Despite not wanting to leave his family, Jack’s mom insisted he visit one of the local temples to choose his class. He had wanted to spend every moment of the dream, or whatever this was, with his family.

  He’d argued there was no rush; he could always visit a temple the following day. However, there was no arguing with his mother when she’d made a decision. The brush she threw at his head and the shoe that chased him out the door were proof enough.

  Stepping into a fresh morning breeze, Jack paused and took a deep, appreciative breath. The cool air carried the sweet fragrance of lavender from his mother’s much-loved herb garden. He was struck by the vividness of his death dream. Even the courtyard’s old blue tiles at his feet were cracked, just as he remembered. The gentle sound of nearby birdsong reminded him of his father’s passion for country hikes, where he would watch and sketch birds and other wildlife.

  Leaving the courtyard behind, Jack inhaled deeply, catching the faint aroma of the tannery several streets away; sharp, acrid, and familiar. It clawed at the edge of his memory, the scent of boiling lye and wet leather mingling with the ghosts of his long-forgotten childhood.

  Rounding a corner where the cobbled street narrowed between leaning sandstone and timber buildings, Jack heard the soft chime of a gearwork clock tower several streets away mark the hour. “Nine in the morning,” he murmured to himself. I’ve been awake three hours, I hope this…

  A sudden burst of laughter snapped him from his thoughts. A group of young beastkin children, with twitching furred ears and bouncing tails, came pelting down the cobbled street, weaving between puddles and shouting in high, joyous tones. They wore patched uniforms and battered satchels that clattered as they ran, late for lessons.

  Out of instinct, Jack reached for his dark, hooded cloak, already bracing for the children’s flinches, the recoils, and the frightened looks… only to stop halfway. Of course, he didn’t have a cloak, and more importantly, he didn’t need one.

  The children rushed past without hesitation, not giving him a second glance. One girl, a little foxkin with mismatched buttons on her coat, offered a wide, gap-toothed grin as she darted by. Jack turned in place to watch them disappear around the corner, their laughter echoing down the lane like birdsong.

  A gentle smile spread across his face as his hand lowered from where it had hovered near his collarbone. No silent stares, no fear, and no screams. Just… normal.

  A tear slipped down his cheek. He let it fall. For the first time in twenty years, he didn’t feel like a monster skulking in daylight. No longer the hideous burn victim whose appearance made children cry and women cross the street. No longer a man who winced at his own reflection.

  He stretched out his arms, tilting his face towards the sun as it crested over the slate-covered rooftops. Its golden light caught the brass piping that lined the nearest buildings, casting a warm glow over riveted window frames and a row of clinking wind chimes made from discarded gear springs. Somewhere above, a whirring messenger drone, a clumsy little beetle-shaped thing, buzzed past overhead, casting a brief shadow across the cobbles.

  “Today would be glorious,” Jack murmured, his voice a low whisper. “One of my best…” He turned in place, arms outstretched as if to embrace the whole city. His pulse beat with a quiet, rising joy. The breeze was refreshing, the streets were familiar, and the pain and shame… all gone. He looked up into the clear blue sky. “If only this were real…” he said. “Could this be real?”

  For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with him.

  Jack walked through Lundun, the bustling capital of the Kingdom of Merciar, in search of a temple where he could choose his class. With an estimated population exceeding three hundred thousand, Lundun was, in his eyes, the most beautiful city on the continent—perhaps even in the world—and the undisputed pinnacle of magical technology and innovation.

  “I love this city,” Jack said with a smile as he walked through the city of his childhood.

  Everywhere he looked, the city bore testament to the wonders of modern magic fused with aether-powered ingenuity. An elegant convergence of aethercraft and engineering. In the distance, towering brass-and-stone watchtowers stood sentinel over the skyline, each crowned with enormous aether-powered cannons that gleamed like molten bronze in the early morning light.

  Rumour held they could bring down a grown dragon in a single volley. If dragons still roamed the skies, it would make for an impressive display. Aether-conductive copper veins spiralled down the towers like ivy, glowing with blue light drawn from the city’s central aether crystal housed deep beneath the Crystal Spire. The aether crystal, the size of a family home, was powerful enough to protect the city from almost any threat.

  Dancing from one colourful stall to the next, Jack revelled in the textures of fine silks, the tang of oil and ozone in the air, and the chorus of tinkling bells and aether-steam hisses that formed Lundun’s soundtrack. Then, by chance, he came across a weapon seller, a middle-aged woman sharpening a dagger.

  The way she ran the blade across the whetstone made Jack stop. The slow, deliberate sound echoed in his bones. A memory stirred. Though the blade was unremarkable, its hilt worn and scarred, something about the way the blade slid over the whetstone stirred a deep sense of longing.

  This wasn’t about the dagger. It was about what it meant. Ever since deciding to use a poisoned drow dagger to assassinate Greaves, Jack had kept a blade by his side. A decade ago, he’d started with a cheap dagger that was adequate for hunting rabbits and deer while he saved for a real drow weapon. Instinctively, he placed his hand where his drow blade had rested. “I miss my dagger,” he murmured, feeling naked and vulnerable without it.

  Most of the merchant’s wares were of low quality, but a few stood out as good stock. Jack tested the weight of various weapons in his hands while keeping a watchful eye on the merchant as she continued sharpening the old blade on a whetstone.

  He wanted that dagger. He needed it; his fingers itched to hold it.

  This was no drow assassin’s dagger. Drow blades sold for hundreds of gold, and this weapon bore notable damage to the handle. It looked as though a dog had used it as a chew toy. However, the blade itself appeared solid despite a subtle red tarnish. There was no doubt the weapon would make a worthy companion for a Novice Assassin with limited coin.

  Jack studied the merchant. She wore fine clothing that had seen better days. Her dress showed signs of damage, poorly mended, and the fraying, colourful awnings above her stall suggested she’d fallen on hard times.

  Forgetting that this was likely a death dream, he smiled. He’d always enjoyed haggling with merchants. A dance of wits and words that transformed an everyday transaction into a veritable performance. I think I can get a good deal here.

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  He’d need one. As a sixteen-year-old without a job, his pockets weren’t overflowing with gold. He had less than 40 silvers, money he’d saved to buy scribe resources after becoming a Novice Scribe. He estimated the blade was worth at least 70 silvers; without the damage, it would be worth several gold.

  The merchant finished sharpening the blade, sheathed it, and placed the dagger in front of him like an offering. Some merchant-related classes had skills that allowed them to gain insight into a customer’s desires.

  Jack frowned. Has she noticed my interest? He unsheathed the weapon and waved the sharpened dagger in the air as though testing it in battle. Everything felt right. His need for revenge surged like an unstoppable tide, pulling at his fate. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as though he were back in the alley, waiting for his enemy to pass within striking distance. His hand tightened around the dagger’s hilt, ready to bury it in Greaves’ fat gut while staring into the scumbag’s eyes as he died.

  I need it. Jack imagined the blade slicing through the murderous Viscount’s neck, the bastard’s crimson blood flowing into the gutter where it belonged.

  Justice. Revenge. Vengeance. Balance restored.

  The merchant’s eyes moved to the dagger Jack clutched in his hand and gave a vicious smile, her perfect teeth gleaming… her canines sharp as dagger blades.

  Pulling himself back from the edge, Jack considered his coin. I need it. But will I have enough? He grinned as he devised a cunning plan. “Shame about the damage. How much for the defective weapon?” he asked the merchant, discarding the blade as though it were rubbish before picking up another dagger he had no interest in.

  The merchant clenched her fists and glared at Jack with disdain as he discarded the dagger. “That’s an excellent assassin’s weapon, boy.” She scratched her chin, her gaze piercing him as though she were peering into his soul. “You lack the keen eye of a true assassin. How disappointing.”

  Jack winced at the memory of Greaves saying something similar while torturing him for information.

  The merchant shook her head. “This is no ordinary blade. It once belonged to a Master Assassin… a real one,” she said. Retrieving the blade from its resting place, she unsheathed it and ran her thumb along its sharp edge. “50 silvers, including the history of the weapon… boy.”

  Jack noticed the merchant’s eyes flash red for a moment. Is she using a skill on me?

  It wasn’t illegal for merchants to use non-combat skills on customers. There were no known merchant skills that could force a sale. Though a merchant could nudge them in a preferred direction.

  He weighed the price in his mind. 50 silvers seemed fair. If he had the coin, he’d pay without haggling. He smiled at the ‘including the history of the weapon’ clause. She could spin any yarn. Perhaps claiming the blade was once owned by a legendary hero. A tall tale to tickle the imagination of any young man hungry for adventure.

  Shaking his head to stifle a laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. How gullible does she think I am? He countered the price with feigned confidence, “With the handle in that state and damaged runes, it’s not worth more than 35 silvers.”

  The merchant rolled her eyes and sheathed the blade before placing it in front of him again. “Every time, the same trollshit price,” she muttered.

  What? Every time the same, how could she… Jack’s memories felt hazy for a moment. What did she say? He recalled the insult, but the rest was difficult to recall. He shook his head and frowned at the merchant’s negotiation style; insulting the customer wasn’t how most merchants chased a sale.

  He longed to hold the blade again but instead picked up a higher-quality dagger and tested its balance. It was a fine weapon inscribed with multiple runes for durability, sharpness, and a rune to hold a mage’s spell; it didn’t feel right. This one must have been worth at least 5 gold, well beyond his current means. “Now, this is a good weapon for an assassin. Excellent weight,” he stated, mimicking a thrust into an imaginary opponent’s gut. The memory of Viscount Greaves’s lethal strike surged up, filling him with cold dread. “How… how much?”

  The merchant’s expression soured. “I wouldn’t sell it for less than 10 gold, but that’s the wrong weapon for you, boy.” With a grin that revealed her dagger-like canines, she picked up the damaged dagger once more.

  Jack felt anxious that she was touching his dagger.

  Noticing Jack’s anxiety as she handled the weapon, the merchant continued, “This is your weapon…” She pointed the sheathed dagger at him. “I can feel it calling to you.” She chuckled as if privy to a secret. “45 silvers,” she said. “Even if you live a thousand lifetimes, you won’t regret it.” A smirk played on one side of her face; a demented, snaggle-toothed grin spread as one of her sharp canines rested on her bottom lip.

  Startled, Jack took an instinctive step back. “What a strange woman,” he muttered.

  The merchant laughed and unsheathed the dagger, revealing its tarnished blade, which now took on a disturbing red sheen under the dim light of the stall’s awnings.

  Jack’s haggling plan wasn’t working as expected. No merchant haggled quite like this, yet the price was dropping. Gathering his resolve, though unnerved by her intensity, he declared, “Still too much!” He could fake false bravado with the best of them. “The damage to the handle gives a poor feel in my hand,” he complained, feigning reconsideration.

  Drawing on his years of haggling in his past life, even if it was taking all his willpower not to fall to his knees and beg for the blade, he added, “It would cost at least 20 silvers just to repair the handle and another 10 silvers for a basic durability rune. 35 silvers is a fair price.”

  Then, picking up an awful dagger, one that would make a decent paperweight or letter opener, Jack asked, “What’s the price for this fine blade?”

  The merchant’s smile, though present, did not reach her eyes. “That’s different. 11 silvers.” That was a fair price for junk, in his estimation. Without missing a beat, she placed the unsheathed, damaged dagger back before him.

  Jack returned her smile as he couldn’t help but gaze at the dagger he needed. “11 silvers is tempting… but I don’t think I like the colour of the handle.” Indeed, the handle was garish pink. Why would anyone want a dagger with a pink handle? Is that a rune to make it shine?

  With no intention of buying the trashy, pink dagger that would shine, he returned it with more care than it deserved and picked up a bow instead. He’d trained with a similar bow for a few months before choosing a dagger as his weapon for assassinating Greaves.

  Drawing back the bow, he was surprised to discover it caused no pain to his right arm; he almost dropped it in relief. No scars means no pain. Fighting back tears, he asked, “H-how much?”

  The merchant’s frown deepened, her disappointment and annoyance plain to see. “Always to the bow.” She shook her head. “3 gold, but that’s the weapon of a coward. Are you a coward, boy?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Revenge should be delivered up close and personal. You will buy the dagger.” She studied Jack, then smirked. “This is your dagger.” Picking up the damaged dagger, she placed it into its sheath. “39 silver and 10 coppers. No more dumb haggling, boy. It’s yours.” She slammed the dagger down in front of him, her eyes flashing red again.

  Jack staggered back on his heels, startled by the aggressive tone. For a moment, his mind felt like it was resisting something; he shook the feeling away. He needed that dagger. 39 silver and 10 coppers, that was all the coin he had.

  “This had better be the last time I have to do this.” The merchant pointed at him. “And don’t forget your promises, and don’t get killed in a privy again. You insolent little brat.”

  What? I didn’t die in a… Jack’s memories became hazy again. What did she say? Shaking the feeling away, he emptied his pouch of coins before claiming the sheathed dagger. “It’s mine,” he whispered, feeling as though he was greeting a long-lost friend.

  The merchant rolled her eyes and made no move to count the coins. Instead, she left them on the counter as she began explaining the weapon’s history in a bored, monotone cadence. “You will not regret this purchase. The dagger has tasted the blood of thousands and has been owned by countless assassins.” She smiled, revealing her sharp canines. “But its final owner was the most important one of all.” Leaning over the stall to get closer to Jack, she whispered, “Your weapon was owned by a Master Assassin out for vengeance.”

  Where she had once spoken with disinterest, now she revelled in her performance. “The assassin was famed for eliminating over one hundred blood cult members during your Kingdom’s greatest challenge. This blade has tasted the blood of many Experts and Masters, fuelling its owner’s drive for revenge and imbuing the blade with a strong affinity for blood magic.” She offered a broad smile and licked her sharp canines. “It is said that this dagger is a weapon of vengeance, growing with its true owner… their combined power rivalling that of the Gods.” She ended with a soft chuckle.

  Jack hadn’t registered her words, offering vacant half-nods to appease her as he secured the dagger to his side. As the blade pressed against his hip, he gave a deep sigh and felt… safe again.