Drawing a steadying breath, Jack raised the bow and drew…

  Two men appeared on the other side of the road, striding towards the mage.

  “You’re ten minutes fucking late!” Mo snapped. He’d again reached for his wand.

  Jack froze mid-draw and held his breath. Fuck! That was close.

  One of the men stopped about fifteen feet short of the mage. The other grunted. “We had to detour to avoid the guards. Get over it.” The bald, broad-shouldered figure with a sword hanging at his side kept walking towards Mo.

  Keeping the arrow nocked, Jack eased his draw.

  The mage scowled but didn’t reply. He opened the case resting on the broken wall. “Twenty kilos of Sylvan’s Courage. High-quality; none of the cheap shit you get from the gnomes.”

  Jack’s stomach tightened. Fucking drug dealers.

  The Kingdom of Merciar had a deep, festering rot, drugs; Sylvan’s Courage was one of its blackest poisons. Originally crafted by elven mages, Sylvan’s Courage amplified magical potency and sharpened their understanding of spells. The cost? It nibbled away at their lifespan.

  For elves—who could afford to sacrifice a few years off their long lifespans—taken in rare, measured doses spread over centuries, the drug’s bite was subtle, almost negligible. But for other races, especially humans, the price was ruinous. It sank its claws in fast. Human mages burned through their reserves like paper to flame, addicted before they even realised they were hooked; needing ever-growing doses just to keep hold of their magic.

  Impatient Novice Mages craved it most. Hungry for shortcuts, desperate for the prestige and power they hadn’t earned. Sylvan’s Courage could indeed deliver power in the short term… but it carved decades from a human’s life. It hollowed them out from the inside.

  Among humans, the drug had earned a far more fitting name, Wraith’s Hunger; a curse describing how its users wasted away, hollow-eyed and twitching, until they resembled the aether-starved wraiths they so feared.

  “Is he a user?” Jack whispered. If Mo was hooked on Wraith’s Hunger, it would explain how the bastard had clawed his way to Apprentice Mage in his early twenties. Most human mages didn’t reach level 25 until their mid-twenties at the earliest.

  Jack shook his head at the realisation. Only one kind of fool burned that fast. The kind who was already dying inside.

  The bald man grinned, tossing the mage a coin pouch without a word. The mage counted the coins, nodded once, and handed over the case. The two men turned and hurried back down the street.

  Mo secured his purse, leaned against the crumbling wall, and pulled out a thumb-sized messenger drone.

  As the mage prepared a message, Jack’s grip tightened on the bow. He drew back an arrow while activating True Aim.

  One… two…

  The mage tapped a few runes on the messenger drone.

  Three… four…

  “Delivery made, heading back now,” Mo sent the message.

  Five… six…

  Jack loosed his enhanced arrow. The messenger drone sped off while the arrow slammed into the mage’s chest, piercing his right lung.

  “Ufff!” the mage gasped, staggering against the broken wall, clutching at the arrow, blood bubbling at his lips.

  Jack was already nocking another arrow. Stay calm. You’ve got him. This time, no skill boost. His hands trembled from the stress as he drew back the arrow.

  The mage groaned, both hands still pressed to the arrow lodged in his chest.

  Jack took a few seconds to aim and loosed the second arrow.

  It flew and… missed by inches, cracking into the wall behind, knocking loose a small chunk of sandstone.

  Damn it. Jack’s heart hammered. He grabbed a third arrow.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Coughing up blood, the mage’s gaze swept across the street in search of his attacker. His eyes settled on the shadows where Jack hid.

  Jack remained hidden deep in the shadows, heart thudding in his ears.

  Mo grimaced, fumbling for his hip to retrieve a wand. He coughed up more blood, then leaned against the wall for support and aimed into the shadows.

  With a flash of orange light, he fired… The mage’s Fireball shot straight into the shadows, exploding against the far wall in a burst of flame and light. The dark corner Jack had occupied lit up like daylight. A rat squeaked in panic and scurried away. Half a dozen pigeons flew from the rafters above.

  But Jack had already changed position. Three… four… He’d already nocked and drawn back a third arrow, activating True Aim.

  The mage was panicking; he charged and hurled a second Fireball into the dark, missing again.

  Five… six…

  Jack’s empowered arrow flew true, slicing through the air… burying itself into the mage’s throat with a wet thud.

  The wand clattered from the mage’s hand. He gurgled something incoherent, staggered… then toppled backwards over the crumbling wall.

  Jack was already moving, bow in one hand, dagger drawn in the other, his legs pumping hard.

  Is he dead? Skidding to a halt five or six feet away from the wall… he hesitated. Be dead…

  If the mage was still alive, he could blast Jack point-blank as soon as he looked over the wall.

  Fuck. Jack slung the bow over his shoulder and pulled out a blinding powder. If this goes wrong, I’ll use a frost breath scroll, he thought, touching his breast pocket where his scrolls were stored.

  The silence pressed in; all Jack could hear was his pounding heartbeat as he ducked low, creeping closer… Then, with a shaking hand, he lobbed the blinding powder over the wall. A small pop, a flash of silvery dust, and faint drifting sparkles covered the area.

  With caution, Jack moved sideways, stuck his head up just long enough for a peek, then ducked back down. He exhaled with relief. “Thank the Gods.”

  The mage was dead.

  Jack climbed over the wall, confirming the kill. Worried the noise of several Fireball spells might attract attention, he scanned the street. Nothing. No shouts or running feet. Just a faint breeze and the distant sounds of city life, soft and far away.

  He crouched by the body and worked fast to loot the body. Two coin pouches, a pocket watch, a folded map and letter, a small velvet box, and a bronze ring. Jack swept everything into his pack without pausing.

  The leather armour caught his eye. “I’m not stripping another dead body,” Jack muttered to himself, shuddering as he remembered the ordeal of lying next to the half-naked dead rogue under the tree roots. “That was damn creepy!”

  He crouched again, working on the spent arrows that were embedded in the mage’s chest and throat.

  The one in the throat slid free; he wiped the gore off on the mage’s clothing. The other, buried deep in the chest, refused to budge past the ribs. He gritted his teeth, wrestled with it for a few more moments, then gave up. With a frustrated grunt, Jack snapped the shaft, leaving the arrowhead embedded.

  He exhaled, sweat dripping down his back. “This fucking sucks.” Glancing around, he spotted a rotted door propped against the crumbling wall. He dragged it over the top of the corpse. It wouldn’t hide the body forever, but it might buy some time.

  Only then did he climb back over the broken wall to retrieve the mage’s wand. He scooped it up, along with the arrow that had missed its mark, before shouldering his pack and moving away.

  He was halfway down the ruined street when…

  Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

  The sharp, echoing sound of boots on cobbles rang out behind him.

  Jack’s chest clenched. “Shit…” He ducked into the shadow of a half-collapsed doorway, pulling his cloak tight, his heart hammering like a drum, every nerve on edge.

  Voices drifted closer, footsteps approaching from the north end of the street.

  A silhouette emerged onto the ruined street. A tall, broad-shouldered, armoured, and armed male with a sword. The figure paused, looking left, then right. Another silhouette slipped out behind him, slimmer, with the telltale shape of a bow in hand.

  Jack edged deeper into the shadows and held his breath. Did they hear the Fireball blasts? With a racing heart, he made himself as small as possible and squeezed further into the shadows.

  More shapes appeared; a full adventurer party. Jack counted them. A warrior in chainmail, a scout, two archers, a mage, and a priest. They slowed as they reached the derelict building, their heads turning in search of danger.

  Jack held his breath as his heart hammered in his chest.

  The scout was the first to move, slipping ahead, vanishing behind the broken wall where the body was hidden. Moments later, his voice drifted out, dry and unimpressed.

  “Another killing. Body stripped of valuables.”

  The priest gave a soft, uneasy hiss. “That’s the third this week.”

  Jack felt ice slide down his spine.

  “What the fuck’s going on in this city?” one of the archers said.

  “Nothing we want to tangle with,” the chainmail warrior growled. “Leave it. The city guard can deal with this shit. We’re here for the train contract, not to play street detective.”

  The scout reappeared, shrugging. “Fine by me. Let’s move.”

  The group turned, their boots crunching over rubble as they headed down the opposite street, their conversation fading.

  Jack stayed frozen in the shadows, his chest tight with anxiety, until they were well out of earshot. One minute. Two. Only when their voices had faded away did he slip out of the shadows, weaving through the narrow alleys away from the scene.

  “That was too close,” he muttered under his breath, pulling the mask up just enough to wipe sweat from his face. His fingers trembled as he pressed them to his brow. He wasn’t just shaking from the kill. No, he was shaking from how fast things could’ve gone wrong.

  Once he was a dozen streets away, only then did he let himself begin to relax. I’m done for the day, he thought. Definitely done. But even as he slipped back towards the heart of the city, one thought wouldn’t leave him. Another killing?

  He was relieved that the mage’s death would be just another victim in a string of recent killings, yet he couldn’t help but wonder, how many victims? And why?