Exiting his home, Jack slipped on the rat-faced rogue’s dark cloak, the fabric feeling heavy over his shoulders. “Less than a week since I got a second chance, and I’m already back in a damn cloak,” he muttered as he cinched the hood low over his brow to hide his face.

  After adjusting his covered white oak bow, he set off into the city. First stop, a merchant who sold full-face masks. Despite the partial disguise, Jack moved with caution, keeping to the edges of alleys and narrow streets, eyes sharp for danger.

  “I’ll feel more comfortable when I have a mask,” he muttered under his breath. He had a specific shop in mind, one catering to assassins, thieves, and rogues. He’d shopped there in his previous life.

  Nighthawk and Raven came into view. The shop was tucked down a narrow side road, away from the main thoroughfares, with tall buildings on both sides blocking the afternoon sun. As he walked the narrow lane, he could still hear the sounds of the busy city, the calls of street vendors, the chatter, and the clatter of wheels on cobbles.

  But here, on this empty, shadowed lane, there was a loneliness compared to the main streets of Lundun… it felt dangerous. The weathered wooden sign of Nighthawk and Raven swung overhead, painted black with silver lettering, a stylised raven’s wing curling through the letter N. The shop’s narrow fa?ade was set between two taller sandstone buildings, its heavy door blackened and reinforced with dark iron bands. Small, barred windows glinted in the low light, giving the shop a shadowed, secretive feel.

  As he got closer to the shopfront, he was surprised it hadn’t changed much. “Looks about the same as twenty-five years from now,” he whispered. Even the sign looked the same in the future. He had frequented other shops like this in his past life. They all catered to rogues, thieves, and assassins, and offered similar goods and services. One such shop was where he’d made contact with a weapons specialist and had purchased the expensive drow assassin’s blade and poison.

  Jack took a slow breath and pushed the heavy door open. Hmm… like in the future, well-oiled and no chime. Inside, the shop was dim, lit by soft lanterns hooded with blackened glass, casting a muted glow across the space. The scent of oiled leather, old wood, and a faint trace of metal polish hung thick in the air.

  “No customers,” he muttered as he closed the door behind him. He craned his neck around the centre displays to see the counter. Hmm… no shopkeeper. Anyone could rob the place blind.

  To his immediate left, a tall display lined with rows of gloves in supple leather, fingerless, spiked, padded for climbing, or stitched with hidden compartments. He scanned the gloves. I really should buy some archery gloves, he thought.

  To his immediate right, below a small barred window, was a display of belts and bandoliers; some designed to hold knives or darts, others marked with subtle runic patterns for silence or concealment.

  The right wall was dominated by masks. Dozens of them, displayed on wooden mannequin heads: smooth porcelain faces painted with elegant swirls, blank steel visors, leather hoods with stitched-on grins, grim horned helms, and masks shaped like birds, beasts, or skulls. One mask resembled the face of a snarling fox; another, the blank, eye-slit stare of a faceless wraith. Another looked like an angry goblin.

  Recalling Zia’s reaction to Goblins, he thought, I better not bring her here. Jack’s eyes were drawn to a sleek, blackened steel mask; no features, just smooth metal with horizontal eye-slits. A simple, intimidating mask, perfect.

  “That’s what I need,” he whispered. He stepped closer, fingers brushing the cool edge of the mask. He removed the mask from the display, having already decided to buy it. But then…

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  “Welcome to Nighthawk and Raven. Need a little extra protection, friend?”

  Jack turned with a start. He hadn’t seen anyone at the counter when he entered. There stood a slim, sharp-eyed, older man with a slight stoop. He leaned against the polished glass display counter, his long fingers drumming on the surface, his rings glinting in the dull light.

  “A mask’s a good start,” the shopkeeper nodded towards the wall of masks, “but a man like you, I’d wager, needs more than just a new face.” His eyes moved to Jack’s covered bow and cloak. “A little extra edge? A little insurance perhaps?”

  Jack’s pulse steadied, but his mind sharpened; he gave the shopkeeper a small smile and nod of recognition. That’s impressive, old man. He didn’t hear him move.

  His gaze drifted across the counter display of throwing knives to the small silver vials marked with delicate rune script. Poisons? Paralytics? Something else? I doubt they have any of the good stuff here, he thought.

  Banned poisons were only to be found on the black market. No reputable merchant would risk selling prohibited substances out in the open. Yet a merchant can know a man, who knows a man, who knows another ‘connected’ man, who knows his way around such things as inconvenient laws.

  In his past life, he’d spent almost a hundred gold on one dose of poison from a ‘connected’ man. The poison had been guaranteed to kill, which it did; it killed Jack! Most commonly available poisons, though effective, could be treated by lower-level healers or even affordable potions produced by alchemists. Still, if the target lacked the antidote or couldn’t get to a healer in time, then even a cheap poison could be effective.

  I still have the poison from the dead rogue. I’ll pass on more poisons… for now.

  There was a slender wrist sheath, its leather black as pitch, designed to conceal two thin stilettos up the sleeve. A flick of the wrist, and the blade would drop into the hand. Next to it, a set of weighted darts, their fletching dyed black, perfect for silent throws.

  His heart quickened. That sheath is tempting… He could use it to hold rolled-up scrolls instead of small blades, though he’d still have the problem of it clashing with his arm guards. The arm guards are more important, and I already have access to my scrolls. He tapped his breast pocket where he’d stored his five spell scrolls. One thing at a time. Jack forced himself to focus on the mask. A mask today, accessories another time.

  But as he glanced back at the counter, the old man smiled. “Just saying, friend. Masks hide your face, sure. But steel and striking from the shadows in silence.” There was a noise that caused Jack to look towards the shop’s entrance. “They’ll keep you alive.”

  “Fuck!” Spinning back around at the unexpected close voice behind him, Jack found the shopkeeper hovering at his back. Where the hell did he come from? He placed his hand against his chest, trying to calm his frayed nerves after the unexpected jump scare.

  The old man gave Jack a creepy grin and chuckled as he stood amongst a display of manikins, showcasing new leather armour. “What about an elven dagger?” the shopkeeper asked. “Wyvern bone handle, the blade’s a mithril alloy, imbued with high-quality aether crystals to improve its rune enchantments.”

  Jack went to shake his head and heard another small noise, like something shifting behind him. Glancing back, he saw nothing. “I already…” He cut his words short at the shock of finding the old man gone again. What the hell?

  “Come, come. Come see. Come see this,” the shopkeeper called from behind the counter, one hand waving Jack over.

  “How the hell did he do that?” Jack muttered. He has to be an assassin.

  In the old man’s hand, he held a beautiful dagger. It had intricate rune enchantments adorning the white bone handle that even in the subdued light of Nighthawk and Raven glimmered.

  “Wouldn’t that be a bad idea, having a shining handle for an assassin’s blade?” Jack asked as he approached the counter for a closer look at the dagger.

  The old man smirked and shook his head. “Halya,” he whispered. The dagger shivered and then vanished. “Elven made,” the merchant said, “Ancient runes. Very rare… but affordable.”

  Jack wet his lips, feeling the quiet pull of temptation in the dim, dangerous shop. “Nice…” His hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his own dagger, and… lost interest in the flashy elven blade. It wasn’t for him. He shook his head and scanned the rest of the shop to see what else was on offer. Just the mask… or a little more protection?

  The old vendor’s humped shoulders slumped at Jack’s disinterest in the dagger. “Nanhalya,” he whispered, and the dagger reappeared.

  Impressive enchantment, Jack thought as he returned to browsing the shop. He hadn’t planned to spend extra, but the itch of survival tugged hard. I can always earn more coin. Can’t buy a new life, he mused while looking through what else the shop had to offer. Something caught his eye. Ooh, I should get a pair of those.