The group left Training Room 13 in a great mood. Outside, six masked and cloaked adventurers stood in silence, waiting to use the room. All wore identical black gear. Tight-fitting leather reinforced with shadow-dyed scales, belts lined with small pouches, and daggers at their hips. Their hoods were deep, faces hidden behind sleek black masks marked only with a single vertical red stripe down the middle.

  Assassins Guild, Jack thought, his stomach doing a little flip as he squeezed past them, his [Assassin’s Intuition] pinging multiple times. Fuck! He felt the threat; they could end him in a heartbeat. His companions fell quiet too, shuffling a little closer together as they skirted by the silent line of hired killers.

  The assassins didn’t say a word, didn’t so much as glance at them. Each stood still, like living statues, save for the occasional slow turn of a masked head as they monitored their surroundings.

  The group of six assassins entered the training room without engaging Jack or the others. As the door closed behind them, Pip spoke.

  “Bloody hell,” the small stable hand whispered once they were a few paces away. “They’re scary bastards, aren’t they?”

  Jack let out a soft chuckle. “It’s all part of their persona. Wouldn’t want us to know that under those masks there’s probably a spotty teenager with a crippling fear of empty green bottles.”

  The others laughed and gave him a puzzled look like he’d said something weird.

  Jack shrugged. In his past life, he’d spent some time in the company of an old assassin who had lost her sight. She was one of the few people who didn’t—couldn’t—judge him on his burn scars. The old woman had told him many stories over their shared love of cheap ale. One of those tales involved a spotty teenager with a fear of empty green bottles.

  Jack rubbed the back of his neck, smiling as the others stared at him with raised brows. “What?” he said. “Haven’t you heard the story of the assassin that’s scared of green bottles?”

  Grey snorted. “What kind of assassin’s scared of a bottle?”

  “Oh no, no,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Not just any bottle. Empty green bottles.” He grinned, sensing the group’s curiosity hook in. “Want to hear the tale?”

  Ella folded her arms with a smirk. “This I’ve got to hear.”

  Jack paused outside the training room as the others waited to hear the story, the scent of aether-steam still clinging to their clothes. He gave a wistful grin. “It’s a true story, you know. Or at least, that’s how old Riva told it.”

  “Who’s Riva?” Pip asked, tilting his head.

  Jack leaned against the wall, his tone dropping into the kind of exaggerated hush that always preceded a tavern tale. “Old Riva the Blind. Retired assassin. Ran a cobbler’s stall over on South Square. Used to tell stories in the Rusty Kettle after her third pint of black ale. Couldn’t see a damn thing, but could throw a knife through a keyhole by the sound of your keys jangling.”

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  “Rubbish,” Grey muttered, though his smirk betrayed his interest.

  “No, that bit’s true. I once saw Riva peg a rat at twenty paces by sound alone.” Jack pointed a finger at his neck. “Right through the little buggers neck. Pinned to a table leg, still wiggling its last wiggle.”

  The group chuckled at the imagery.

  “Anyway,” Jack said, wagging a finger. “She told me the story of Kellan ‘Green-Eyes’ Valtor. Spotty lad. Brilliant with a blade and as quiet as a shadow. Had all the makings of a top-tier assassin… except for one fatal flaw.” He raised a dramatic brow. “Empty green bottles.”

  Toma blinked. “What, like wine bottles?”

  “Exactly,” Jack said, enjoying himself while telling the tall tale. “See, back when Kellan was still a Novice Assassin, he was sent on a test mission. To break into a wealthy wine merchant’s estate and steal the man’s prized bottle of grog. A bottle of one-thousand-year-old Imladris elven wine. Sounds easy, right?”

  “Too easy,” Nessa said with a grin.

  “Now, this merchant, old man Bezel, paranoid as hell and as mad as a hatter.” Jack twirled his finger to his temple, “He was obsessed with keeping his wine safe. He enchanted his entire cellar with traps. Magical tripwires, bottles that screamed if moved, corks that exploded into angry hornets; don’t ask me how.”

  “Hornets?” Pip said, eyes wide.

  Jack nodded. “Summoned right out of the corks. Horrific little things; chase you for miles. Anyway, Kellan manages to sneak in, dodging traps left and right. He finds the prized wine sitting right there on a crate between two shelves of vintage green-glass bottles.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Now, these bottles… empty, mind you, were enchanted. Riva swore they were used by some mad mage to hold ghosts. Problem was, the ghosts didn’t leave.”

  “What?” Ella asked, her eyes narrowing with amused disbelief.

  “Yeah. Harmless enough if you left them alone. But if you looked at one too long, stared into the glass, well… something stared back. Kellan said he saw his own reflection grinning at him with someone else’s eyes and teeth. Then it winked and blew him a kiss.”

  “That’s creepy,” Toma whispered, engrossed in the story.

  “Bull,” Grey laughed.

  Jack smirked. “That’s what he thought, too. Until the bottles rattled. Kellan swore they whispered his name, called him ‘thief, thief, thief…’. He backed up, tripped, and knocked over the whole shelf. Green bottles everywhere. Crashing and clinking. And from every one of them… spirits whispers. Chanting. A baby’s laughter. A woman crying. A dog barking. All of it, at once.”

  “Okay, now you’re making it up,” Pip said.

  “Swear on my mother’s cooking,” Jack said, crossing his heart. “Kellan screamed so loud, the guard dog on the other side of the estate wet itself.”

  Nessa snorted. “Please tell me he escaped.”

  “Barely. Sprinted out of there, eyes wide, pale as a sheet, without the wine and without his mask.” Jack grinned. “Screaming his lungs out about green bottles chasing him. Riva said from that day on, if he even saw a green bottle, empty or not, he’d shriek and climb the nearest tree.”

  “Was he still an assassin after that?” Toma asked.

  “Yep, but he always made the client specify ‘no green bottles on the premises’. Even turned down a lucrative job at a brewery.” Jack smirked. “Called it ‘suicidal conditions’.”

  The group burst into laughter.

  “You’re full of it,” Grey said, chuckling.

  Jack grinned. “Maybe. Maybe not. But next time you pass a green bottle on a quiet night, and you think you hear a whisper… maybe don’t look too close.”

  Pip shivered. “I’m never drinking wine again.”

  “Wise choice,” Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  The group erupted in laughter again.

  “So,” Jack finished with a shrug, “empty green bottles. The mighty assassin’s secret nemesis.”

  Ella wiped a tear from her eye. “Gods, that’s ridiculous.”

  “Drunken assassin tales are the best,” Grey agreed, chuckling.

  Toma’s grin stretched ear to ear. “I’m going to tell my dad this one.”

  Pip beamed. “I want to sneak a bottle into the training room now.”

  “Just don’t blame me when you get stabbed in your sleep.” Jack laughed while shaking his head. Riva won’t be blind yet. I wonder if she’s in the city?

  Chapter 091 Archery Tips