve decided to adopt,” Chronius confessed.

Humans were open books to the reader who paid close attention. No mask nor clothing could hide the subtle shifts in posture, the unconscious movement of feet, the tiny unconscious signs that betrayed a mind’s true thoughts. Chastel didn’t react, since he probably knew already, but Mother Wolf… Chronius could tell that his words unnerved her on a deeper level than he would have expected.

Whether it was a good or bad sign, he couldn’t tell yet.

“I have decided to call her Erika.” That was how Chronius would have named his child with Barbara, when they still planned to have one. “She’s hardly a few months old. I’ve been taking care of her for a while.”

The first weeks had been a more complex mission than any assassination Chronius ever performed. The mere logistics of finding a nurse, of changing the child’s clothes whenever she stained them, and dealing with the constant screams and nightly interruptions boggled the mind.

Fatherhood had a steep learning curve.

“She is still alive?” Mother Wolf asked after recovering from her surprise.

Chronius flinched at her words. “I’m following a treatment,” he said. “It’s… not perfect, but sufficient.”

Enough that slaying rats now and then satisfied him.

“Interesting,” Mother Wolf said after slouching in her chair. “I see how it is. You want us to leave this girl alone.”

“I understand this organization’s reach,” Chronius said. “You will find me wherever I go. You will try to kill me and fail—” Chastel chuckled at his bold words, but Chronius ignored him. “—but you will force my daughter and I to spend the rest of our lives on the run. I wish for Erika to grow under the best possible circumstances, and I cannot offer her that if I make an enemy of the Knots.”

“Do you think she will grow up happily in this doomed world of ours?” Mother Wolf’s hand reached for the velvet curtain and pulled it slightly. The window offered them a perfect view of the beggar-filled city streets. “I have walked Pangeal from one end to the other, from Archfrost to the Stonelands. Everywhere I see the same pattern: the wealthy tramples the poor; the strong oppresses the weak; war brews, and people stew in misery with no Goddess nor Heroes to answer their pleas.”

Mother Wolf turned to stare at Chronius straight in the eyes.

“You know Lord Belgoroth will one day cleanse this doomed land,” she said. “Do you think you can give that child a happy life anyway?”

“I cannot promise I will,” Chronius replied firmly. “But I would like to do my best.”

Both for Erika’s sake and his own.

He wanted a better life for both of them; and more than that, he wanted to prove that he could change.

A tense silence followed as Mother Wolf pondered his words. Chronius held still, his fingers ready to draw a knife at a moment’s notice. Chastel adjusted his position behind him like a cat ready to pounce. One second and–

“Fine.”

Chronius froze in shock, and Chastel’s smile faded into a rare expression of genuine surprise.

“Owing to the many services you lent us in the past, I will allow you to retire and raise the girl in peace.” Mother Wolf raised two fingers. “Under two conditions.”

Chronius held his breath. He knew that the cult leader would ask for an equally troublesome service in return for that one favor.

“First of all, you will disappear and keep your mouth shut,” Mother Wolf said. “You leave for some faraway corner of Pangeal where we can forget about you, and you won’t speak a word of what you’ve learned. I will know if you dare to share our secrets, and you and that child of yours will pay the price for your recklessness. Am I clear, Chronius?”

“Understood,” Chronius replied. He’d expected as much and fully intended to forget everything anyway. To start all over again.

“You will also fulfill one last mission for us.” Mother Wolf joined her hands together. “One last job, and then we will let you go.”

Chronius clenched his jaw. They only ever had one task to offer him.

“Who do you want me to kill?” he asked.

Fior came to her birthday party mortified.

Mother had her attend the evening in a crimson gown of Seukaian silk and Iremian lace adorned with tiny pearls. A delicate golden tiara sat atop her golden hair, and a beautiful silver necklace glowed on her neck. Fior felt pretty in the dress, but it hardly helped with the anxiety. She stared at the great hall’s doors with apprehension, Camilus and other servants ready to open them at any moment.

Mersie followed her closely with a bright smile; Fior had lent her playmate one of her spare dresses, so she looked every inch the noble lady tonight.

“Everything will be alright,” she promised upon taking Fior’s hand into her own. “They’re just adults. You aren’t afraid of adults, right?”

Fior was afraid, but she didn’t want to look that way in front of her best friend. She gulped, gathered her breath, and then entered the great hall.

The room erupted into applause at her arrival. Servants had turned the great hall into a land of silver and porcelain, and noble family friends from all across Goldport came in their finest garments to attend this private party. A tiny host of minstrels played lively lute and violin melodies for everyone’s enjoyment.

Each table was marked with brightly colored ribbons and garlands, though the central one hosted an enormous cheesecake instead. Father had it commissioned from Goldport’s finest artisans and topped by a miniature replica of the city, entirely made of Fire Island sugar.

“I’ve heard it cost a fortune to prepare,” she’d heard a maid complain to a cook in the afternoon. “More than you or I will ever earn.”

The other servant had sneered in response and then said, “The Lord will punish them for their selfishness. You will see.”

Fior wondered why she said that. Father wouldn’t punish anyone over a cake, would he?

Speaking of Father, the room turned silent the moment he rose from his seat. “Welcome, my dear friends and compatriots,” he addressed the crowd with a glass of wine in his hand and Mother sitting at his left. “Thank you for coming this evening to celebrate my pride and joy’s seventh birthday! Please offer a warm applause for my daughter Fiorella, the jewel of my life!”

Fior forced herself to smile, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment. Father fulfilled his promise and only invited a handful of guests, but a handful was still too many. She nonetheless gave them a reverence, as she had been taught to.

Camilus took her hand away from Mersie—who wouldn’t be allowed to sit near a duke’s daughter, no matter how much Fior insisted—and gently guided her closer to the cake. A one-eyed cook stood next to the sugary mountain with a large knife in one hand and a small burning stick in the other. He used the latter to light up seven candles themed after the Great Classes, while Camilus set a tabouret for Fior to climb up on so she could reach them.

“Protocol would demand that we start with a feast first, but since children lack the patience to dine with adults, we will begin with the cake and gifts,” Father announced. “Fiorella, remember that seven is a lucky year.”

Fior nodded slightly. Seven was the sacred number in the Goddess’ eyes, who split the great classes and days into equal parts. Any wish she would make when blowing the candles would come true, or so Mother told her once. Fior had long pondered what she would like to ask the Goddess until she settled on one idea.

I would like to be more like Mersie, Fior thought as she gathered her breath. I would like to be brave and daring like her.

Fior blew out the candles in one blow, to the crowd’s acclaim, and none clapped louder than Mersie herself.

The musicians resumed their performance with Goldport’s anthem, and the one-eyed cook silently raised his knife to cut the cake. He was halfway through slicing the first part when he suddenly stopped midway.

Fior saw Father frown in confusion and exchange a word with Mother. The minstrels grew quieter as a guest suddenly rose from his seat. Had he grown sick?

“Are you stuck, sir?” Fior shyly asked the cook. “Do… Do you need help?”

The cook stared at her with his single icy eye, and Fior suddenly felt sick to her stomach. She heard loud noise cutting through the music from outside the hall and the sound of broken glass.

“Run,” the man said calmly and without any emotion.

He turned around and threw his knife at Father in a dazzling flash of speed.

Fior blinked in surprise as metal hit Father in the throat from across the room and nailed him to the wall behind his chair. Thick red wine burst out of his neck and spilled over his shirt, staining it red.

Is this a show? Fior thought as the musicians suddenly stopped and a tense silence fell upon the hall. From the way Father grasped at his throat, he didn’t like it in the slightest. The guest who rose up earlier had to be a magician too, for he started to grow horns and claws. Didn’t the staff tell Father?

But then Father stared at her from across the room with fearful eyes, and then Fior knew something was wrong. Her mother’s scream only frightened her further.

Next thing Fior knew, Camilus’ hands closed on her chest and dragged her away from the cabinet. The one-eyed cook indecently ripped his shirt open to reveal hundreds of knives hidden underneath, and the great hall’s doors slammed open to reveal a man in a purple jacket.

“What a splendid evening,” the smiling man said. A band of masked crossbowmen with clothes stained red followed him. “The good Duke sends his regards!”

The crossbowmen opened fire, and the room erupted into blood and chaos.

Fior’s mind came to a sudden halt. Crowds and loud noises easily overwhelmed her, but the current chorus outright paralyzed her. Everything became a blur. She vaguely remembered Camilus carrying her towards the stairs as fairy tale monsters painted the walls red and crossbow bolts turned her cousins into pincushions. Something rolled on the ground near them and Fior caught a brief glimpse of it.

Her mother’s head stared at her from the floor below, with nothing more than a red stain left below the neck.

Only then did Fior scream.

She screamed all the way to her bedroom’s closet, which Camilus dragged her to. He opened it with one hand, pushed the dresses away, and then touched a corner of the wardrobe which Fior never noticed. The back slid slightly alongside the limestone wall to which it was stuck, revealing an opening. Camilus pushed Fior inside the passage, then hastily closed it behind them.

“Quiet, milady,” Camilus hissed in her ear. When Fior ignored him, he quickly pressed his hand over her mouth. “Quiet.”

His glove muffled her mouth and his grip was strong. Fior didn’t have the strength to resist him before and she didn’t have it now. The stone walls muffled the screams outside and the darkness of the passage reassured her, so she calmed down a bit. Not much, but enough to look around.

Camilus leaned forward slightly, and Fior noticed tiny holes in the wall. It gave her a small view of the bedroom outside. She waited for mother and father to hide with them, as they surely would. It had only been wine spilling from her Father’s throat, and the head… the head couldn’t have been Mother’s. It had to be a trick, a horrible joke.

Nothing tonight would make sense otherwise.

Someone did enter the room, crawling in fear in a bloodied dress. Her cheeks were red, puffed, and wet.

“Fior?!” she called out. “Mom?! Anyone?!”

Fior had never seen Mersie cry before. Her friend, who could fearlessly talk back to anyone and climb the highest trees, shivered in fear on the floor as footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

She had to hide with them. She had to.

Fior tried to kick the secret door open with her feet, but Camilus pushed her back before she could. He wouldn’t let her call out to Mersie either, no matter how many times Fior kicked him in the legs.

“I’m sorry,” her butler apologized, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I’m sorry, milady. It is too late for her.”

The man in purple already stood on the bedroom’s threshold.

“Miss Fiorella, I presume?” The stranger smiled ear to ear at Mersie, his teeth sharper than blades. “Such a pretty little child you are.”

“Please…” Mersie crawled into a corner of the room, tears of terror running down her pretty cheeks. “Please…”

“Shush, do not cry…” The man’s smile widened until his face transformed into a cat’s grin. Dozens of arms emerged from his jacket and swiftly lunged at Mersie. “It won’t take more than a single bite.”

Camilus covered Fior’s eyes and mouth to spare her the cruel sight, but failed to shield her ears.

She heard it all.

Her friend’s screams; the crunching; the sickening noise of footsteps on a large puddle of blood; and then the horrible silence that followed.

When Camilus finally removed his hands from her eyes, only a bloody dress remained of Mersie. Her murderer’s crimson footsteps led outside. The manor soon became awfully quiet, and tears rained down Fior’s cheeks.

“Quiet, milady,” Camilus repeated, his voice heavy with sorrow. His hold on Fior’s mouth weakened slightly. “Quiet…”

Fior nearly cried in surprise when the one-eyed cook from earlier entered the bedroom next. His clothes were drenched in blood, along with his knives. Fior’s heart nearly stopped when he gave the bedroom a cursory look and briefly paused on the closet, before restarting when he left as swiftly as he entered.

Fior couldn’t tell how long she spent in the secret passage trapped with Camilus, surrounded by silence and death. The manor in which she had spent her entire life soon began to whisper in her ear.

Father, Mother, Mersie, and so many others…

The walls moaned with their voices.

Chronius walked out of the Salvadoreen’s tomb with a heavy heart.

The demons among the crew had regained their human forms to mingle back with their fellow assassins, but as far as Chronius was concerned, they were all monsters tonight.

“My compliments to Lord Salvadoreen,” Chastel said after wiping his lips with a handkerchief. “His daughter was delicious.”

Chronius suppressed a scowl of disgust and kept his mouth shut. His eyes lingered on two cultists carrying a black chest behind Chastel. He was no witchcrafter, but he could still sense the wicked, wrathful essence radiating from it.

Chronius gathered that they proceeded with this attack to eliminate Duke Ermeline’s rivals, and because the Salvadoreens kept a powerful memento hidden in their vault; an object so precious that the Knot of Wrath was ready to commit a public massacre to recover it. Chronius had no idea of what this chest contained, and the less he learned of its nature, the better.

Another sinister aura nearby rivaled that treasure in its wickedness. Chronius looked over his shoulder at the Salvadoreen’s broken home. Its walls were growing screaming faces and its hedge turned into a wall of black, thorny roses hungry for blood.

A Blight. Their evil stained the manor so intimately that it created a Blight. That house would become a den of nightmares for years to come.

Taking the drug had made the mission so much harder, but Chronius would hold true to his choice. He didn’t want to lie to himself and blame the urge for what he did today. It would have been cowardly. He had committed this crime of his own will, purchasing his and Erika’s freedom with innocent blood.

“They deserved it,” he heard one of the killers mutter under his breath; mostly for his own sake rather than for his accomplices. He had served the Salvadoreen for two years and opened the backdoor for the intruders. “All these have-it-alls, with their fine food and their ill-gotten gold. They deserved death.”

So did their killers. If there was any divine justice in this world, Chronius knew someone would punish them all for this massacre one day.

“Did we miss any?” Chastel asked whimsically. “I believe we have been very thorough, but Milady asked that we leave no witnesses. I would be loath to disappoint her.”

“Did somebody get the other girl?” a demon among them asked. “You know, the playmate?”

“I butchered her maid mother well enough,” a cultist said. “Can’t remember her corpse though.”

“I killed that child,” Chronius lied. “The head butler too.”

“Oh, good call, I always forget the butlers.” Chastel chuckled happily. “My most sincere thanks, my good friend. You spared me Milady’s scolding.”

No one questioned Chronius’ story. The Knot of Wrath catered to wanton killers and beasts in human skin. None of them bothered to check their victims too closely. Besides, when Chronius of all people said he’d killed someone, they were as good as buried.

“Let us disperse before the city watch and witchcrafters arrive, folks,” Chastel said before smiling at Chronius; hopefully for the last time. “Will you spare us a long goodbye, old chap?”

“My debt is settled.” Chronius tossed his Devil Coin at the demon and severed his final obligations to the Knot. “I’m out.”

Chastel flipped the coin between his fingers and then put it in his jacket’s pocket.

“A shame…” he said. “Such a shame… you would have been such a dashing fiend.”

Chastel studied Chronius with a predatory look, as if he were weighing whether to disobey his mistress’ orders or not, before quickly deciding against it.

“You are a man of honor, old chap,” Chastel said with what could pass for genuine sincerity; a rarity for a heartless creature like him. “Teach your daughter that same professionalism. Milady’s trust in your word is the only reason you will both walk away tonight.”

“Yet you will never keep me out of your sight,” Chronius guessed. The Knot would always keep him under surveillance.

“Trust, but verify,” Chastel japed. “Are we done, my friend?”

The memory of a pair of eyes staring at him from behind a closet crossed Chronius’ mind. He stared at Chastel’s disgusting smile, carefully considered his next words, and then answered.

“Yes,” he lied. “We’re done here.”