At the end of a staircase, in the basement of an otherwise unremarkable house, three men sat around a table in a cold room, playing cards. Among them was Takalil, a pickpocket. He was feeling a little smug—released early by the guard captain after the events of the other night. He could’ve done without being turned into an owl, though. His fellow dealers still weren’t pleased that he’d been caught in the first place. He liked to think they still harbored some lingering fear about the young woman who had visited them nights ago. But deep down, even he didn’t believe that.

  Takalil threw down his cards and kicked the leg of the table with a huff. “Stupid game.”

  “You think so?” asked the leader, Instruc. “What’s that, your sixth game today?”

  “Shut it! It just… it took me a few games to realize how bad it really was!”

  “Shhh…” the third man, Winks, whispered.

  “You’re too paranoid, Winks!” Takalil snapped. “No one’s paying attention to this place after what happened at the festival.”

  “I’m not worried about that… I just hate your mouthing off!”

  Instruc pulled the coins and cards back toward him, shuffling the deck with fluid ease. “I suppose you don’t want in on the next match then?” he teased.

  Takalil groaned. “…yeah, deal me in.”

  Just as the cards were being dealt, three knocks landed on the door.

  “Seems like our neighbors are more fussy than our young friend assumed,” Winks said with a sneer.

  “No,” Instruc replied, “they’ve come for the package. The door’s open!” he shouted.

  In walked a man nearly seven feet tall, hair pale white. He wore two coats—one simple and black, the undercoat a deep, vibrant red. He was freshly shaven, a line of stubble tracing from his ears to his chin. His clothing moved as he stepped, a faint clicking coming from his belt.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “I’m glad I still get informed about deals,” Winks muttered sarcastically.

  “Quiet,” Instruc snapped, walking to a corner of the room to collect the goods. “You expect me to inform you of every little thing?” His voice carried a nervous edge.

  Winks turned to the man again, eyes narrowing. Then something shifted in his expression, and he quickly looked away.

  “What?” Takalil asked, munching from a bowl of nuts.

  “Shhh…” Winks murmured. “Pay him no mind.”

  Something had definitely spooked him. Takalil gave the man his own look, probably to his mate’s dismay. Sure, the guy was intimidating—tall, broad, face unnervingly stern, eyes pale and empty—but weird men were common in their line of work. What was there to be afraid of? They outnumbered him three to one.

  Instruc returned, hauling over two briefcases made of worn brown leather with tarnished gold latches. They had obvious weight, though only one let out a slight rattle. He handed them over, then quickly turned and returned to his seat.

  “There you go,” Instruc said, his throat tight, “that should be all of it.”

  The man in red knelt and set the cases in front of him with care. With practiced motion, he flipped the latches and opened them. Takalil gulped. Inside each case were stacks of dynamite—packed tight, not a gap between them—except for one. One open space, perfectly fitted for a missing stick. The man said nothing.

  “Look, pal, I don’t know what to tell you,” Instruc stammered, sweat glistening on his cheek. “That’s how we got them.”

  The man pointed at Takalil, his voice rumbling low like a quake. “Give…” he gestured with his hand.

  The other two snapped their heads toward him, visibly nervous.

  “Takalil. Do you have it?” Instruc asked.

  “No,” he answered, insulted.

  “Boy,” the man in red said again, “give it to me…”

  “I haven’t taken anything!”

  “Tak! GIVE HIM THE DYNAMITE!”

  “I said I didn’t—”

  Bang. A bullet from the collector’s gun tore through Takalil’s chest. He crashed against the wall behind him, stunned by the hole, blood smearing the spot where he collapsed.

  “Bastard!” Winks snarled, drawing a knife and stepping forward.

  Two more shots. Then silence.

  The man in red stood tall, calmly returning his weapon to his belt. He stepped over the bodies, moving to Takalil’s coat pocket, where he retrieved the last stick of dynamite. He scooped up the coins from the table, slipping them into a small pouch beside his gun, then returned the stick to its rightful place in the briefcase. He clipped the cases shut and walked out of the room—leaving the door open behind him.

  Takalil couldn’t breathe.

  Then the world went dark.