Reed reached the camp at night. The long walk through the cool darkness had refreshed his mind, and the gnawing guilt over Eliza's death was finally beginning to subside. He understood it had been a necessity. The choice of the lesser of two evils. Reed had made that choice, and now he had to live with it.

  Hornet summoned him the moment he entered the perimeter. Several kreyghars were already waiting, men Reed had worked with before. Theron was there, along with Gray and Martin; the others weren't worth remembering.

  Hornet sat in his usual spot, laying out the business at hand. When he finished, Reed started to doubt his own hearing.

  "Wait... the Church?"

  "Yes," Hornet confirmed. "The Church is issuing the contract. That's why they're paying so much."

  "What, were you born in the woods?" Martin sneered. "They've been hunting rogue mages for fifty years now. Are you sure, Hornet, that this ignoramus is fit for the job?"

  "Don't get heated," Gray grumbled. "You're such an intelligent man yourself you can barely differ letters."

  "Since when do you defend fucking elves?" Martin snapped, his face reddening with indignation.

  "I have to travel with him. I don't want him to gut me the second I turn my back. Besides, we aren't exactly counts gathered here ourselves."

  "I don't give a damn what you do among yourselves," Hornet growled, silencing them both. "But you are going to get the job done. If I find out someone interfered, I'll gut them and hang them by their own guts. Understood, Martin?"

  Martin lowered his gaze, not daring to look at the leader.

  "I'm asking, do you understand?" Hornet repeated. Martin nodded curtly. "If the long-ears cuts anyone because of you, both of you will feed worms. You understand, bastard?"

  The last word was spat at Reed. He nodded, but his fists clenched so hard the leather of his gloves creaked. Gray smirked and patted him on the shoulder in a way that was almost friendly.

  Reed didn't feel much sympathy for Gray, but he didn't feel disgust either. Gray belonged to that rare breed of people about whom you could say nothing particularly bad, but nothing good either. He had been with Reed on his first job and, unlike many of the Wasps, he did exactly what was asked of him. Gray didn't steal, didn't rape; he simply executed the order. This earned him a sliver of Reed's respect. He wouldn't call Gray a friend, but he didn't want to cut off his ears either, which was a significant achievement by Reed's standards.

  Hornet had proven himself a capable leader, but he was a glaringly unprincipled man whenever a question went beyond the matter of payment. He didn't care what the Wasps did as long as they didn't break the gang's internal laws. Hornet respected and listened to only a few kreyghars close to him; the rest were held at an equally low level. He wouldn't hesitate to stab anyone for breaking the rules and felt no regret afterward as there were always plenty of desperate souls willing to join the gang. And Hornet always had thugs to choose fresh meat from.

  However, there was a dozen or two bandits who had been with the Wasps from the very beginning, though only three earned to call themselves Hornet's friends. Reed, however, didn't need to be friends with Hornet to kill him. He felt a sharp thrill of anticipation whenever he thought about the leader’s fast-approaching end. The business became more personal with every assignment. Hornet often divided his people into the worthy and the unworthy; Reed belonged to the latter, but he was useful. He did the work, and he did it well, no questions asked. Therefore, the level of contempt for him remained at a stable, manageable level.

  The mission, strictly speaking, was a hunt. A safari for mages ordered by the Church. They paid decently, so Hornet had taken the contract without hesitation. He generally didn't give a damn who the target was as long as the gold flowed regularly into his pocket. The job seemed like a breeze to many in the group, but Reed feared it wouldn't be as easy as they imagined.

  Firstly, he had to manage his main contract, the destruction of the Wasps. Secondly, the Wasps didn't even vaguely understand what it meant to deal with a mage, even an inexperienced one. Reed considered it likely that half the group would die before the mages were even captured. And capturing them wasn't enough; they had to be brought back alive to be handed over to the Church and the Council. Some bragged, promising "magical" fun, but Reed wasn't laughing. Bravado and overconfidence were poor companions, so he decided that such a job required careful preparation.

  The journey to the west of Bradenmain would take time, and it wouldn't be an easy walk. Not only because Ermod was preparing an ambush. Street bandits and rival gangs always stalked the caravans, ready to kill for an extra copper. Moreover, the west hadn't been friendly the last time Reed was there.

  Hornet gave them two hours to pack. Reed decided to gather everything he owned. He knew no sorcerer would let anyone get close enough to use daggers. Reed took his bow and bought extra arrows from the armorer. But simple arrows might not be enough; anyone could miss the hit. Reed sat by the fire and began coating the arrowheads with poison. Even if he only grazed them, it would no longer matter. He hadn't heard of mages being resistant to toxins.

  "Getting ready?" A heavy hand slapped Reed on the shoulder. He twitched, barely noticeable, cursing himself for not hearing footsteps behind him.

  "You should be, too."

  Gray laughed loudly and sat nearby. "I already am. That's smart shit," he said, pointing at the rag soaked in poison in Reed's hands. "I didn't even think about using toxins."

  "I don't know who we'll meet on the road," Reed shrugged. "Are you here on business, or just to wag your tongue?"

  "Does it bother you?"

  "I don't like shaking the air for nothing."

  "Then listen," Gray scooted closer, his voice dropping. "Martin is... sniffing around."

  "Is there a reason?" Reed asked, keeping his tone low.

  "You can always find a reason. Just keep in mind he's not taking his eyes off you. Be ready for the little shit to try and shank you on the way."

  "Maybe you know the cause, too?"

  "You're an elf."

  Reed sighed. Martin was arguably at the top of the list of those who hated him. It hadn't been obvious at first, but over time, it became harder for him to hide grievances against Reed’s race. Their last skirmish had ended in a fistfight that Martin lost, and now, apparently, he was impatient for a rematch. Although Martin wasn't the only Wasp Reed had fought, he was the most vindictive. Losing to an elf was quite the misfortune.

  Not all Wasps were fond of elves; many remembered the war from the stories of their elders and harbored a deep-seated malice. It wasn't as bad as in Dalgaard, perhaps, but not as good as it was across the ocean. Sometimes, years of bitterness absorbed since childhood spilled out in small, localized skirmishes. It didn't matter how they started. It could be a seat taken at the common table or an accidental glance that someone chose to misunderstand. Hornet knew about this, but he did nothing to stop the harassment. Either he didn't give a damn, or he found it interesting to see what would happen next.

  "So what?" Reed grunted. "Everyone here is a convict, a thief, or a killer. I don't stand out that much. Besides, Hornet knows my worth."

  "Well, that doesn't mean anything. Hornet says everything is under control for now," Gray scratched his beard, lost in thought. "But don't get too cocky. Martin really might gut you on the road and call it an accident. Everyone will believe it; no one is going to step up to protect you."

  "Because I'm an elf, right?"

  "Uh-huh," Gray nodded. "They don't care how justified Martin's actions are. For them, it's just entertainment. It's happened before, you know it. He'll be watching you with every eye he has, looking for the smallest excuse to take you down. He hasn't forgotten that last time."

  "What's it to you, old man?" Reed asked as Gray stood up.

  Gray simply shrugged and lit a smoke, moving toward the crowd of kreyghars sitting a bit further off. Reed watched his back and wondered: why would the old ghoul actually care about him, a runaway slave from Belden? No matter how he racked his brains, he found no answer. Of course, one couldn't take every word Gray said seriously, but in that moment, he had been convincing.

  Abandoning the attempt to understand the true reasons for Gray's altruism, Reed returned to his arrows.

  ***

  When the group left Bradenmain, Reed received a sign from Ermod that the "escort" had picked up the trail. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted three times, but no one paid attention. Owls were a common occurrence. The Argain guards were supposed to follow Reed for two days and attack on the morning of the third.

  The first day of the journey went relatively easily. Reed didn't engage in conversations and didn't speak to anyone; however, no one spoke to him either, except Gray. The old man would light up his stinking tobacco, sit nearby, and spout various nonsense, though interesting stories sometimes slipped through the rubbish. Martin periodically glanced at Reed as if he was a public enemy but did nothing more, seeing Gray nearby. Over time, Reed understood that Gray was approaching him intentionally.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  On the second day, Reed was restless. He waited for any signs that the guards were still close but found none. By evening, they should have been nearby, but Reed saw no proof of their presence. He had already begun to fear that the Wasps had discovered his double game and the guards simply hadn't made it. If so, Reed wouldn't even make it halfway; they would cut his throat as soon as they had the chance. Even Gray's stories no longer entertained him; he barely listened, beginning to suspect that his intrusive companion was deliberately distracting him with chatter. The evening weighed on him; fatigue made itself known, but Reed couldn't sleep. He sat by the fire, peering into the tongues of flame, and listened. Nature was eloquent, but it wasn't its voice Reed hoped to hear.

  Gray approached the fire and sat nearby. For some time, he was silent, then took out his tobacco, lit it, and spoke:

  "Everyone's already fast asleep."

  "And you, aren't you tired?"

  "Are you?"

  "Can't sleep," Reed grunted, examining the blade of the dagger he had been polishing.

  "Got a story to tell?"

  "Maybe," Gray chuckled, his smile hidden behind clouds of smoke. This tobacco wasn't as foul-smelling. "I hope you realized that I'm dragging myself after you not because I find your company pleasant and want to bore you to death?"

  Reed didn't answer. He simply nodded and then added:

  "I saw."

  "He's waiting until you're alone."

  "And you’ve got a kind soul, eh?"

  "If I have one," Gray laughed, then took a drag. Smoke danced in the air, writhing like an exotic dancer. There was no wind, and the clouds hung around, fumigating Reed with the rough smell of tobacco. "I'm too old for such squabbles, that's all."

  "Really?" Reed blurted snidely. He hadn't intended to play the fool, but the words slipped out.

  "Yeah. Or there's a story behind it, but I won't tell you. I'm sure you have plenty of stories yourself."

  "Is it written on my face?" Reed was fed up with hearing that phrase, so he said it first.

  "No," Gray shook his head. "I saw how you fight. There's nothing like that in Bradenmain. And datura powders aren't used simply because nothing... narcotic grows in all of Emeron. Poisons, medicines, yes, but not datura."

  "I made it myself," Reed confessed.

  "You don't say?" Gray stared at him with curiosity, leaning forward and exhaling a stream of smoke into his face. "How?"

  "As best I could."

  "And where did you get the recipe? Don't lie and say from merchants; if that were so, half of Argain would have datura within a day."

  "Learned it across the ocean."

  Gray grunted. "Across the ocean, you say?" He squinted as if he didn't quite believe it. "And what's there, across that ocean of yours?"

  "Everything is just like here. Only there are no elves, and humans are the same. Only their skin is different, kind of bluish. And their eyes are so..." Reed snapped his fingers, searching for the word. "Identical. Very light. Everyone, can you imagine? Finding someone with dark eyes is great luck. They eat a lot of sweets and wear these glasses on their noses so the sun doesn't blind them. They have weak eyes; light hurts them."

  "Holy shit! And what else? What are the women like?"

  "Different," Reed smiled. "They all have such long hair, often completely white or ginger. All big, strong. Beautiful."

  Reed sighed, driving away the memories that had suddenly flooded back. The image of the woman he had served before ending up on the Cassandra surfaced in his mind. He hadn’t thought of her for a very long time; the memory ached in the depths of his soul like an old scar—painless, but still there.

  Her name was Morioka. She was young, beautiful, and devastatingly arrogant. Morioka's father had hired Reed to guard their house and later placed him at his daughter's disposal. Morioka became his first love, and through her, Reed had drawn two important conclusions about the love’s nature. First, beautiful women do not fall in love with mercenaries, even those as exotic as Reed. Second, loving someone like Morioka hurts.

  She knew how to twist men around her finger and derived a cruel pleasure from it. She twisted Reed, too, and he was young and half-mad with devotion, so he let her. All her antics seemed like childish pranks, even when she went too far. She was like the Mother herself. She was close, yet unreachable; almost unreal. When Reed managed to get near this white-haired deity, he was ready to forgive her anything. Even if she had ignited the Rebellion of the Elements, he would have forgiven her. She would let him close, then later pretend they were total strangers, as if it hadn't been her driving him to the edge of insanity with her midnight whispers in the dark corners of her father's house.

  Morioka's power over him was so absolute that one day he agreed to something he never would have done had he not been blinded by love. Morioka wished to remain the sole mistress of the Cliff of the Tamed Storm. She murdered her father using Reed's hands. And then, with the blood still wet, she placed a bounty on his head. The captain of the Cassandra had pulled him out of Vartis, and for that service, he had taken years of Reed's life instead of gold.

  "Hey! You hear me?" Gray shoved Reed's shoulder, tearing him from the past. "What's with you?"

  "Lost in thought," Reed grimaced in annoyance and turned away.

  Gray stayed silent for a moment, lit a fresh portion of tobacco, and stared at Reed again. Reed barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

  "So, you were like some exotic critter over there?"

  "I wasn't a slave, but they have slavery there, too."

  "And why wouldn't they," Gray puffed bitterly. "It's profitable."

  "But not for everyone."

  "Heh, yeah. So why don't they come here?"

  "Because they don't want to," Reed shrugged. "First off, there's nothing to buy here except slaves. Even if there were, the trip there and back takes too much time, which is not profitable. Second, the waters are rough; not everyone makes it through, even if they know the routes. Third, they have enough slavers of their own."

  "So how did you end up there, then? If it's all so complicated."

  "I was a pirate," Reed lied. He lied about his life so often that he was sometimes surprised he hadn't forgotten the truth himself. "I was born in Antari; my mother was an elf who fled from Belden. Not the best fate, right? After she died, I got a job on a ship. Sometimes the captain sailed across the ocean, and that alone was great luck. But I wasn't the captain. I didn't know the routes. The ship I served on hit a storm on the way to Emeron. The captain died, and the crew scattered to the winds."

  Reed couldn't explain why he lied to everyone he met. He didn't care about the consequences of his hypocrisy, even if he eventually had to meet them face to face. He had told Hornet and Gray two completely different stories about his life, and it didn't matter in the end, since both would likely die anyway. Hornet for certain, and Gray… well, as luck would have it.

  The thought of where his lies might lead didn't frighten him. He lied so skillfully, so elegantly, that any stage actor would envy his ability to switch masks and change his tune at a moment's notice. Lying was as natural to him as death. And since death was inevitable, his deception was too.

  "So, did they decorate your face over there, too?" Gray asked, nodding at the scar.

  "Almost," Reed tossed out. "A duel. I banged a woman who happened to be the wife of a rich man in Saisen. He fought for Tayden, and when he found out I'd got my way with his wife, he challenged me."

  Gray laughed loudly, then coughed abruptly, releasing the remaining smoke. When the fit passed, he laughed again, the sound echoing through the gray clouds rising from his tobacco.

  "And what happened then?" Gray asked once he’d caught his breath.

  "Nothing," Reed offered a thin smile. "I went back to Antari, and she was left without a husband and without honor. After that, I went to sea."

  "Why come back? It’s not like there’s anything worth catching here."

  "Nothing there either," Reed shrugged. "Not for the likes of us. It's more like one vast Empire across the water. If you weren't born rich, you never will be."

  Gray didn't answer; he only shook his head. They sat for a while longer as Gray spoke of penal servitude, while Reed continued to lie, not even bothering to remember his own previous legends. When the first rays of the sun cut through the horizon, Gray stood up.

  "I'm off," he grumbled, shaking the ash into the dying fire. "Still have time for a bit of sleep."

  Reed nodded, remaining alone with his anxieties. Thoughts swarmed in his head like corpse worms, and none of them brought him peace. Each new thought was darker than the last, an unstoppable flow of dread. The guards had given no signs. He was about to leave the fire when an arrow thudded into the ground right next to him. Reed cursed loudly, nearly falling backward in shock.

  "Gray!" he shouted. "Get everyone up! Ambush!"

  Reed wasn't used to shouting so loud; his voice cracked on the last word, but Gray heard him. Everything happened as if in a dream. Confused Wasps spilled out of their tents, snatching up weapons as they moved, but they didn't understand where the attack was coming from. A hail of arrows rained down on the temporary camp. Reed miraculously avoided death, maneuvering between the panicked kreyghars. Martin tumbled out of his tent last, shouting commands. Screams of pain, curses, and Martin’s barking orders merged into one turbulent, deafening cacophony.

  Reed rushed to find his bow, though he wasn't sure it would be useful. As he rummaged through his things, the noise grew, joined by the rhythmic clash of steel. Running out of the tent, Reed caught sight of the Guard's flag. A cold, bitter smile slipped across his face as he scurried between the tents, looking for cover. On the move, he drew his daggers and crouched, peering out. The fight wasn't particularly violent yet; the Guard wasn't supposed to kill everyone, only enough to weaken the ranks.

  Just as Reed crouched behind Gray's tent, a guardsman lunged at him. Apparently, Ermod hadn't deigned to value Reed's life even a sliver higher than the lives of the other Wasps. To the Guard, he was no exception, and the realization caused a surge of white-hot anger. He snarled, retreating and dropping his bow and quiver on the fly. The guardsman followed, baring a short sword; his polished, gray-blue armor glinted in the rays of the rising sun. Reed could almost imagine how his own blood would shimmer against that steel.

  A swing of the sword forced Reed to jump back, giving him some distance. The guardsman advanced, and Reed led him away, toward a spot where the archers hiding in the brush wouldn't have a clear shot. Though Reed had no hope that Ermod's men hadn't surrounded the entire perimeter, he could still calculate which side offered the lowest risk of catching a stray arrow. He ran out of the maze of tents toward the open field. In the open, it was harder for archers to remain unnoticed, and a wall of tents covered his left flank.

  He stopped, squared his shoulders, and smirked brazenly into the closed visor of the helmet. The man swung his sword, preparing to strike. Reed studied the armor, estimating the vulnerabilities. The joints of the shoulders, the legs, the sides, all the places where the steel wasn't monolithic. The neck was also open, but he had to get to it first.

  The guardsman lunged. Reed deflected the blade with a sharp sweep of his own. His own armor was lighter, making him faster, more flexible. He seemed to dance, parrying blows and slipping out of the kill zone. For a moment, it was like a game, driving Reed into an ecstasy of pure thrill. He stopped thinking about the necessity of the kill and began to flirt with luck.

  Then, he suddenly burned out. The whole spectacle felt inappropriate, strange, and sickening. Reed gripped his daggers more firmly, his fingers tracing the ribbed hilts. He charged the guardsman, pushing off a log, the same one the Wasps had sat on the evening before. Aiming for the neck, he knew a single strike might not be fatal, but it would be enough.

  Reed took his shot and missed. A heavy blow knocked him off his feet. The guardsman, having kicked the air from Reed's lungs, raised his sword for the finishing strike. The blade whistled over his head, but met only grass. Reed rolled away and rose to one knee, swinging with everything he had. He drove the blade straight into the guardsman's neck.

  The steel got stuck between two vertebrae. Reed couldn't pull it free. In a fit of blind rage, he raised his left hand to strike from the other side. There was no tactical need for it, but the malice overwhelming him left no room for sanity. Reed literally tore out the guardsman's throat while trying to retrieve his blades. He jerked the handles with feverish intensity, shredding the neck of his dead opponent until the daggers came free along with chunks of flesh.

  Reed wiped the blades on his pants with a look of disgust and hurried toward the other side of the camp, where the sounds of battle were already beginning to fade.