Anira’s brow lifted slightly at his question, amusement touching the corner of her mouth. “Met her? No,” she said lightly. “But a bard hears many things when she sings in the right rooms.” Her gaze drifted forward as they walked, thoughts wandering briefly to the few rumors she had gathered about Lady Selani.

“People speak of her as quick-minded. And as a young girl she was not entirely unhappy with lessons involving horses, terrain, and the practical use of sharp objects.” At that point, The Fourth's long blade manifested. She watched the dagger appear in his palm. A faint, almost amused exhale left the bard and with a nod, she stepped back.

There was something almost theatrical about it. One heartbeat later the alley held three swaggering fools. One man on the ground, another clutching his shattered face. Sword clattered to the stones. That escalated efficiently.

She stepped out from the alcove then, her gaze drifted over to The Fourth. The way he stood. The controlled violence that had folded itself back into a quiet, patient shape once the work was done. The casual certainty that things had already gone precisely where he intended. How brutality settled back into stillness as if it had never happened. Very attractive behaviour, she decided.

"I strongly suggest,” the bard added sweetly as she stepped closer “that you speak to us quickly. I’m beginning to enjoy watching him work." A small, wicked smile. “Who told you to follow us?"
 
Forcing the thug to his knees, the Fourth took a step back as the she-devil appeared, asking questions, her saccharine smile robbing the man of all thought. Smiling to himself, the mercenary watched as the bardess wove her spell. Already he could see the man's balls telling his brain to hurry the fuck up. Oh, what a pretty face and a tight bodice can achieve, he grinned, wide enough for Anira to see.

'A-abbas iln K-khazi, mistress! He's... um, he's the one what t-told us t' follow you.'

Clutching his bloodied hand tightly, the thug swallowed his fear as he glanced up at Anira, wanderstruck. 'Who's Abbas iln Khazi?' Brother Fourth asked suddenly. The thug jolted as if awoken from a dream. 'He-he's our boss, Saer! A... uh, um...'

'Gilder's golden pearls, man, spit it out!'

'He's a mercenary, Saer. A local fellah. Rumour has it he used t' be a nobleman or some such, but ended up acc-... ock,' the thug smiled sheepishly. 'I forget what words they used. All I know is the bloke worked up debts, or so t' rumours tell. Lost all 'is land and whatnot. Nowadays, he does knifework an' the like for the pitbosses 'round 'ere.'

The thug tried to glance over his shoulder and earned himself a slap.

'Where can we find this Khazi?' The Fourth asked. Somehow, the thug grew paler. 'I c-can't say,' he replied, hugging his hands to his chest.

'Can't or won't?'

'Can't! I-... He'll...'

'Kill you?' The Fourth chuckled, genuinely amused. 'What do you think it is I'll do to you, if you keep holding out on us?' There was an edge to his voice sharp as any blade. 'Here's the deal: You tell us what we want to hear -truthfully, mind- and I'll let you go.' A hand gripped the thug's shoulder. Vice-like fingers dug into bone and flesh. A bit of coercion, in case the convincing didn't work. 'Fail to do so, and, well... Need I continue?'

The thug blanched as he stared down at Anira's feet. 'No, saer, I-I understand,' he spoke stuntingly, wetting his lips, so as to get the words out sharpish. 'You can find him in The Cradle, just down those steps there. He usually has a half-dozen men with him.'

'Anyone else I should know about?'

'No,' the thug winced. 'Well, recently he's had this woman hanging 'round 'im. Not some whore, I don't think. Too... hmm, proper.' This time, the Fourth allowed him to look up. 'Maybe the rumours were true, an' the boss really is a nobleman?'
 
Caught the mercenary’s grin out of the corner of her eye, and she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Oh, darling,” she pitied the thug. The minstrel crouched in front of the thug, she rested her chin in her hand, studying him thoughtfully. She did not enjoy the fear in the man’s eyes when the Fourth spoke. “Abbas iln Khazi,” she repeated, rolling the name across her tongue as if testing a wine. Where had she heard that before..? "I think I've read that name on a wanted poster...” That wasn't a good omen...

Anira listened to the exchange with her head tilted slightly, bright eyes moving between the trembling thug and the far less trembling man holding him. Violence was not her language. Not truly. She could stand beside it, could even joke in its shadow... even if sometimes it felt like standing next to a thunderstorm. She did not resent it. Still, it was faintly barbaric. But... Oh, what a quiet step behind a man and a silent blade can achieve, she thought, watching The Fourth, biting her lip in a poor attempt at not smirking to wide.

'Well, recently he's had this woman hanging 'round 'im. Not some whore, I don't think. Too... hmm, proper.'

"That must be our Lady."

She turning her eyes slightly toward the Fourth, eyes brightening with sudden, divine inspiration. “Oh!” she said and clasped her hands together as though presenting a gift. “I have an idea! One of my best, truly.”

The bardess turned back to the thug, eyes sparkling. “You,” she pointed at the thug, “are going to pretend that you have captured me and Johannes. Very competent of you. Very intimidating. You can even tie me up if you like." Eyes bright and sparkling. “I am very good at playing the captured maiden."

She straightened slightly, glancing at the Fourth. “It is an excellent ticket inside The Cradle! He bring us in. He collect his reward from his boss, take us straight to this Abbas iln Khazi. Everyone is happy! I get to avoid being stabbed anyone today, which frankly is my preferred outcome...” said the bard, tone absolutely certain.
 
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Gods, give me strength! Keeping hold of the thug's shoulder, the Fourth listened to the plan Anira put forth, carefully concealing his feelings on the matter until after she was finished speaking. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you?' He could play pretend, when the situation called for it. Still, what Anira proposed seemed foolhardy. And that's putting it politely.

'Tie you up?!' Mouth agape, the thug glanced back at his captor for clarity. When he offered none, the thug shrugged. 'I mean, we could... um, try it, I s'pose.' The Fourth sighed inwardly.

'Outstanding,' he said, withdrawing his hand as the man recovered his sword, albeit somewhat hesitantly.

'Why so glum?' The mercenary asked. 'It's not every day a comely lass offers to let you tie her up. Or is there something you're not telling us?' Meeting the thug's eye, Brother Fourth suppressed a smile as he looked away. 'I-I'll be needing your weapons. Saer.' Ah, so that's it, thought the merc, knowing it sure as shit wasn't the only thing colouring his cheeks.

'Sure.' The thug's eyes widened as he handed over the dagger and long knife. 'If all goes to plan, I won't be needing them anyway,' he explained. 'Of-of course. I, um,' he paused, glancing down at his two compatriots. 'Maybe I should...'

'Don't bother.'

One was out for the count, and the other wasn't likely to be singing much with his jaw busted. Usually, the Fourth would've just slain them, but there was a Lady present, and dead bodies didn't get rid of themselves quite the same as live ones. 'What's your name, by the way?' He asked, moving the conversation along before the man thought to ask for the rest of his knives.

'It's Selko, saer,' the thug replied, tucking the Fourth's weapons through his belt. 'Most folk call me Slim, though.'

'Well, Selko, would you like to take the lead, or should we leave that to my lovely assistant here?' The merc growled through his teeth, noting the way Selko's left foot bounced nervously, as if he was working up the courage to do something foolish.

Like I am right now, mused the Fourth, sharing a look with Anira.

'Y'know,' he spoke softly, 'we could always just walk in. But then that would be too easy, no?'
 
“For a moment,” she admitted lightly, “I was terribly pleased with my idea...”

Bards, after all, had a reputation.

Foolhardy was practically the profession’s middle name. They were romantics by trade, idealists by instinct. They were creatures built from bad judgment. Danger rarely appeared to them as danger. Which meant they had an unfortunate habit of wandering into disasters with a smile. But in truth it was simply the tendency of bards to believe that beauty and danger were old companions rather than enemies.

“But if we walk into a place where they are expecting us,” she said quietly in a measured breath to Fourth. “then we must assume they have already decided what to do with us.” Anira turned her eyes to Fourth at her side, he was oozing with the same stillness of a coiled serpent. The alley lantern threw sharp gold across his cheekbones and left the rest of him in shadow. “At the very least,” she said quietly, “we will enter looking defeated. And those who believe they have already won tend to watch the wrong shadows.”

Slim had just begun looping the rope around Anira’s wrists when she tilted her head thoughtfully. The rope was rough. Cheap hemp. Dockside quality. The bard watched the knot forming with mild curiosity. "Mmmh.." It was the sort of sound that made men pause mid-task. Slim did exactly that. "What?"

“That,” Anira said gently, nodding toward the knot forming between her wrists, “is a real knot.”

Slim blinked and scratched his temple. “Well… yeah.”

“If you tie me properly,” she said, almost apologetically, “then I’ll actually be tied. Which rather defeats the point of pretending you’ve captured us.” The bardess lifted her hands slightly, letting the rope slacken.

Slim's eyes narrowed. “Right…” Anira turned her wrists again. She wiggled her fingers inside the loop. “Start here.” He obeyed, awkward fingers following her instruction as she guided him through it. “Good. Now wrap it once... yes, like that. Perfect. Now instead of pulling the end through there…” She leaned closer and nudged the rope with one finger. “…you tuck it under the standing line.”

Slim frowned. “But that won't...”

“Hold?” Anira finished sweetly. The bard flexed her wrists experimentally. Slim stared at the knot. Then back at The Fourth. Slowly, reluctantly, he took the lead.


Anira had to tilt her head going down the dark stairwell leading down into the Cradle from the old cistern tunnels. From below drifted the roar of a crowd, the metallic clang of blade against blade, the animalistic thunder of men and women betting on blood spilled.

Once it had been a great salt cellar, carved deep into the earth to store grain and goods against the long, hungry monsoon months. The bones of the place were wide and hollowed. Massive stone pillars rose from the packed earth floor, still rough where salt crystals had once grown and been scraped away by hands long dead. The air was heavy and moist down here. A ghost of brine and salt, mixed with smoke from oil lamps, incense burned by gamblers for luck and the heavier perfume of sweat, blood and anticipation. Coins were passed between painted fingers.

Where great barrels of white salt had once stood were now occupied by cages. Some were empty, their bars bent where desperation had warped metal more effectively than any hammer. Others held people sitting silently in the half-light, backs against iron. Some held restless and agitated animals who paced restlessly in their cages.

The floor of the old storage chamber had been cut open in a broad circular wound, a descending basin roughly three to four meters deep. The Cradle. There were no elegant steps leading down. No ceremonial entrance for fighters. People were thrown in. Sometimes they jumped down willingly. Some was dragged. The fighting pit was lit by big hanging lanterns of amber and saffron glass. Around the upper ring ran narrow stone galleries where the spectators stood. Silk sleeves brushed carved stone railings as they watched the fighting below.

Guards who had been leaning against the walls straightened slightly when they saw Slim walk in with two stumbling prisoners.
 
Slim was a tricksy bastard, but none too bright. The Fourth fully expected him to sell them out first chance he got. The odds were already in his favour. He just didn't realise it. 'The more I learn, the less I want to know,' quipped the mercenary, eyeing Anira as one might a motleyed jester sans the hat.

Descending to the Cradle behind the bard, the Fourth did his best to appear defeated. Slim's sword poked him in the back every dozen steps or so. Part of the deception, the merc tried to convince himself, growing wary all the same.

'Move!' Slim growled, the point of his shortsword puckering the back of Brother Fourth's curaiss. Golden eyes narrowed in response. Annoyance, or something akin to anger settled inside his chest, stoking his thoughts til they burned as hot and ugly as any unkempt flame.

Of course, none of what he felt reached his eyes, lowered as they were.

The sound and smell of violence reached the killer before the salt-stench did. A life of violence had left him deaf and blind to the horrors committed by man and beast. Inoculated him against the screams, the cheers, the downright nastiness that his line of work involved.

The Cradle's guards weren't all that impressed by what Slim brought them. 'Who's this?' One demanded, pushing away from the wall to grip Johannes by the chin, leaving himself wide open to a knife-thrust that never came.

'Fuckin' never mind that,' said the other, licking his lips as he eyed up Anira. 'Where'd you find the bird, Slim? Reckon she sings like one when yer fuckin' 'er?' Tearing free of the guard's grip, the Fourth admired his boots as the other circled Anira, like a shark scenting prey. There was already blood in the air. He could taste it.

'Hands off, Gaz! These two're for the boss, an' you don't wanna get on his bad side. Trust me.'

'Oh, I don't, Slim,' replied the thug, lingering, only to let go of Anira all the same. 'Off you fly, my pretty! We'll have us a moment later.'

The guards grinned at each other as Slim prodded and poked, driving the prisoners onwards. The air warmed slightly at they climbed a flight of rickety steps, entering into yet another chamber through a hole in the wall. Knocked through, the mercenary noted, wondering just how deep beneath the city the Cradle ran.

Wood creaked. Steel rang out. Stone soaked up the adoration and insults like sand did blood and piss.

Seemingly distracted, the Fourth tripped as he reached the top step. An accident, feigned excellently. It brought him within a few breadths of Anira. 'You okay?' He whispered, raising his gaze just so, as the crowds roared and the moneymen exchanged coin, as they had since time immemorial.
 
The guard circling her had the look of a man who enjoyed his work far too much. Men like him always circled like dogs around a dropped bone, deciding whether to bite or bark first. The rope around her wrists looked convincingly tight, no suspicions there.

“I can promise that if I ever sing here, you will remember it.” she said, sweet as honey.

Anira watched Gaz with open curiosity, as if he were some rare and slightly amusing creature rather than a man who had just imagined her screaming beneath him. She lowered her gaze slightly, lashes shadowing her eyes, and smiled in the particular way women learned when survival sometimes depended on being pleasant to the wrong kind of man.

'You okay?'

For a moment, something shifted. Not fear. Something more honest than that and harder to name. "Ask me again when we're out.." she said quietly, not looking at him.

The sound of the crowd below softened behind them, swallowed by stone that had learned to hold violence the way desert sand holds heat long after sunset. The corridor they followed was narrow, lit by oil lamps burning orange against stone walls etched with old, curling lotus designs worn smooth by centuries of moist.

Slim pushed them onward.
Not roughly.
Not kindly either.

When Slim stopped it was in front of a door not so grand, but heavy. Carved from dark teakwood reinforced with iron bands, marked with faint symbols of old port protection wards and mercantile blessing glyphs that had been scratched over with newer, less polite sigils. Slim knocked once and then pushed it open. This had once been another storage chamber of the great salt vault. Incense burned somewhere in the chamber, heavy and sweet by jasmine and sandalwood.

A large table of dark polished wood stood like an island in the middle of the room, and at the high seat stood Lady Selani, her hands rested lightly on the edge of the desk. The lady was flanked by Abbas iln Khazi and Vorek the Penniless. Selani wore armour that was purely martial. Her raven hair was bound in a warrior’s knot, threaded with narrow gold rings that caught the amber light. Behind her, mounted on black spikes, were three heads.

One was a man whose face had been tattooed with shroud patterns of a weaver mage. His eyes were half-open, and from them, slow, terrible, and impossible, bled faint drifting motes of light like stars leaking from the sockets, mouth, and ears, fading and reforming like dying constellations trapped inside breath that had already ended. The second and third heads were less remarkable only because horror had a way of numbing itself when presented in multiples.

Selani’s emerald gaze lifted. It was not a warm, welcoming gaze. It was the gaze of someone measuring whether the prisoners before her were useful or not. Selani spoke first. “Looks like my brother sent more fools after me.”
 
Ask me again when we're out. Strange, the feeling those words evoked within him. For a moment, the mercenary's gaze held steady on the bard, as if weighing her up, the decisions they had made in order to reach this point. Ask me again when we're out, she had said, like she wasn't the reason they were here in the first place. One half-bound, the other bladeless. Well, almost.

In truth, Anira wasn't to blame for the predicament they found themselves in, though, finding fault with someone else was certainly easier than being honest with oneself.

By the time they reached the Cradle's inner sanctum, the Fourth was ready to put an end to the facade.

Slim knocked, and they entered, like ducklings waddling headlong towards their doom. The mental image was enough to make the Fourth smile. In the past, he had only ever smiled when someone was about to die. Lady Selani appeared the type to oblige him, dressed up in plate and leather, like a warrior queen of yore. The mercenary knew from a glance that she walked the walk, which was more than he could say for Vorek the Penniless.

Abbas iln Khazi was cut from the same cloth as his mistress. Armed and armoured, he watched the three enter, like a hawk readying to dive. He had his brown shoulder-length hair tied back, his well-oiled beard styled to a point. All the rage in southern courts, the Fourth knew, as was the shamshir riding his hip.

"Looks like my brother sent more fools after me."
"If they were fools, they wouldn't have made it this far."
"Gilder's garters, Khazi! Are you blind? The slut's bound, and her companion looks about ready to piss 'imself."
"Are you blind, Vorek? That Selko."
"Who?"

Abbas sighed, shaking his head. "Never mind," he said wearily, refusing to dance to Vorek's tune. "Whoever you are, you've done well to get this close. But your journey ends here." Looking up, the Fourth studied the three heads as Abbas drew his sword. The first, a weaver, had died quick, if the severed neck was any indicator. The others seemed to have been beheaded after their deaths. Sawing off limbs was damned messy, and only the sharpest blades served.

'A crying shame, that.' Straightening up, the Fourth put an end to the mummer's farce. 'After all we've been through to find Your Ladyship, for our search to end in bloodshed seems... Hmm. Wasteful, to say the least.'

The Fourth heard Selko gasp as a fresh dagger dropped into his left hand. In his right, the mercenary clutched a long-knife, the blade itself inscribed with binding runes.

Ancient, but only as powerful as the one who wielded it.
 
Anira leaned slightly toward the Fourth, her voice dropping into a low murmur.

“Well,” she said softly, “now we know why Mahapravin's mage isn’t picking up the sending stone.” Then she looked past the macabre display. And the room revealed its true nature. This was no simple hideaway.

The great table dominating the chamber was drowning in maps, river charts, trade roads, fortified passes through the southern marches. Small carved elephants marked supply routes. Bronze ships clustered along the coastlines. Scrolls lay open with tallies of grain, coin, and mercenary companies.

Campaign maps.
Mobilization routes.
Siege calculations.

Anira’s gaze moved slowly across them, the pieces assembling themselves in her mind.

Ah. Not hiding. Preparing.

Her eyes lifted to Selani again with new understanding. She wants a war. Then steel sang. Anira turned back just in time to see Abbas’ curved blade leave its sheath. At the same moment the Fourth abandoned his act entirely. The room filled instantly with the tension of drawn blades and dangerous men remembering what they were good at.

The teak doors behind them were not merely reinforced with iron. Carved deep into the wood and filled with old black resin, ran a lattice of glyphs, layered, interlocking. Temple-bred geometry once used to ward vaults, prisons, and execution chambers where sorcerers were brought to meet their makers. It was runic work that strangled magic. Her gaze flicked briefly to the Fourth’s blade. The engravings along the blade flickered once. Twice. Then went dark like burning wicks pinched between wet fingers.

Ah. That was why the shroud weaver’s head sat on a spike.
Try kill a mage anywhere else and you risk spells, curses and miracles. Try kill one here and he dies like anyone else, confused, powerless, bleeding stars into the floor.

Anira raised both bound hands quickly. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she said, “Let’s all take a calming breath before anyone looses something important!" She looked directly at Selani. “Yes, your brother sent us to find you,” she said easily. “But we are not here to fight.” Her head tilted slightly toward the Fourth. “Despite appearances. He simply greets everyone like that.”

Selani rose. The motion was regal and smooth, like a queen stepping off a throne. Her glinting green eyes had fixed entirely on the Fourth now. Recognition and something sharper. Abbas frowned faintly beside her, confusion beginning to creep across his face. Abbas glanced sideways at Selani.

Vorek, however, had gone very still. His eyes widened. “Oh,” he breathed quietly, half to himself. “Oh, hells.” A slow smile touched Selani's lips. “Tell me, how much my dear brother is paying you?” Abbas opened his mouth to say something, but Selani lifted a hand slightly and he stayed silent. Her eyes never left the Fourth. Spared the bard not even a glance. The minstrel felt it like a hand brushing past her. Admiration, assessment, desire perhaps, all wrapped in a dangerous ribbon. Anira's eyes darted to the Fourth, flicked back to Selani, then lingered on the two lieutenants.

“I will triple it,” Selani said. "If you would contract with me instead.”
 
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A chill ran through the Fourth as he faced down Abbas, Selani and Vorek. Something shifted, and something new settled in its place. Unwelcome, though not unfamiliar. Gold eyes flicked from door to blade then back again. Runes went dark as Anira intervened, trying to ease the tension in the room, the burgeoning threat of impending violence.

He did not intend to kill anyone, but intentions had a bad habit of going awry. Sometimes, blood flowed regardless.

Anira spoke, and everyone else listened. Selani, Abbas, Vorek. Even young Selko, whose complexion had turned as white as a sheet. 'My friend here is right,' said the Fourth, adding his voice to hers. 'I did not come here to kill anyone, as Selko can attest to.' He had not slain the two men outside, and Selko confirmed as much, quivering all the while.

It was then Selani found her feet.

'Forgive me, My Lady, but what you brother offered me in exchange for my services is none of your business.' He spoke softly but succinctly. If word got out they he had discussed the terms of a contract with someone other than his sponsor, it would damage his reputation, perhaps irrecoverabley. And reputation is everything, he mused, recalling Anira's words to him earlier.

"I understand." Lady Selani smirked. "Never mind. My offer stands. Triple what my brother's paying you. Half up front, the rest-"

'Again, forgive me, My Lady, but I cannot accept,' the mercenary interrupted, earning a scowl from Abbas, and a nervous look from Vorek. A glimmer of annoyance flickered in Selani's gaze. "Why not?" She asked. The Fourth studied her a moment, weighing his thoughts.

'Because word is bond, Lady, and I still have a job to do.'

The tension returned. Abbas's fist tightened about the grip of his sword. Selko looked like he was working up the courage to run his sword through the mercenary's back. Only Selani remained unfazed, emerald-hued eyes holding his for what felt like an eternity. For a moment, the Fourth understood why these men followed her so loyally. Strength of personality was a weapon in and of itself, and she wielded it magnificently.

"So," she said after a time, "what is your plan, pray tell? Will you kill my men? Cart me off at swordpoint?"

'No, Lady. As my friend said, no one need lose here.'

"Is that so?" Selani's smile lit the chamber. Abbas stood stunned. Vorek's eyes widened in disbelief. "What, then, do you seek?" The Fourth shrugged, blades held low by his sides. His gaze went to Anira. Back again.

'Englightenment.'
 
Enlightenment.

For a long moment Lady Selani simply regarded the Fourth across the lamplit table. Selko looked pale enough to faint. “That,” she said calmly, “is a disappointing answer.” The words were neither angry nor mocking. Merely final. She clasped her hands behind her back and paced back to the table’s edge. “It is a shame you will not take my offer,” she continued. “Men with your reputation are rare. Men of principle even rarer.” Lady Selani sighed. Her eyes settled on The Fourth again, cold in a way. "But perhaps, you truly works for the ‘Greatest Fool’. "

Whatever Selani was preparing for stretched far beyond the handful of people standing in this chamber. And as Selani spoke, Anira felt the shape of the truth before the words had even settled. She and The Fourth might had imagined themselves players when they walked in here, messengers, hunters, negotiators, perhaps even threats. But Selani did not look at them the way one looks at an opponent. She looked at them the way a lord might glance at mud on his boots. To Selani, they were not even inconveniences.

"You ask for answers I have no reason to give.”

The realization landed with the dull weight of inevitability. In whatever game Lady Selani was playing, Anira and the Fourth was not even seen as pawns on the board. The bard realized they'd misunderstand the scale of the board they had have stepped onto. Behind Selani unnoticed by most in the room, Vorek the Penniless drifted toward one of the hanging tapestries. The embroidered cloth showed a many-armed goddess trampling serpents. His hand slipped casually behind the fabric. Found iron.

Vorek pulled the lever.

The floor vanished. Wood and stone split open beneath Anira, Slim, and the Fourth with a grinding crack. Slim screamed. The sound ended almost instantly. Below waited iron spikes, rusted, blood-stained and sharp. Slim struck one of them chest-first with a wet, splitting noise as the metal punched through his ribs. His body jerked violently, impaled and twitching, blood pouring down the shaft.

Anira twisted as she fell. Instinct? Luck? She tumbled into darkness. Her shoulder clipped the side of the pit wall. Pain exploded down her arm but it spun her body sideways, changing the angle of her fall. She crashed against the stone slope just beneath the spikes, slid hard across grit, rotting guts and old blood.

“If any of them still draw breath…” Lady Selani's voice carried easily down the shaft. Her voice was calm, almost indifferent. “…send them to the Cradle.”

The trapdoor slammed shut.
And the light vanished.
 
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No reason? The Fourth could think of two, but he could see the woman had already made up her mind. He'd encountered hardened killers who showed more feeling than her. And the remark about the Greatest Fool... She might have placed the contract in his lap but he was the one who chose to pick it up.

And look where that decision landed me, he mused, a heartbeat before the ground gave way beneath them.

The dagger went arching across the chamber as the trapdoor swung open. The Fourth heard Vorek yelp in pain. Then, he was falling, limbs outstretched, long knife disappearing into the depths ahead of him as his hands and feet ground against stone, arresting his fall. Skin tore. Leather protested. Selko screamed the scream of the damned as he plunged headlong towards his end.

Anira fell past him. Surprise had robbed the bard of her voice. She disappeared, and there was nothing the mercenary could do to stop it. Gone. Just like he would be if he decided to hang around.

Above him, Lady Selani could be heard giving orders to her underlings. The trapdoor began to close.

Darkness consumed the world.

Easing his way down, the Fourth felt the shroud return to him in a rush, its power fuelling his muscles as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Selko's death throes echoed up to him from below. Gurgles and twitching. Sharpened spikes lined the bottom of the pit. Bones. Ragged flesh. Viscera-stink.

'Nasty.' Dropping the last half-dozen feet, the Fourth avoided the spikes, his boots hitting stone and loose scree that clicked and clattered in the dark. Gold eyes burned away the black.

Anira lay none too far away. Alive, though not for long, if Selani's parting words were to be trusted.

'Hate to be the one to say it... but that could have gone better.' The pit widened out into another chamber. Uncut stone hemmed them in. A quick count revealed tunnels stretching in three different directions. The air down in the pit reeked of salt and corpses.

Beyond the hollow silence, the Fourth sensed the sea calling his name. A siren song, or a way out? There was only one way to know for sure. 'I was hoping for a peaceful resolution to this mess,' spoke the mercenary, taking a knee by Anira's side. Gentle hands turned her head to face him. 'You've blood in your hair, but you're breathing, which is more than I can say for Slim.' Callused fingers picked grit from Anira's scalp.

Slowly, the Fourth began to transfer his shroudsight to her. There were no wards down here in the dark. Nothing to stop him exacting revenge on those who had wronged him.

'I'm going to kill some people now. If you wish to cut and run after all that has transpired, I won't hold it against you.'

Foolish as her idea was, it had gotten them to Selani. Now, they knew more than they had before. The papers and maps on the noblewoman's desk had been most...

'Enlightening,' he huffed, staring down at the bard. The merc blinked. 'I fucking hate politics.'
 
Anira sucked in a sharp breath as the darkness settled around her. Pain arrived a moment later. It bloomed behind her eyes and down her neck. Her head must have struck the stone. Something warm and sticky clung to her hair. Blood, most likely. A mix of her own and Slim's. She tasted of iron at the back of her throat. Then the awful smell down here.

The bard blinked once, twice, then looked up at the mercenary kneeling beside her. Anira slowly pushed herself upright, wincing as the movement dragged pain through her ribs.

“Before you begin to hack a path back upstairs,” she said quietly grabbing his wrist “allow me to remind you of something you seemed very proud of not five minutes ago.” Her fingers tightened just slightly. “Word is bond.” A pause. “We promised we would bring Lady Selani back unharmed.”

She studied his face in the dim gold glow of his sight. “And unless the fall has knocked that virtue clean out of you…” Her fingers went loose around his wrist. “…that still matters.”

When the strange pressure of his shroudsight bled into her vision, the darkness peeled back just enough for shapes to return to the world. Stone. Bones. The faint silhouette of Slim’s body twitching on the spikes above. A broken helm. Anira glanced around the chamber. Severed limbs littered the floor like discarded dice. The tunnels stretched away into blackness, breathing cold air that smelled faintly of the sea.

The Fourth’s hands were careful as he brushed grit from her scalp. His touch was unexpectedly gentle for a man who spoke about killing people. Anira blinked slowly, her eyes focusing on the Fourth’s gold-lit gaze. She leaned forward and kissed him. Hesitant at first only because she was still dizzy from the fall.
 
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The mercenary regarded the bard quietly. Time stretched. Anira's voice filled the space betwixt, reminding him of something he had not yet forgotten, wilfully or otherwise. 'Aye, that it does,' he agreed, wondering if he had any virtue left. 'My conscience isn't clean... but at least I still possess one.' It was all too easy to let one's heart grow cold in this business. So much death and misery took its toll.

The Fourth did not consider himself a cruel man, but rarely was he accused of being kind. The way Anira looked at him left him uneasy. What followed damn near took his breath away.

Maybe the fall had done more damage than he'd first thought; maybe there had always been an attraction there. The mercenary barely had the time to ponder let alone react as Anira pressed her lips to his. Tentatively, at first. The Fourth could not decide whether to pull away or lean into it. In the end, he chose a happy medium, defying his instincts by staying put, and returning the kiss.

The sound of a door clattering open broke the spell. The mercenary drew back, head canted to the side as he tried to pinpoint which direction the noise had come from. 'Well, since you're evidentally feeling better,' he pressed to his feet, discovered his long knife lying between the remains of previous victims.

Runes flared to life as he gave the blade a flourish. Footsteps echoed through the dark. Hobnailed boots. Burning torches. Unfortunates sent to finish them off, or toss their battered bodies into the Cradle.

Hopefully, Lady Selani's deputies had been as tight-lipped about his identity as she had.

'We should move,' the mercenary took a step closer, bent down to lend the bard a hand. 'Can you stand?' Voices bounced from wall to wall. A light appeared in one of the tunnels. The Fourth stared down at Anira, not unkindly.

'We need to get to Selani before she leaves the Cradle,' he said, helping her to her feet. 'She's like as not to advance her plans, whatever they may be, and woe befall anyone who tries to stop her,' he smiled. 'Hope you're ready for what comes next.'
 
Maybe the fall had rattled her wits. That was the sensible explanation. The less sensible one was that she had been a little curious about him since they'd meet.

For a heartbeat he did nothing. Anira, even mid-kiss, noticed this. Oh well, some distant corner of her mind thought dryly. He did not kiss her like this was their last romantic moment before their tragic deaths. Eventually the mercenary settled on something between retreat and enthusiasm. In her defense, he were kneeling in the dark, touching her hair, brooding and looking mysterious. Anyone could very easily misread the signals! I suppose when I die, at least I can say I kissed one of the Hungry Eight. She thought and a faint smile tugged at her lips.

"Well, since you're evidently feeling better."

“Oh, considerably,” she smirked as she grabbed his hand and scrambled back up on her feet. “I find my motivation now is at an all-time high.”

Her gaze drifted toward the sealed trapdoor above. “Did you see the maps?” she asked softly. Power did not gather around a person who wanted only freedom. Power gathered aroundpeople who intended to use it. “That was not a brigand’s hideout... and The Cradle isn’t just a entertainment...” Anira continued. “It’s revenue." The thought that Lady Selani might be willing to kill her own brother to secure her own future slid coldly into Anira’s mind.

She looked back at the Fourth. “You saw her when her brother was mentioned.” No anger. No urgency. No curiosity. “That was the look of a woman who has already moved past that conversation.” A quiet moment passed between them.

“If she gathers enough soldiers… enough gold… enough loyal men willing to follow her instead of him…”

She let the thought hang there.

In a place like this, sound behaves like a ghost. It refuses to leave quickly. The heavy steps and the sound of a deep, iron-bellied thoom, wood and metal meeting stone rolled through the tunnels. A moment later another thud. Not quite as loud. Then a final, grinding iron scraping sound before a latch somewhere bites home with a hard clack.

Sssssssss. Anira froze. Her head tilted toward the tunnels. “…did you hear that?” The hiss came again, slithering through the dark stone passages. Her eyes widened. “Oh no.” She grabbed his sleeve. “Those are snakes,” she said with absolute conviction. “I know what snakes sound like. I used to live near a swamp... That is exactly what snakes sound like.” Another hiss slid through the chamber. Closer now. She swallowed. “Many snakes.” Her imagination, unhelpfully, began supplying details. Large ones. Thick ones. The sort that enjoyed warm places full of corpses. “Oh gods,” she whined “This is how I die, isn’t it?" Her grip tightened on his sleeve. “Eaten by snakes in a murder hole.”

Sssssssss. The air had changed. There was something sharp in it now. It burned faintly in the back of her throat. Anira’s brow furrowed as the realization began to dawn. “Oh.”

Sssssssss. She turned toward the tunnels again as the hiss continued to bleed into the chamber. Her body swaying.

“…that’s”

Sssssssss. Her eyes rolled back slightly.

“Tha...”

Sssssssss. And then Anira simply collapsed, dropping bonelessly to the ground.

Sssssssss.
 
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