Mistmoor sits up on an Island, one of the largest in the country.

  It was a skeletal architecture of rot and rusted iron boats, bridged over a network of canals that moved with the speed of cooling wax.

  Magical lanterns bled into the fog, casting an amber light that didn't illuminate so much as it bruised the darkness.

  In Mistmoor, the rain never truly stopped, it simply changed its mind about falling.

  The air tasted of wet earth and ancient woodsmoke-a sanctuary for the forgotten, where time was as stagnant as the green water beneath the docks.

  Steve stood at the canal's lip, a jagged silhouette against the haze.

  He took a drag of his cigarette, inhaling it like a dying man needing oxygen-less a habit, more a frantic search for life in a place that offered none.

  He’d spent an hour that morning in front of a cracked mirror, trying to coax his hair into something respectable, but the salt-and-pepper ruin of his beard told the truth he was trying to hide.

  Somewhere beneath that fog lay the secrets of a Kingdom that had simply moved on without him. He exhaled, the smoke curling up to shake hands with the mist, and turned toward the Silent Pub.

  At the threshold, he took one final, lung-burning pull, snapped the cherry off against the timber, and stepped inside.

  The warmth hit him like a physical weight.

  The pub was a chaotic symphony of human noise-men and women roaring over cards, their laughter echoing off rafters stained by a century of grease.

  Mugs collided in a rhythmic, rowdy dance. In the center, a chug contest was underway, the participants' faces flushed a deep, joyous red.

  "Steve! Over here, you old dog!"

  Malcom was grinning wide enough to show the gaps in his teeth. Beside him sat Lucas and Joe, Steve felt a sharp, familiar twitch of irritation in his jaw.

  Why are these cunts here? he thought. He didn't have the energy for a fight yet.

  He just wanted to drown the morning in something cold and expensive.

  He navigated the crowd, the smell of roasted meat and spilled booze filling his senses.

  As he reached the table, Lucas-usually a man of few words-pulled a chair out with a genuine, humble smile. "Sit, Steve. You look like you've been running around all day."

  "Something like that," Steve grunted, sinking into the seat.

  "Johnny!" Malcom roared at the bartender. "One of your most expensive! The stuff from the capital!"

  Malcom’s eyes were wet with a rare, shimmering pride. "I’m paying for everyone tonight. My boy... he got the letter. He’s going to Okelhaven Academy."

  The world seemed to zoom out. Steve felt the air leave his lungs. Okelhaven was for the elite, the gifted—the sons of lords and heroes.

  "To the scholar!" Lucas shouted, raising a glass. "By the way... how the hell did a blockhead like you produce a genius, Malcom?"

  Malcom laughed, a deep, belly-shaking sound. "Maybe he takes after his mother's side, eh?"

  Steve took a heavy gulp. The beer was cold and prestigious, but it tasted like ash.

  He thought of his own home. He thought of the bruises on his son’s knuckles-the boy who looked at him with nothing but cold, stagnant resentment.

  He thought of the money he’d stolen from the village tithe just to keep the roof from caving in.

  "How’s your boy doing, Steve?" Malcom asked, his voice softening with a pity that felt like a slap. "He still struggling with the apprenticeship?"

  "He’s doing fine," Steve said, his voice a low growl.

  "You know," Lucas said, leaning in, his tone landing like a serrated blade. "If he needs work, Malcom’s son could probably find him a spot in the Academy kitchens. Good way to see the world without needing to read a book, eh?"

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  The table laughed. It was a joke.

  But inside Steve, something didn't break-it shifted, like a tectonic plate finally giving way to the pressure.

  Steve looked at Lucas-at those kind, patronizing eyes.

  "You talk a lot about sons, Lucas," Steve whispered. The pub noise faded into a dull hum. "Funny, considering yours looks nothing like you. Does it bother you? Knowing that while you’re out here playing 'kind friend,' your wife is in the whore house paying your debts with her skin?"

  The silence was deafening.

  Lucas’s smile didn't fade; it died.

  His face went from pale to a terrifying, bruised purple. But he didn't shout.

  He lunged.

  His fist caught Steve on the cheekbone-a wet thwack that sent Steve’s head snapping back. Steve scrambled upward, knocking the table over. Expensive beer shattered, soaking their boots. They grappled-two middle-aged men fueled by decades of suppressed failure.

  Steve felt a knee drive into his stomach.

  He saw Lucas’s face, contorted with a rage that mirrored his own, and he reached for the only thing left.

  He grabbed a heavy, iron-rimmed wooden flagon.

  He didn't swing for a bruise. He swung for the end.

  The flagon caught Lucas across the temple. The sound was sickening-a dull, hollow crack like a melon hitting stone. Lucas’s eyes rolled back.

  He collapsed, his head striking the corner of the stone hearth with a final, wet thud.

  Blood began to pool, dark and thick, snaking through the cracks in the floorboards.

  "Lucas?" Malcom whispered. "Lucas!"

  The pub exploded. Screams for the watch, chairs scraping, chaos.

  Steve stood over his friend, his hand shaking so violently he dropped the flagon. He didn't feel sorry. He felt the cold, creeping shadow of the gallows.

  He turned and sprinted, bursting through the door into the damp, indifferent embrace of the Mistmoor fog.

  He ran until his lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass

  . He scrambled down a side alley, sliding into the filth of the gutter. He buried his face in his palms, gasping.

  "Shit. Shit. Shit."

  Images flashed. Not just Lucas. The kid he’d beaten into a body full of fractures a few weeks ago for bullying his son. The widow he’d swindled, who died when she threatened to blabber. The blood on his hands wasn't new, it was just fresh.

  He had built a life on small, cruel sins, all to protect a family he suspected didn't even love him.

  "My, my. You look quite exhausted."

  The woman was a shadow given form. A black hooded cloak draped over her frame, absorbing the amber streetlights.

  She didn't look like a threat; she looked like a passerby pausing out of curiosity.

  "Go away," Steve wheezed. "Leave me be."

  "You look thirsty." She stepped closer, her movements fluid and silent.

  She held out a polished wooden canteen. "Drink. You must’ve had a long night."

  Steve’s throat was a desert. Adrenaline, tobacco, the salt of the beer.

  He snatched the canteen and chugged. The water was unnaturally cold, like mountain runoff.

  The woman crouched beside him.

  The shadow of her hood shifted, revealing eyes the color of a winter sea-a piercing, crystalline blue.

  "Tell me, Steve," she whispered, a soft, almost pitying smile touching her lips. "What are your sins?"

  Steve froze. The canteen slipped, clattering onto the stones. He looked at her.

  There was no warmth in those eyes. Only the cold, patient observation of a predator.

  "Who... who sent you?"

  "Who knows? I am simply the one who accepted the task."

  Steve didn't hesitate.

  He knew he was a dead man. He lunged, swinging a heavy, desperate fist.

  Thud.

  She didn't move her body; she simply caught his fist. The impact sounded like a hammer hitting a meat slab. She didn't flinch. Her grip tightened, fingers digging into his knuckles with a strength that defied her frame.

  "You recognized my identity so quickly," she mused. "That is the curse of a man who lives looking over his shoulder... constantly afraid of Death."

  With a casual, terrifying flick of her wrist, she twisted.

  Steve’s radius snapped. The sound echoed in the narrow alley. He opened his mouth to scream, but before he could, there was a flash of steel.

  It wasn't a precise strike. She drove a long, slender blade through the side of his neck.

  It was a messy, human death.

  Steve felt the warmth of his life spilling down his chest, his vision fragmenting into shards of grey and black.

  She didn't enjoy it, yet she didn't look away.

  She watched him with a quiet fascination, her head tilted slightly as if listening to a song only she could hear.

  She held him up as he twitched, until the light finally vanished.

  She eased him down to the stones, careful not to let his head strike the ground too hard.

  Not out of kindness, but out of professional respect.

  She reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a small, brass-bound stone. She tapped a rune. It glowed a faint, pulsing violet.

  "Liora," a voice rasped from the stone. Dry. Toneless. "Status."

  "The job is done," she replied, her voice as calm as the mist.

  "The client requested proof of the ring finger..."