The dark is never truly silent. Not in places like this.
I woke in cold sweat, heart racing like a drumbeat in a tomb. The smell of mold and rusted iron filled my nostrils before I'd even opened my eyes—an old, familiar scent. For a moment, I forgot where I was. The ceiling above me was cracked stone, a single spiderweb trailing across it, lit faintly by a flickering rune I'd stuck to the low beam weeks ago. The rune pulsed a soft violet, like a dying heartbeat.
My fingers twitched, then curled. The sheets beneath me were damp again. I exhaled, slow, and turned onto my side, my arm pressing into the coarse straw mattress. The nightmare hadn't left yet—it clung to my skin like oil. Kvatz's face, his last breath, the way his mouth had moved but no sound came out. And Gaer... his screams echoing in the fog of that cursed place
I brought my hands to my face, pressing my palms into my eyes until stars burst in the darkness. It didn't help.
The cellar was quiet except for the faint dripping in the far corner—always the dripping—and the soft thrum of the city's pulse outside. Somewhere above me, the black market was beginning to stir. Shutters creaked open, feet shuffled over broken cobblestone, and the occasional low murmur slipped between the cracks in the old building's bones.
I'd sealed myself off after Kvatz. After Gaer. Not completely—I'd still taken the odd job, the kind that didn't require names or questions—but I hadn't lived. I hadn't wanted to. What was the point?
I swung my legs off the bed, wincing as my bare feet touched the cold, uneven stone. My toes found an old sock. I tugged it on absently and reached for the flask beside the bed. I hesitated.
Then I pushed it away.
I didn't want to forget today. Not like I usually did.
My fingers found the old dogtag tucked beneath my shirt, the one Kvatz gave me a lifetime ago. A crude little thing—half-burned and missing a corner—but it had weight. So much weight. I pressed it to my lips, then let it drop.
The city didn't wait for people like me to heal. It moved on, quick and ugly and full of teeth. The alleys outside were wet with the kind of rain that never quite cleaned anything, and the air reeked of soot and desperation. But out there, there were people. Contracts. Life.
I rose, joints stiff from disuse. My armor lay piled in the corner, where I'd thrown it in a fury weeks ago. The dent in the wall was still there from when I'd punched it. I stared at the gear for a long while, arms crossed over my chest. My mind kept whispering, You can't do this again. You'll just lose more people. You'll kill them like you killed Kvatz. Like Gaer.
But something in me pushed back—tired of the rot, of the stagnant air and old bloodstains. I didn't know what it was. Maybe it was the ghost of Gaer's nervous laugh. Maybe it was the way Kvatz had looked at me when I struck him down, not with hate, but with... acceptance. As if he'd known this would happen. As if he still trusted me.
I knelt and began to piece the armor together.
The breastplate had scratches I didn't remember earning. The gloves were stiff, the buckles rusted. I cleaned them as best I could with an old rag, then strapped everything on, slow and deliberate. My hands shook when I buckled the last strap, but I didn't stop.
The city could smell weakness. If I was going out there again, I'd need to fake it till the edge came back.
At the cellar door, I paused. My hand lingered on the latch. The nightmare still clung to my ribs like something alive.
"I'm not done," I whispered into the dark. Maybe to Kvatz. Maybe to Gaer. Maybe to myself.
Then I opened the door.
The alley beyond was narrow and smelled of urine and fried spices. Morning light—dim, grey, filtered through smoke—barely reached the ground. I stepped out anyway. The world didn't stop. It never did.
People moved past me, hunched and quiet, lost in their own lives. I felt like a stranger wearing my own skin. The familiar clatter of the market buzzed in the distance—steel on steel, haggling voices, shouts, laughter. A hawker was already screaming about roasted rat skewers. Gods, I'd missed that chaos.
I wasn't ready to trust anyone. Not really. But I wasn't built for solitude. Not for long.
Kvatz always said I'd crack if I stayed still too long. "You're too loud for silence, Lanni," he used to tell me. "Even when you're quiet, you thrum."
I snorted. Then I smiled, just a little.
Time to see if the world had space for a merc like me again. And maybe, just maybe... if there were others out there looking for something too, I could try. I wouldn't call it hope yet.
But it was a start.
⧫ ⧫ ⧫
The contract board stood like a tired sentry at the edge of the lower plaza, sagging beneath the weight of damp papers and scribbled promises. It hadn't changed. Same cracked wooden frame, same loose nails. Same stink of desperation wafting off every blood-signed posting. I leaned against the wall beside it, arms crossed, eyes scanning rows of curled parchment and faded ink. Most were the usual—guard duty for smuggler caravans, pest control in the lower cisterns, debt collection with a side of intimidation. I knew how these ended. I knew how they all ended.
But still, I kept reading.
Rain dripped from the edge of the overhang above me, hitting the brim of my hood and rolling down my cheek like a tear I didn't earn. I'd been standing there too long, I realized. Not looking for the right job—just trying to feel like I still belonged on this side of the board. Like the rot inside hadn't already claimed too much.
That's when I noticed him.
He didn't belong.
It wasn't the way he moved—though that was part of it. He walked like someone who had never been mugged in an alleyway, never had to trade rings for a warm meal. His boots were polished. Gods, polished. No scuffs, no dried blood, no cracked soles. The kind of boots you wore to an academy library or a family estate's winter garden—not to a half-starved district on the edge of collapse.
And his clothes... linen, if I had to guess. Pale blue and clean, not just laundered but pressed. I squinted. No armor under that cloak, no scars on his hands. His black hair was neatly tied back with a silver pin, and his face carried that soft, too-perfect symmetry that nobles always wore before the world had a chance to punch them.
He walked straight toward the board, paused, then looked at me.
That was the first warning. Anyone with sense would've walked the other way. I gave him nothing—no nod, no greeting. Just a steady look that usually made people rethink bothering me. He hesitated for half a second. Then smiled.
He smiled.
"Excuse me," he said, voice clear and bright, like polished brass. "Are you a mercenary?"
I didn't answer at first. Just stared, letting the question hang. Letting the city around us press in—the stink of mildew and smoke, the shout of a brawl starting two alleys over, the sharp crack of glass under someone's boot.
He didn't flinch.
"You're dressed like one," he added, a little more cautiously. "But... I suppose appearances can lie. If I've offended you, I apologize."
That got a twitch out of me. Not quite a smile, not quite a scoff. Just a crack in the stone.
"You lost?" I asked, finally.
His eyes brightened. "No, not lost. Looking, actually. For someone skilled. A gun for hire, or perhaps... someone with broader experience. I need a bodyguard."
I stared at him, slow blink. "You need a what?"
"A bodyguard," he repeated, like I hadn't heard. "I'm traveling soon. East, past the sea of sorrows. I'm told the roads on the way are less than... ideal."
I shook my head once, exhaling through my nose. "You do realize this city eats soft boys like you, right? And you want to go east from here?"
"I've heard the warnings," he said, still too polite. "But I have reasons. And coin."
I gave him another look—closer, this time. Not just the clean clothes. It was in the way he held himself. Straight-backed, confident, too trusting. Too trusting. Either he was rich and naïve, or he'd played the game so well that even I couldn't read the cracks.
But no... something about him wasn't quite sharp enough. I watched his hand—resting on the strap of his satchel, not near a weapon. His eyes flicked to mine again, steady, unflinching.
"I'll pay in gold, upfront. And I'll keep to myself. Just need someone who can keep me breathing."
I didn't answer right away.
I knew this city. I knew men like him didn't last long. But some part of me—some bitter, cracked part—wanted to see why he thought he could. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I was just tired of being alone. Maybe I wanted to see how long someone so polished could last before the grime got in his bones.
Or maybe I just saw a familiar kind of stupid in his eyes. The kind that used to shine in Kvatz's.
"You got a name?" I asked.
He perked up. "Hermil."
"Just Hermil?"
He hesitated. "Hermil Steihron."
I don't know that name. But it sounds like old money. Dusty. A fallen house, if I made a guess. Noble blood thinned out and scattered after the last facsimile war. That explained the good manners and the misplaced optimism.
I looked back at the board, then back at him. "You're gonna die out there, Steihron."
"Possibly," he said, and actually smiled. "But not if you're with me."
Gods. He meant it.
I shook my head, muttering, "You really are a fool."
"Perhaps," he said gently. "But I've read that the best companions often begin as strangers met on misjudged roads."
I stared at him for a long, long second.
Then I sighed.
"Fine. I'll listen. But you're buying the drink, and you're explaining every single reason you think this is a good idea."
His smile widened. "Gladly."
As we turned and walked toward the crooked tavern down the lane, I felt it again—that ghost of warmth in my chest. Dangerous. Foolish. But real. I didn't know if I'd regret this.
But I was tired of silence. Tired of ghosts.
And Hermil Steihron was just stupid enough to make things interesting.
The tavern we walked into was called The Hollow Tongue, though the sign out front had long since lost most of its paint. All that remained was a warped wooden plank swaying in the breeze, creaking on rusted chains, and a faded tongue painted black as pitch. Locals called it The Hollow for short, and I guess that fit—there was nothing in here but empty bottles, half-whispers, and people pretending they hadn't already sold off whatever pieces of themselves were worth saving.
I pushed open the door and held it long enough for Hermil to step through. He hesitated at the threshold—not out of fear, no. More like he was observing it, cataloguing it in that clean, methodical brain of his. The way his eyes swept over the cracked floors, the warped beams, the broken lamp glass in the far corner... it wasn't judgment I saw there. Just interest. And something else—resolve, maybe. Or maybe I was giving him too much credit. Maybe he was just too fresh to know what mold on the ceiling meant in a place like this.
The regulars gave us one glance and went back to their drinks. They'd seen my kind before. They'd been my kind before. But Hermil—he got a few double-takes. It wasn't often you saw a noble in silk step through those doors without guards or a drawn sword. He didn't notice the stares, or maybe he did and just didn't care.
We slid into a booth in the back, the one with the least bloodstains on the wood. The seat creaked under me, and the old nail in the left plank dug into my thigh like it always did. I shifted, let my back rest against the damp wall, and studied him while he flagged down a server.
"I'll take whatever's warm," he said, cheerful as a festival priest. "And she'll have...?"
"Spintripper black," I said. "No fruit. No petals."
He nodded like he'd expected something spartan. The server gave me a look—you sure you want to be seen with this one?—but I didn't bother answering it. I just watched Hermil, trying to figure out what the hell he thought he was doing here.
"East, huh?" I said after a beat. "You know what lies that way? That's the Theocracy's territory, y'know."
"I've read accounts," he replied, folding his hands together neatly on the table. "The old roads are fractured. The coastal bridge routes are half-submerged. Trade routes destabilized after the last magiastorm. And the inland towns are—how did the journal phrase it?—ah, yes. 'Unreliable at best. Hostile at worst.'"
I raised an eyebrow. "You read that, and still decided this was a good idea?"
"I decided it was necessary," he said. "Good has very little to do with it."
There was steel in his tone, just a flicker. Enough that I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. "Necessary for what?"
He didn't answer right away. Our drinks arrived first. Mine was sharp, bitter, and exactly the way I liked it—no pretenses, no sweetness. His was some golden brown thing in a clean glass, and the moment he touched it, he smiled again. Like warmth itself was a gift. I hated that I noticed.
Finally, he looked up. Met my eyes again. Still unflinching. Still present.
"I'm looking for someone," he said. "Someone who disappeared ten years ago on the edge of the Sea of Sorrows. A researcher. My brother."
That cracked the air between us a little. Not just because it was personal—people didn't usually drop truths like that in places like this—but because of the way he said it. No tremble, no dramatic pause. Just fact.
"He was part of a survey crew," Hermil continued, "cataloguing anomalies in the Sea of Sorrows. His last letter came through a drop courier. After that… silence."
I sat back, slow. My stomach twisted in a way I didn't like. "Let me guess. Official channels declared him dead. 'Unrecoverable incident.' All very tidy."
Hermil nodded, his fingers tightening slightly around the glass. "Too tidy."
I knew the type. Clean-cut, educated, with just enough grief bottled up to turn into obsession. He wasn't just chasing his brother. He was chasing something else. Something the world told him not to look for. Something that had teeth.
"And you think hiring one merc is enough?" I asked. "You'll need a team."
"No," he said quietly. "I need you."
I scoffed. "You don't know a godsdamn thing about me."
"You watched the board for thirty minutes without taking a job," he said, voice soft now. "You watched like someone waiting to feel something. That's not boredom. That's someone who's tired. But still here."
I didn't respond. Couldn't. My throat felt tight all of a sudden.
"You're right," he added after a pause. "I don't know you. Not yet. But I'd like to."
Gods.
I looked away. The wall beside us was stained with watermarks and faded names etched by bored knives. I focused on that. On the silence. On the truth that clung to me like old smoke.
I'd lost my comrade two years ago. Lost him on a contract that should've been routine.Deserter retrieval. Only to be plagued by visions that dragged us north into something I wished I'd never seen. I'd dragged my own leg out of that pit. Kvatz didn't come back.
So yeah. I was tired. And yeah—I watched that board like it owed me something. Because I couldn't bring myself to stop hoping the next job would fix something in me that never healed.
But this wasn't a job. Not really.
"You're not going to find what you're looking for," I said flatly. "Even if we make it east, even if we survive the crossings and the filth and the dead gods buried in the sea—you'll come back with ghosts. Nothing more."
Hermil smiled, but this time there was sorrow in it. "Then at least I won't be alone when I find them."
We sat in silence after that. The tavern buzzed around us—half-hearted laughter, the clink of bottles, a cough that wouldn't quit near the hearth. But between him and me? Silence. Not empty. Just full in a way I hadn't felt in a long time.
I drained the last of my drink. Set the cup down. And nodded.
"Alright, Hermil Steihron. You've got yourself a merc."
He exhaled like he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." I stood, cracking my neck. "Pack light. Get a weapon. And by the Empress' fury, buy a damn cloak that doesn't scream stab me, I'm rich. We leave in two days."
He rose with me. "I'll be ready."
⧫ ⧫ ⧫
The next two days passed like the slow peeling of old bandages—quiet, measured, each moment tugging at some half-healed part of me.
I didn't tell Hermil where I stayed. Didn't need him knowing the corners I crawled into when the noise got too loud in my head. He was probably in a tidy inn, sheets still white, fire still warm. I didn't ask. He didn't offer. That was a small mercy.
I spent the time checking old contacts, loading up on supplies. Ammunition, fresh oil for my sidearm, rations that didn't taste like wood dust. I cleaned my boots for the first time in months—not polished like his, but serviceable. Tightened the binding on my shoulder guard. Re-stitched the lining on my coat where the leather had split during that last job in the Irongut Canyons. I kept my hands busy so I wouldn't think too much.
Still thought too much.
I thought about Kvatz.
About his laugh, ragged and sharp like gravel. About the way he used to hum off-key when we camped near rivers, said it kept the insects away. About his back, turning the wrong direction just before everything went to shit. I hadn't let myself think too hard about that in a long time.
But something about Hermil—his naivety, his purpose, that cracked smile—stirred up pieces I thought I'd buried.
The morning we were supposed to leave, I met him at the eastern gate just past dawn. Fog hung low across the cobbled streets like a shroud, blurring the old sigils carved into the archways. Crows hopped along the battlements, heads twitching like they knew something we didn't.
Hermil was already there, leaning against a pillar with a pack slung over one shoulder and a fresh cloak wrapped tight around his frame. Gray. Serviceable. Good choice. I almost complimented him.
He turned when he saw me, and—damn it—he smiled again. Like this wasn't the beginning of something that might unmake us both.
"You're early," he said.
"I don't sleep well," I replied. "You ready?"
He nodded, adjusted the pack. "As ready as I'll ever be."
I studied him. There was a subtle shift in how he stood. Less stiffness. A touch more weight to his posture. The city hadn't roughed him up yet, but it had started whispering. That was enough.
"You sure about this?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away. Just looked past me, toward the horizon smothered in mist. "Yes."
We turned toward the gate, just as the guards were finishing their inspection of a trader's wagon. The smell of spice and old straw lingered in the air. One of the guards eyed me, then Hermil, then shrugged. They knew better than to ask questions about the kind of people who walked east with no banners.
We stepped through the threshold together.
The old stones gave way to the dirt path beyond, and the wind met us like a cold whisper.
That was when Hermil spoke again. Quiet. Almost like he didn't mean for me to hear it.
"He smiled, didn't he?," he said. "Kvatz. When it happened."
I froze.
He kept walking a few steps before realizing I wasn't beside him anymore.
Slowly, I turned to face him.
"What?"