The sensation of flight had always fascinated Risens. Floating weightlessly through the air was thrilling, though the return to reality was always too hasty and deflating. This time, the thrill of the wind rushing against his skin was ruptured by the impact of his face against wood. The double doors leading from the kitchen to the pub shattered into a hail of splinters.

  He took a single, hard bounce on the floor before skipping through the legs of a table and chair. His momentum was violently arrested as it reached the sturdy bar at the far side of the room.

  Pale Pink exploded after him like a maul through timber. The shreds of wood from the remains of the swinging doors tore from their frames, sending both hinges and panels to the well-worn floor of the pub. Over the throbbing in his head, Risens heard the raucous, drunken song of merriment stumble before it faltered entirely to silence.

  “Bird man needs more practice flying,” Pale Pink roared across the room. “C’mere. We try from roof next.”

  He spoke in the accent of his homeland, Arthmica, an island community located south of Halthome.

  Risens scrambled to get his footing under him. Every rapid movement just brought another squeak of his boots across the ale-slick floors. With a single hand, the indomitable form of the pub’s owner flipped table after table as if they were made of feathers. The wood—likely cobbled together from the desecrated remnants of others who bore the same fate—splintered as one crashed into the wall and the other the bar.

  Risens cursed himself for the carelessness of his actions. Again, his overeagerness had driven him into a desperate position. Pale Pink would have no more concern for his life than did the sentinels that protected the Bank of Tomes.

  Thinking quickly, Risens yelled across the room. “Get him, now.” He addressed the patrons whose song was so rudely interrupted by his tragic entrance. Their faces shifted from intoxicated mirth to stone-cold sobriety as Pink’s indiscriminate rage turned toward them.

  Risens felt a twinge of remorse as Pale Pink crashed through the room, scattering the trio with the assistance of a long wooden bench. For any other man, it would have taken considerable effort to lift the thing, yet the hulk of a man used it as a bat. A pair of the daylight revelers were tossed like rag dolls across the tavern, while the other, having barely avoided the punishment, promptly soiled himself before crumpling to the ground, paralysed and inert from fright.

  He was moderately satisfied—not that his ruse had been successful in buying time to regain his footing—but that all three of the innocent men had survived the unfortunate encounter. Regardless of their condition, Risens was certain that all would have been unable to recall any definitive details about the mysterious man with the bird mask.

  However, the curses that spewed from Pale Pink’s mouth like the tap of a keg left running devolved into a feral scream as he barreled across the room. In the mere seconds Risens had, he considered pulling his dagger, yet he feared a wound would only serve to enrage Pink further. Diving to his side at the last moment, he rolled to his feet, wheeling to gauge the next charge. Yet it wasn’t man, but another wall of wood that greeted him.

  Thankfully, the flat surface of the table struck him full on across his left side. His shoulder and arm screamed in pain as the points bore the brunt of the pressure. Shards of glass and drinkware sliced through the fabric of his cloak as he was sent flying over and through the tables behind him. Drenched in stale spirits, he surged to his feet just as the towering mass of man reached him.

  His head ricocheted backward. His vision and consciousness spun wildly as he suffered a pair of punishing fists to the face.

  Pale Pink cursed, shaking out his right hand, now dripping with blood as he likely cut himself on the metal of the Shadows Shroud.

  “Stupid bird,” he growled. “Maychance you can’t fly after all. Maybe you can swim.”

  Risens dangled helplessly for a few steps, held aloft by a single devastating hand on his back before again being thrown bodily across the room. This time, he splashed across the soaking bar top, scattering tankards, glasses, and goblets before skipping into the kegs stationed behind.

  His futile attempt to gain his footing, to muster a single move in his defense, ended before he could stand. The heavy thumps of Pale Pink’s approaching footsteps shook the waterlogged wood below his feet.

  “No more games,” he growled, a note low enough that Risens felt the rumble in his chest.

  All he could do was to grab at the wrist of the behemoth as it dragged him through the shattered pottery, glass, and puddles on the floor. Risens made one last attempt to strike a blow against the monster of a man. His fist struck the man’s side, hitting a pressure point that would have dropped most.

  It was like punching a stone.

  He sucked in a desperate breath as he saw the dishwasher-filled sink rapidly approaching. He ignored the odor of the revolting liquid as his face was submerged beneath the foamy slop. An immovable hand pinned him to the sink, his head underwater. He lashed out with his hands and legs.

  Muffled through the water, he heard Pale Pink’s rabid screams accentuating every strike into his kidneys and ribs. “Die, bird, die. No. More. Breathing.”

  Each punishing blow broke ribs and forced more air from his beleaguered lungs. The bubbles pumping from his mouth and nose lessened with each one. His pointed counterattacks devolved into a frantic flailing of limbs. In the waning moments of his life, panic flooded his mind before the feeling of hopelessness took over. As the final ounce of air forced from his lungs, it was failure that filled the void.

  Uncontrollably, he gasped.

  Risens felt the icy hands of death close over him, yet instead of the vile water meant to choke out his life, it was air he felt filling his lungs. Pure and clear, unlike anything he’d experienced before entering the sour environment of Pale Pink’s Pub.

  He still felt the pressure holding his head underwater; the wetness against his face. But no water entered through his nose or mouth. It took a beat for the plan to formulate in his mind, but he lessened his struggle, restoring instead to short uncontrollable spasms. As Pale Pink laughed, his grip loosening, Risens focused on shallow breaths and finally let his body go limp. After a final shove, the weight holding him under retreated.

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  “I guess he weren’t a duck!” Pale Pink shouted to the empty wreckage of his tavern.

  The muddled sounds of the man’s laughter at his own jest filtered through the water to Risens’ ears.

  Risens swarmed from the filthy grave of sink water and spun. His feet regained their purchase on the ground, and with one fist, he pistoned into Pale Pink’s groin before leaping upward. Catching the man’s uncontrolled contraction, his knee rose into the man’s head and throat. A blinding lance of pain shot through his leg with the action, but that was okay. He had one last chance to survive this event, and he needed to suffer whatever agony it offered.

  Pale Pink, stunned and sputtering, wavered on his feet. Grabbing hold of the front of the man’s colorful tunic, just below his collar, Risens dropped to the floor while wrenching down on the towering bruiser. Using his weight and gravity as his allies, he drove Pink’s face into the bar hard enough to crack the surface. Fearing retaliation, he scrambled, spinning over the bar.

  Pink slid off to the side before crashing to the floor with a meaty slap.

  Risens panted from the exertion, though his mind scrambled to take a mental stock of his surroundings. The entirety of the pub’s interior was a disaster. Broken tables and chairs were scattered throughout the room in varying states of disrepair. Only a single table with one rickety chair stood unmolested at the rear corner of the room. The trio of revelers still slumbered where they’d fallen.

  The brawl had been as vicious as it had been unexpected. Pale Pink’s reputation had not been overstated, neither in strength nor sheer bloody-minded rage. The colossal man had nearly killed him, yet he’d not been marked for death. Risens took mental stock of himself, thankful, for the moment, that he still lived. He was bleeding from gashes and cuts all over his body, though he doubted any were fatal. He could feel the sting of several large splinters as they jabbed into his flesh with every motion. Gritting his teeth, he pulled three of them—one from his right side and two from his left shoulder. The one he could feel sticking out of the back of his opposite shoulder would have to remain, as his left arm was currently useless.

  Beyond that, bruises covered him. He gingerly wrapped his good arm around his side, wincing as he pressed against the broken ribs. He was soaked, dripping a mixture of stale beer, rancid water, and blood, yet he was alive.

  Again, it was the unexpected benefit of the mask he had to thank, not his skills. He had failed again.

  Shaking off the self-doubt and loathing, he stalked as quickly as he could through the ruins of the pub. Peering over the bar, he noted the slow rise and fall of Pale Pink’s chest. His shirt was pulled up, revealing much of his chiseled abdomen. Contrasting sharply against his dark skin was a lighter scar.

  The Brand of the Stalwart showed that he had proved his mettle in protecting those in need of such services. Risens needed no more confirmation that the safe house he sought lay inside.

  Slipping through the kitchen, he peered cautiously into the closet. Like much of the building, broken glass, liquid, and splinters dressed much of the floor. Along the wall to his right, a section of the shelving sat open on a hidden hinge, revealing the staircase behind. In Pale Pink’s ire, he must have forgotten to latch it.

  Fumbling in one of his concealed pockets, Risens reached for the vile of excruciating salve that would seal some of his more potent wounds. He rolled his eyes and bit his lip as he pricked his finger on a shard of broken glass. A quick dab, and an agonizing sting began the process of healing the first wound. Gritting his teeth, he smeared what he could on whatever gashes he could reach with his working arm. He still leaked blood from dozens of minor lacerations, yet none would be fatal. His useless arm, throbbing shoulder, and broken ribs would need the careful ministrations of a healer soon. Once his task was complete.

  It was not a task he relished. He drew the blade from its sheath as he stalked onward.

  It only took a step into the concealed pathway to note the stark difference in the construction of the building. Pale Pink’s Pub was a staple of Windwake, but it was a relic of a building—a patchwork of repaired doors, walls, furniture, and windows.

  The interior of the stairwell, however, was crafted of smooth, richly colored wood with a wide line of deep blue velvet running along its center point. Several out-of-place paintings of jungle scenery graced the walls, though most were crooked, while others were simply missing from the pegs.

  Splashes of crimson streaked the wall and stairs in several places. At the bottom of the steps, he paused at the curled body of the man whom he’d caught accompanying Pale Pink from the closet. Nothing was bent awkwardly, and the man was alive. His breaths came in slow and steady repetitions, a quiet whimper sounding with each exhale. On inspection, his was a face known.

  Essephan Caltris, though a man by birth, referred to himself as the Central Ward’s madam. An extravagant procurer at that, lording over the courtesans of the Ward. His clientele consisted of those from the upper echelons of Windwake and the courts. His death would have been unfortunate, as Risens regularly plied the streetwalkers for information.

  He stepped over the man, stalking further into the hallway. He passed through a pair of heavy doors left open. Risens sighed at the evident complacency that had been allowed to fester. Why have security in place to prevent people—people like him—from gaining access when such gross negligence was present within?

  He winced as the act of subtly shaking his head brought a lance of pain.

  Beyond the hushed whimpering of the unconscious madam, the silence was complete. The corridor that stretched out before him spoke to a level of opulence that was entirely at odds with the rough establishment above. A light, fragrant note filled the air, cutting through the pervasive odors of stale grog and vomit. It was clear that this was not utilized by the general rabble above, but by those who demanded discretion. The ceiling was high enough to accommodate crystal chandeliers suspended above, though he imagined Pale Pink would have to duck to pass beneath the raindrop-shaped beads that hung the lowest. The hallway stretched on, lined with several doors on either side. Each had a large rectangular patch of the matching deep blue fabric inset in the center of its frame.

  Motion at the end of the hall caught Risens’ attention. The fleeting portion of a head ducked back into the last portal, a trail of dark, wavy hair flowing in its wake. Risens set off at a sprint as the door slammed behind him. The click of the lock engaging echoed through the hall. Hammering his boot against the panel—just between the expensive fabric and the handle—showed that these were designed for fashion, not security. With a violent snapping of wood, the metal bolt ripped through the frame as the door swung open.

  Risens ducked to the side, barely dodging a projectile launched from within. The crystal decanter—for that’s what it was—spun harmlessly past his head and peppered his back with glass as it shattered on the wall behind him. Knife in hand, he strode ominously into the chamber.

  The terrified whimper of the only inhabitant directed him to the woman now cowering in the back corner of the finely adorned room. He swatted the second thrown glass away with ease.

  He had his orders, his duty. Though for the first time, something about it felt wrong. She had compromised his identity; had seen him and could finger him as the perpetrator of the Duke’s assassination, but who would she tell? Beyond her frantic raising of the alarm, she had fled naked into the night. He was the King’s Rightmaker, yet her death seemed entirely unjust.

  He killed traitors to the Kingdom. Villains to the realm that threatened to revolt, to sow dissent and destruction. She was merely a working girl, entangled in the sheets of the wrong, unfaithful man at the wrong time. She was no threat to the crown nor to Halthome.

  His discretion had already cost him too much. His dereliction of duty put his own life in jeopardy. Though he disagreed, his obedience was demanded.

  Risens had no choice. The King’s rule was law. It was unquestionable.

  A fleeting whisper nagged at the back of his mind… “False king.”

  Risens shook the thought away and steeled himself for what was to come. He took a step toward the pleading woman in the corner. She offered money, her body, anything she could think of in exchange for her life.

  Her words of desperation brushed past as little more than an errant breeze. But a deafening boom… a voice thundering in his head… froze his feet to the floor.

  Stay your blade. If she dies, so too do you.