Lorik's eyes darted nervously across the moonlit cove. "We're too exposed. If the merfolk spot us, they'll just swim away. If the Wangara spot us..." He let the thought hang unfinished.
Toranne had considered the same possibility. Why would merfolk, known for their caution, meet at such an open location? And why would Wangara, supposedly one of the most cautious merchant guilds in the city, conduct business in a place with such poor defensive positioning?
"Keep your eyes on the water," she ordered. "If anything moves—anything at all—I want to know about it."
Minutes crawled by. The tide began to rise, waves lapping higher on the shore. The moon inched across the sky. No merfolk appeared.
"I'm telling you," Lorik whispered, "something's not right. Marco's information—"
"Wait," Drent interrupted, pointing toward the center of the cove. "Look."
Toranne narrowed her eyes. There, where the moonlight danced on the water about fifty yards from shore, something disturbed the surface. Not the splashing entry of a swimmer, but a slow, deliberate movement.
"Is that..." Lorik's voice trailed off.
A figure was rising from the water. No—not rising from it. Standing on it.
Toranne blinked hard, certain her eyes were playing tricks. The figure was humanoid, wrapped in a dark cloak that rippled in the night breeze. Where its face should have been was only a smooth white mask, featureless except for two narrow eye slits.
And it was walking across the surface of the water as casually as someone might stroll through a marketplace.
"What in all hells?" Drent breathed.
"Get down," Toranne ordered, pulling both men lower behind the rocks. "It's a mage."
"A mage?" Lorik's voice cracked. "Marco didn't say anything about mages!"
"Obviously," Toranne said, mind racing. "Because he didn't know." She watched as the figure continued its steady advance toward the shore. Walking on water. Like it was nothing.
"Maybe it's a ghost," Drent whispered, his earlier bravado evaporating.
"Don't be stupid," Toranne said, but she couldn't entirely dismiss the notion. The figure's appearance was... unsettling. Unnatural.
"We should leave," Lorik said, already inching backward. "Now. Before it reaches the shore."
"No." Toranne's voice was firm. "We were hired to do a job. If this is the Wangara's representative instead of merfolk, we adapt. Wait for my signal."
She used hand signals to communicate with the others spread throughout the cove. Stay down. Hold position. Wait for command.
The masked figure reached the shallows, water barely rippling beneath its feet. Then it paused, head turning slowly, scanning the shoreline.
"It's looking for something," Drent whispered.
"Or someone," Toranne replied.
Without warning, the figure changed. Its slow, measured pace transformed into a sprint, moving with directly toward the rocks where they were hiding.
Lorik screamed, "It saw us!"
"Positions!" Toranne shouted, abandoning stealth. "Surround it!"
Her men burst from their hiding places, weapons drawn. The crossbowmen on the ridge loosed their bolts. Both shots should have struck the figure dead center—but with a casual flick of its hand, the masked mage sent the bolts careening harmlessly into the sand.
"Mage!" someone shouted unnecessarily.
Toranne extended her fingers, metal rings transforming into razor-sharp claws. "Take him from all sides!" she ordered, circling to the figure's left.
One of her men charged forward, swinging a heavy mace. The masked figure simply sidestepped, grabbed the attacker's wrist, and with a twist that looked effortless, sent the man flying through the air. He crashed into the rocks with a sickening crack.
The others hesitated.
"What are you waiting for?" Toranne shouted. "It's one against ten!"
Three men rushed the mage simultaneously. The masked figure raised both hands, and suddenly the sand beneath their feet erupted, wrapping around their ankles like living ropes. They stumbled, trapped.
"Drent, with me!" Toranne commanded, leaping forward. Her claws slashed through the air—and met nothing as the mage bent backward at an impossible angle, her attack passing harmlessly overhead.
A palm struck her chest, sending her stumbling backward. It hadn't felt particularly forceful, yet she'd been thrown back five feet as if hit by a battering ram.
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Drent swung his sword in a vicious arc. The mage caught the blade between two fingers. Impossible. No one could—
With a sharp twist, the sword shattered like glass. Drent stared at the broken hilt in his hand for one stunned second before the mage's fist connected with his jaw.
He dropped like a stone.
"What is this thing?" someone cried.
One of the crossbowmen had reloaded, firing again from the ridge. This time, the bolt froze mid-air, hovering as the masked figure turned its featureless face upward. With a flick of its fingers, the bolt reversed direction, striking the crossbowman's shoulder. He screamed, toppling from his perch.
Toranne realized with cold certainty that they were outmatched. She'd never fought mages before. She'd always thought the rumors about them were at best, exaggerated. She'd never been angrier at herself for not believing it.
"Fall back!" Toranne ordered. "Retreat!"
Two of her men turned to run. The masked figure gestured, and suddenly a wall of blue flame erupted from the sand, cutting off their escape. Not hot flame—cold, somehow, but still fire. Impossible fire.
"Wangara knew," Toranne hissed, understanding washing over her like the tide. "This was a trap from the beginning."
The three men caught in the sand tried to free themselves, hacking at the animated grit with their daggers. The masked figure walked toward them calmly, almost lazily. A wave of its hand, and their weapons flew from their grasp.
Toranne circled, looking for an opening. If she could just get behind the mage—
The figure turned, as if reading her thoughts. It raised a hand toward her, and suddenly she couldn't move. Her limbs froze, muscles locked in place.
"What—" she managed to gasp, before even her voice failed her.
Her remaining men were faring no better. One charged with a spear, only to have the weapon twist in his hands like a snake, wrapping around his own body and pinning his arms. Another tried to throw a knife, but the blade curved in mid-air, slicing through his own cloak and pinning him to the ground.
The masked figure walked among them now, methodically disabling each attacker. No killing blows—Toranne noted that with distant surprise—but devastating nonetheless. A touch that left one man's arm hanging uselessly at his side. A kick that shattered another's knee. Precise. Controlled. Terrifying.
Only Lorik remained, backing away, knife trembling in his hand. "Please," he begged. "I'm just hired help. I don't even know what's happening here."
The masked figure tilted its head, considering. Then it raised a hand.
Lorik screamed, dropping his knife and clutching his head. He fell to his knees, eyes rolling back.
Toranne fought against the invisible force holding her, but it was like being encased in iron. She could barely breathe, let alone move. The masked figure turned toward her now, approaching with that same unhurried pace.
"Who are you?" she managed to gasp as it drew closer.
The mask revealed nothing. No expression. No humanity. Just smooth white surface with those two narrow slits.
It raised a hand toward her face.
"Hmm, maybe I should have taken the chance to evolve White Wyrm's Body," came a voice from behind the mask, surprisingly young, almost conversational.
Then pain exploded through Toranne's jaw as a fist connected with perfect precision. Her last thought before darkness claimed her was simple and unavoidable:
Wangara had, in fact, seen them coming.
*****
Marco organized his desk.
Travel papers here. Guild seal there. A small pouch of emergency coins tucked into his inside pocket. Everything had its place. Order amid chaos—that had always been his way.
"Is everything proceeding as expected?" he asked without looking up.
Rennick, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, nodded. "Just received word from Toranne's team at the cove. Complete success."
Marco allowed himself a thin smile. "Details?"
"Merfolk arrived exactly when your intelligence said they would. Minimal resistance. They scattered after the first few warning shots." Rennick straightened his jacket, a hint of admiration in his voice. "Toranne says they won't be back anytime soon. And the crystals—all fifteen crates—are now safely hidden at the warehouse you specified."
"Excellent." Marco closed his travel case with a satisfying click. "And the other operations?"
"Whisper just reported in. The materials at Kern's have been successfully contaminated. No one saw him enter or leave."
"Of course they didn't," Marco said. "That's why we pay him the exorbitant fees he charges."
"And Brom's team completed their task an hour ago. Small fire, just as planned. Enough to destroy the current production run and damage the equipment, but no casualties. City inspectors are already there, shutting everything down."
Marco sat back, allowing himself to truly relax for the first time in weeks. Three targets. Three successful operations. Wangara would be crippled for months—just enough time for him to secure Tresh's hidden assets and rebuild Crimson Scale into something leaner, more efficient. More his.
"We won," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Rennick raised an eyebrow. "First battle of many, I imagine."
"Yes, but an important one." Marco stood, shouldering his travel case. "The boat leaves in an hour. We should go."
The night air was cool as they made their way through the city's winding streets toward the harbor. Marco kept his head down, hood pulled forward. Though it was unlikely anyone would recognize him at this hour, old habits died hard.
"You're certain the bank documents are in order?" Marco asked as they approached the docks.
"Triple-checked myself," Rennick assured him. "Once you reach Vellerin, you'll have full access to Tresh's accounts. The branch manager there was... persuaded to cooperate."
"Good." Marco paused at the harbor entrance, taking in the forest of masts swaying gently in the harbor. Somewhere among them was his ticket to a fresh start. "Which pier?"
"Seventeen. End slip."
They walked in silence, passing sailors loading cargo, dockworkers securing lines, the occasional drunk stumbling home from waterfront taverns. The smell of salt and tar hung heavy in the air.
As they approached Pier Seventeen, Marco felt a weight lifting from his shoulders. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been a man watching his life's work crumble around him. Now he held the future in his hands. Not just survival—triumph.
"There she is," Rennick said, pointing to a sleek merchant vessel with dark sails. "The Wavecutter. Not the most comfortable ride, but fast and discreet."
"Perfect." Marco handed Rennick a small pouch. "Your payment, as agreed. There will be more when you reach Vellerin next month."
Rennick weighed the pouch in his hand and nodded. "I've arranged for your cabin to be stocked with the, ah, comfort items you requested."
"You think of everything."
"I try," Rennick said with a slight bow.
They approached the gangplank. A gruff sailor checked their papers, barely glancing at the details before waving them aboard. Marco stepped onto the ship's deck, feeling the gentle roll beneath his feet. He breathed deeply. Freedom smelled like salt water and possibility.
"Your cabin is below deck, sir," the sailor said, pointing toward a narrow staircase. "Last door on the left."
Marco nodded his thanks and made his way down, Rennick following close behind. The corridor was narrow, dimly lit by swaying lanterns that cast long shadows on the wooden walls. He counted doors as they passed. One, two, three...
Here. The last door on the left.
He reached for the handle, then paused, a strange prickling sensation crawling up his spine. A feeling he knew all too well. The feeling of being watched.
"Something wrong?" Rennick asked, his voice oddly flat.
Marco turned slowly. "No, just..."
His words died in his throat as he saw figures emerging from the shadows of the corridor. Familiar figures. Thormund, the massive FreeMan from the northern wilds, his braided beard unmistakable even in the dim light. Jenna, who had once been Cisco's best infiltrator. Kavan, whose skill with knives was legendary among the guild's inner circle.
Former colleagues. People who had vanished after Cisco's fall.
People who should not be here.
Marco's hand instinctively went to his belt, seeking the comfort of his dagger. But he had left it in his bag. Fool.
"What is this?" he demanded, turning to Rennick.
Rennick's face shifted, features becoming fluid, malleable. Fingers reached up, grasping at what appeared to be skin, pulling...
The face came away like a mask, revealing a different man entirely. Sharper features. Eyes that Marco recognized all too well.
"Tam," Marco breathed, understanding crashing over him like a wave.
Tam smiled, tucking the face-mask into his belt. "Sorry to disappoint."
Marco lunged, but a strong hand grabbed him from behind. Thormund pinned his arms with his one remaining arm. Marco struggled, testing the grip, finding enough give to almost break free before Thormund adjusted, muscles straining against Marco's strength.
"Still as strong as ever, you bastard," Thormund grunted.
Marco stopped struggling, saving his energy. "You look terrible, Thormund. Lost weight, I see."
"Worth it to see this moment," Thormund replied, tightening his grip just enough to make his point.
"Now, now," came a high, slightly nasal voice from behind the gathering crowd. "Let's all be civilized about this."
The figures parted, revealing a small, rodent-like creature dressed in an immaculate burgundy coat.
"Valiant," Marco spat.
"In the flesh," Valiant said with a little bow. "So good of you to join our little gathering. I do hope the travel arrangements were to your liking? I selected this vessel specifically with you in mind."
"What is this?"
Valiant gestured, and three more figures shuffled forward from the shadows. Battered, bruised, and bound—Toranne, Brom, and Whisper. Toranne's face was swollen on one side, her copper hair matted with what looked like dried blood. Brom's massive frame seemed somehow diminished, hunched in pain. Whisper's mechanical hand hung limp at his side, clearly damaged.
"Your associates have been enjoying our hospitality for several hours now," Valiant said conversationally. "Though I fear they haven't been very forthcoming with information. Perhaps you'll be more cooperative?"
"I don't understand," Marco said, mind racing. "They reported success. All three operations—"
"Oh yes, about that," Valiant interrupted, tapping a tiny claw against his chin. "I'm afraid there was a slight miscommunication. You see, there were no merfolk shipments to intercept. No secret production facility to burn. No materials to contaminate."
"That's not possible. My information—"
"Was exactly what we wanted you to have," came another voice, this one from the doorway of the cabin Marco had been about to enter.
A figure stepped into the dim light. Young—far too young for the authority in his voice. A dark cloak. And in his hand, a simple white mask.
Marco felt something collapse inside him. "You."
"Me," Adom agreed, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Sorry about your mercenaries. They fought well, considering."
Marco's mind was still struggling to catch up. "But the reports—"
"Is he...?"
Adom stepped forward, kneeling beside Marco's body. He didn't need to check for a pulse. The smell of burned flesh told him enough. The branching patterns—Lichtenberg figures, they were called—had turned completely black, spreading across every visible inch of skin.
"Yes," he said simply. "It's over."
Valiant nodded, a small, jerky movement. Then his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the deck beside his fallen opponent.
Tam rushed forward, carefully lifting the unconscious mouse. "He's breathing," he announced. "Just exhausted."
Thormund stepped up beside Adom, looking down at Marco's body. "By the old ways," he intoned formally, "judgment has been rendered. Let none dispute the outcome."
The others in the circle murmured agreement, the tension in the air finally beginning to dissipate.
It was done. Marco was dead. And with him, the last of resistance to the seat was removed.
*****
2 weeks later...
The last employees of the Crimson Scale filed out just before sundown.
No words had been spoken in the last few minutes. The heavy kind of silence had settled--the one that came with endings you didn't want to touch for fear they might shatter.
Tresh stood near the old banner as it was folded for the last time. Crimson fabric, gold edges. It had flown over three separate headquarters, five expansions, and nearly half a century of hard-fought deals.
She raised a hand to still the archivist, then took the cloth herself. Folded it slowly. Precisely.
Deroq's old desk was empty. His chair was gone. His name, scrubbed from the records. Tresh didn't speak his name aloud--not out of bitterness, but practicality. It was time to make space.
She turned to the dozen remaining officers and managers. None met her eyes for long.
"I built this guild to give merchants teeth," she said quietly. "We bit too many hands. And I forgot what it was like to simply enjoy the meal."
No one interrupted. Tresh had never needed a podium. She was the podium.
"I will not be rebuilding. There will be no rebranding. No vengeance. No rebirth."
A pause.
"But if any of you ever call yourselves former Crimson Scale, do it with your chest. We did damn good work."
She stepped down, banner tucked under one arm. Walked straight past the teary-eyed staff. No ceremony. No party.
It was done.
*****
"Where to, Madam Mavarin?" the driver asked as Tresh settled into the hired carriage.
She hesitated, her hands resting on the folded crimson banner in her lap. "The Wangara Guild warehouse first. I have a stop to make."
The driver nodded, snapping the reins. The carriage lurched forward, wheels clattering on cobblestones as they moved through the merchant district.
Through the window, Tresh watched the familiar streets slide past. She had walked these paths for decades, commanding respect with every step. Even now, she noted the nods of acknowledgment from passersby, the whispered conversations that followed in her wake.
The Wangara warehouse came into view as they rounded a corner—newly constructed, its pale stone gleaming in the afternoon sun. Workers moved around the entrance, loading crates onto wagons, checking manifests. In less than a week, Wangara would undoubtedly claim their seat in the House of Merchants. The seat that had once been hers.
Tresh stepped from the carriage, banner still tucked under her arm. Several workers paused as she approached, offering respectful nods. Her reputation might be tarnished, but years of commanding the Crimson Scale still carried weight.
Inside, she spotted Cassandra Drake speaking with an employee by a stack of crates. The young guildmaster looked up, surprise flickering across her face before her expression settled into careful neutrality.
"Madam Mavarin," Cass said, dismissing the worker with a nod. "This is... unexpected."
"I need a moment of your time," Tresh replied. "Privately."
Cass studied her briefly, then gestured toward a staircase. "My office is this way."
They climbed in silence, Tresh noting the efficient layout of the warehouse, the quality of the materials, the smooth operation below. The girl had built something impressive in a remarkably short time.
Cass's office was still being furnished—a few crates sat unopened against one wall, and the desk looked freshly polished. Through the window, the harbor was visible, ships coming and going like the tides of fortune.
"Please, sit," Cass offered, taking her own seat behind the desk.
Tresh settled across from her, the crimson banner resting in her lap. "I've officially dissolved the Crimson Scale Guild," she said without preamble.
"So I've heard," Cass replied carefully. "Your decision has been the talk of the district."
"I'm sure it has." Tresh's lips curved in a humorless smile. "Just as I'm sure you've heard about Marco's disappearance."
A flicker of something—caution, perhaps—crossed Cass's face. "I... do not know anyone named Marco. Though there are rumors of recent... fights."
"There always are." Tresh's fingers traced the golden embroidery of the banner. "I'm leaving Arkhos."
"Oh?" Cass leaned forward slightly. "Where will you go?"
"Ghilverin. I've purchased property there. A house with land."
"Retirement, then?"
Tresh met her gaze evenly. "Of a sort."
Silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but weighted with things unsaid. Through the window, gulls wheeled and called, their cries carrying over the constant noise of the harbor.
"You played a good game," Tresh said finally. "But I want you to know something."
Cass didn't respond.
"I am furious."
Tresh's voice stayed low. "Not because you lied. Not because you tricked me. But because you knew I wouldn't crack. And so you didn't come for me. You came for what I loved."
She continued.
"You made me watch my guild unravel. You turned my deputy into a pariah, my reputation into ash, and the last decade of my life into a goddamn punchline."
She paused.
"And the worst part? It worked."
Silence.
Cass still didn't speak.
Then, after a breath, Tresh laughed.
It wasn't a long laugh. Just a short, bitter sound—like something she hadn't expected to come out of her own mouth.
Cass tilted her head slightly. "What's so funny?"
Tresh shook her head, smiling faintly now, not kindly.
"When I took this seat—forty-nine years ago—I did the same thing. Found an opening. Exploited a rift. Played patient. And when the time came, I made sure the guild ahead of me stumbled."
She looked toward the far window, like she was seeing a younger world.
"There was an old woman back then. A diviner mage. She told me, 'The one who replaces you will look like you did on the day you took this seat.'" Tresh glanced back at Cass. "I didn't believe her."
Another smile. "But she was right."
Cass finally responded, voice dry as bone: "Madam Mavarin. If you do not. mind me asking. How old are you?"
"I'm eighty-nire years old. Turning ninety next week."
"You look amazing for your age. I'd have sworn you were in your mid forties."
Tresh blinked. Then, deadpan: "My great-great-grandfather was half-elf."
"Ah," Cass said, nodding solemnly. "That explains it."
"Lucky," Tresh replied.
"Yes," Cass agreed.
Another pause. Then:
"I bought a place in Ghilverin. Near the forest. River view. I'm opening a teashop."
Cass blinked. "A teashop."
"Yes," Tresh said flatly. "I have twenty-seven blend recipes and two acres of herbal plants waiting to be planted."
Cass almost smiled. "You're not going to raise an army out there, are you?"
"Not unless the rabbits start unionizing."
Tresh stepped back, one hand resting over her chest in the old guild salute.
"Good luck, Guildmaster Drake. I suspect you won't need it—but take it anyway."
Cass returned the gesture.
As Tresh turned to leave, she paused at the door.
"I don't forgive you," she said softly. "But I respect you."
And then she was gone.
As the doors shut behind Tresh, the silence lingered a little too long.
Cass exhaled, slow and steady. Her posture didn't change, but something in her shoulders finally eased. She walked back to the table, sat down, and reached for her crystal.
Adom's voice came through, a little quieter than usual. "...She likes tea?"
Cass blinked. "Apparently."
A pause.
"...Damn," Adom muttered. "Now I feel bad for what we did."
Cass raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because tea lovers can't be bad, Cass. That's a rule. It's like… a universal law. You don't betray tea people."
Cass finally let herself smile. "You didn't betray her. You beat her."
"Still feels dirty," Adom said.
"Drink some tea. You'll feel better."
"...You think she'd ship us some blends?"
Cass chuckled. "Not in this lifetime."
"Figures," Adom sighed.