With his hand gripping his new dagger, Jack melted into the crowd, shadowing Baron Greaves and his two beastkin guards. He was no assassin, but years of hard-earned experience guided his steps, allowing him to move unseen through the streets… his quarry unaware they were being stalked.

  Despite his earlier failure to strike Greaves down, he found a strange, almost comforting reassurance in having the blade at his side. It was a false comfort, yet one he clung to all the same. Even the damage along the weapon’s handle seemed fitting. The dagger was scarred, as he was, but still capable of fulfilling its purpose.

  As the Baron strolled away from the library, Jack’s thoughts turned dark. He pictured closing the distance, driving the blade home. “I could end it now… get my revenge in this death dream,” he muttered under his breath, his mind running through the angles, the footwork, and the moment to strike.

  But then a wave of dread surged over him, cold and suffocating. His muscles locked. His breath caught. In that instant he was no longer the one moving but a distant observer, a disembodied spectator witnessing himself from somewhere far removed.

  He saw his own body step forward, dagger in hand, ready to strike. The vision splintered into jagged flashes. A beastkin guard’s sword swung in a brutal arc. His own head separated from his shoulders. Another flash revealed the Baron’s mild look of curiosity, as though Jack’s death warranted little notice. Another flash, and his severed head hit the ground with a dull thud. The disjointed vision faded with Greaves smiling as Jack’s headless body crumpled to the ground.

  “What the fuck was that?” Jack spluttered, the cold dread ebbing away as sweat slicked his back. Trembling, he leaned against a nearby wall. “What the hell was I thinking?” he murmured, as his fingers tightened on the dagger’s hilt. He’s got two guards… I’m unprepared.

  Reality bit down hard. He recalled the countless preparations he’d made to kill Greaves. Pain-filled months of dagger training in the forest. Years spent crafting spell scrolls for elven mages just to afford a drow-forged blade. And yet, despite all of that, an old man had disarmed him in seconds.

  Thankful for the strange vision, Jack exhaled and shook his head in resignation. It wouldn’t change anything anyway. What’s done is done in my life. His eyes were still locked on the Baron as the noble wandered further away. “I should get my class and go home to enjoy time with my family,” he muttered.

  Yet, despite his rational mind urging him to choose his class and go home, he couldn’t tear himself away from stalking the man he despised most in the world. His obsession had returned… following the cold-blooded killer as if it were second nature.

  Jack’s heart raced as he shadowed the Baron along the city’s main promenade, zig-zagging through the throng of market-goers and clockwork kiosks belching scented spent aether-steam into the air.

  He watched, dismayed, as the greedy Baron stopped to chat with merchants, casually helping himself to free samples of their wares as though the entire city owed him tribute. The vendors didn’t seem to mind the noble helping himself, and the few the Baron did try to pay waved him away.

  Jack looked on with revulsion as he witnessed Greaves stuffing his face at nearly every food stall he passed. When he worked at the Royal Library, it wasn’t unusual for Greaves to take five breaks a day just to eat. He’s on his early morning break.

  Without a care in the world, Greaves enjoyed a wrap filled with meat and grilled vegetables; Jack had moved close enough to see what he was eating.

  The Baron had paused to watch one of the street entertainers, a gnome whose accordion unfolded into a mechanical serpent that belched aether-steam in time to his melody. He flicked the gnome a silver coin—an extravagant tip—before continuing on his way.

  Clenching the handle of his dagger, Jack again considered striking. Damn it. I’ll fail again, he thought, recalling the earlier feeling of dread and the strange vision of him losing his head… literally. Taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to control his raging anger and sense of powerlessness, he continued to follow.

  The grim reality of what would happen to his family if he were caught trying to kill a noble calmed his hatred enough not to act rashly. He couldn’t risk his entire family being executed. “No. I’ll… I’ll…” he whispered, his voice shaky with impotence. So, he continued to follow with hate-filled eyes as his hand itched to sink the blade into any part of the Baron.

  As the minutes passed, the Baron veered away from the main city streets and into Lundun’s more unsavoury quarters. The district was officially called Grimesby, but to the locals, it was Grime City.

  Unlike the well-kept avenues of the capital, this slum was a patchwork of corroded pipework, soot-blackened walls, and flickering signage powered by spluttering, low-grade aether conduits. Only the main thoroughfares were lit by aether lanterns; once dusk fell, the side streets plunged into darkness, where crime thrived like mould in a damp cellar.

  Jack followed with his confusion mounting as Greaves and his guards entered one of the city’s larger slave markets. The stench of unwashed slaves, bodily waste, and despair hung heavy in the air. The smell assaulted his nostrils.

  Why would he visit a slave market? In all the months he’d shadowed Greaves, the man had shown no interest in the flesh trade. Yet the Baron moved with purpose, suggesting this was more than a casual detour.

  They stopped at a modest operation, less showy but still doing brisk business. Greaves leaned in to speak with the slaver in charge, a sickly looking white-haired drow who carried an aether-powered slave prod at his side.

  The auctions were already well underway; guttural shouts of bidding rang through the market, punctuated by bursts of aether-steam from overhead vents and the rattling chains of new acquisitions being hauled into place. The cobbled streets reverberated with the clatter of cart wheels, and the general clamour of commerce drowned out Greaves’ voice.

  Jack strained to hear over the noise of the busy slave market, but it was useless. I can’t hear… He threaded his way through the crowd, dodging elbows and jostling shoulders, using the commotion as cover. Shouts echoed around him, bartering calls rang out, and the sizzle of a nearby aether grill added to the noise.

  Jack slipped close enough, just on the edge of earshot, to make out the low murmur of conversation between Greaves and the slaver.

  “…of great renown. He’d be an asset to your great noble house, milord,” the slaver shouted over the din of the market. The thin, sickly-looking dark elf offered a half-bow as he concluded what must have been a long sales pitch.

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  The Baron scoffed. “Oh, you’re being serious.” Greaves shook his head in mock disappointment. “I thought you were giving up slavery to audition as a Kingdom-renowned Thespian with that performance. I was this close,” he held his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart, “to applauding and tossing you a few silvers.” He chuckled at his own wit and clapped the slaver on the shoulder.

  The drow flinched at the touch. “M-milord… I assure you, he’s worth far more than 10 gold. I’m…” The elf paused to mop his clammy brow and fidget with his white hair. “He might be… mature in years, but he’s still a Master Warrior.” He straightened, trying to recapture his composure. Standing taller and looking more confident, he continued, “He’d make a fine guard, milord.” He gestured towards the Baron’s beastkin guards, implying the orc could replace them.

  The guards chuckled. The younger one’s tail wagged from side to side.

  The drow pressed on, “And if you don’t require a new guard, milord…” he gave the guards a disparaging glance, “his high poison resistance and undead nature make him an ideal test subject for your house’s esteemed alchemists.” He flashed a wide, hopeful grin.

  Greaves grinned back. “I believe you’ll find 3 gold an appropriate sum for substandard goods.” He twirled a strand of wispy blond hair as he stared down the sweating slaver. “I enjoy a good haggle as much as the next noble, but don’t test my patience.”

  The slaver gulped and tugged at the hem of his fine, pinstriped tunic. “I-I’m sorry, milord… but the collar alone is worth more than 2 gold. I couldn’t possibly go lower than 9 gol…” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes glazing. In a flat, mechanical voice, he continued, “3 gold, my lord. As always, Baron Greaves is most fair.” The drow bowed far deeper than before.

  The Baron’s grin widened. He nodded, and his elder guard stepped forward, placing the 3 gold coins he’d been holding during the negotiation into the drow’s waiting palm.

  Jack frowned from his hiding place as the drow accepted the payment and signalled for the slave. The slaver caved too easily? He wasn’t an expert in slave prices, but 10 gold for a disabled Master Warrior sounded cheap.

  Baron Greaves, an administrator in the Royal Library, had little need for additional muscle. He already had two guards, which was more than adequate for a mid-tier noble. House Greaves held no relevance at court; its patriarch was an aged earl with waning political influence.

  Like all nobles, the Baron had enemies—Jack, for example—but Greaves wasn’t a threat to anyone of real importance who might hire Expert Assassins.

  Jack’s research had shown the young Baron had petitioned for the library role, a decision that puzzled many. Most nobles treated such posts as beneath them. It was the type of role given as a punishment for falling out of favour with the King. Yet Greaves had remained there for decades, but Jack had no idea why.

  A loud laugh from Greaves cut through his thoughts. He winced. It was that same gleeful, mocking laugh that haunted his dreams. Rage twisted in his gut as he clutched his dagger’s handle. I hate him so much! He was less than six feet away, hidden behind a cart stacked with crates. His fingers twitched and it was taking all his willpower to resist the urge to leap out and stab the heartless killer in the back.

  Greaves turned, peering towards Jack’s hiding place. The noble craned his neck as though looking for something or someone.

  Jack held his breath. Did he hear me? No… he couldn’t have…

  A movement drew their attention, as the slaver’s assistant returned alongside an eight-foot-tall orc.

  Jack’s jaw tightened. By the Gods… it’s a damn orc warrior?

  Orcs were born for fighting and war. They were relentless, savage, and undead. The gladiatorial arenas loved them; renowned for their relentless strength and ferocity in battle, orcs drew large crowds. Outside the blood pits, orcs often clashed with humans and other so-called civilised races, and their battles were marked by a brutal custom. The orc warriors devoured the bodies of their fallen foes, a habit so feared and reviled that orcs were seldom seen beyond the arena walls. The only exception was when they were pressed into service as enslaved soldiers in the King’s Army.

  Among the Kingdom’s veterans, there was a saying that had passed from campfire to campfire for generations: ‘The only good orc is a dead orc.’

  Baron Greaves smiled as the orc warrior was brought before him. “Let’s get this done,” he said, gesturing towards the leather and brass slave collar. “I have an appointment to keep.”

  The collar ritual began with Greaves and the slaver both pressing a thumb against a brass plate containing the alchemically reinforced control rune. The collar’s internal gears clicked and hissed as it synced with its new master. Thin aether conduits running along the slave collar pulsed blue once, indicating a successful transfer.

  From this moment on, the orc could do nothing without the Baron’s permission. A cruel master could forbid a slave to eat, and the command would be obeyed without question, even if the starving slave sat surrounded by food.

  As the transfer process came to an end, Jack studied the placid, grey-skinned warrior. The orc was a massive beast, his body marked by the toll of many hard-fought battles. He wore tattered leather armour riddled with holes, and through those gaps, Jack glimpsed the pale ridges of old scars. Every tear and scrape in the armour told a story of survival, each mark proof that this warrior had faced death countless times and walked away.

  Jack wrinkled his nose at the sight of the warrior’s face, a raw canvas of battle scars. A deep scar split his face from his right eye, down through his nose and across his left cheek. He must have been blessed by one of the evil Gods to not have lost his right eye since the eyelid was so mutilated. The top of one of his pointed ears was missing; it appeared to have been chewed off.

  However, the worst injury for a warrior was the loss of his right arm. If the orc were right-handed, this injury would limit his battle effectiveness. Making the Baron’s purchase all the more confusing.

  A Master Healer could replace lost limbs, but the cost was astronomical. Jack had once sought the aid of a Master Healer to treat his burn scars; it would have taken him at least two lifetimes to pay for such treatment. He couldn’t imagine the Baron paying for the old orc to be healed.

  Greaves dipped into his inner coat pocket and retrieved a thumb-sized messenger drone. The device, fashioned after a brass scarab beetle, flashed blue as the Baron tapped a sequence of control runes. “Package secured. ETA fifteen minutes,” he said aloud. With a final press, the rune-etched beetle pulsed once, its wings snapping open with a metallic clink before it launched skyward in a blur of brass and blue light.

  When the messenger drone was out of sight, Greaves ordered, “Follow.”

  The orc obeyed, limping behind his new master as they left the slave market.

  Jack was even more confused. He tailed them from a distance, his heart hammering. “He can’t even walk properly,” he muttered, “Why spend anything on him?”

  “Keep pace,” Greaves barked, glancing over his shoulder at the struggling orc.

  Minutes passed. The orc’s laboured breathing sounded like a forge bellows gone askew. The Baron and his guards strode ahead, faster than their pace to the slave market. The orc fell further behind with each step until he collapsed, face-first, on the cobbles.

  Jack frowned. “Why him?” he muttered. “He’s useless like this.”

  Greaves paused, savouring the spectacle of the orc’s struggle to rise. Each attempt saw the warrior falling back on the cobbled road; driven by enforced obedience, the enslaved orc would keep trying until death. The Baron’s sadistic grin deepened as blood streamed from the warrior’s shattered nose and pooled at his feet.

  Jack clenched his dagger in anger, fury surging as he recalled Greaves flashing that same sadistic grin while torturing him with his own poisoned blade. “I hate that vile scum,” he muttered. “I swear I’ll gut him if it’s the last thing I do.”

  After several more stumbles, the orc regained his footing and continued to follow the grinning Baron. A few long minutes later, they stopped in front of a large, red-brick-walled compound with two Anubian guards stationed at the ornate iron gates.

  The city of Lundun hosted many great noble houses. Despite space being at a premium in the capital, important nobles tended to have sprawling compounds. The size of the compound indicated the importance of the noble house. Lowly House Greaves, for example, had a meagre-sized compound compared to its more influential neighbours.

  The exhausted orc staggered, swaying on unsteady feet behind the Baron. His laboured breaths crackled. His grey, scarred skin was slick with sweat.