Chapter Text
“I don’t do shit without partial payment upfront.”
Alasia leans back in her chair, eyeing the hooded figure across from her with annoyance.
For someone who just sang my praises, this idiot knows nothing about how I work.
The man—for she knows that much, even without seeing his face—doesn’t take her bait, merely tosses at her a cinched bag. It thunks on the table, a good solid weight, just by the sound of it.
Alasia snatches it up, pours a few coins out. Looks like real gold. She bites it, and it doesn’t bend. The taste is real metal, not some cheap knock-off tin. A peek into the bag shows nothing but glints of gold.
Must be someone important. With that amount of gold, it’s gotta be a public figure.
Her stomach twists, and suddenly, she’s a hell of a lot more interested than she was thirty seconds before. She straightens, pouring the coins back in the bag, and evaluates the figure with much more caution.
The man stretches out his hand, white glove flexing for the bag, and she slams his hand down on the table.
“Interested.” She says it gruffly. “Take it your employer wants it on the down low?”
The man hisses but retracts his hand. “Use your discretion,” he says. “It makes no difference if you attach your name to this kill or not. You are not to know any more details than the target’s name.” His voice is thick, almost like he’s covering up an accent, and each word is spoken slowly and evenly.
Alasia narrows her eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“The more quickly you take care of this, the more of a bonus you shall receive. Incentive enough?”
She pictures bags upon bags of these coins, and it makes her smirk. “Give me the name. I want in.”
“There is no abandoning this.” The man’s voice grows hard. “No matter how difficult you may find it. Do you understand?”
She snorts and holds out her hand. “Name.”
He produces a piece of paper from his cloak pocket and places it on the table. She reaches for it, and now he smacks her hand down, ignoring the way she glares. “The target is in Auroneva. There’s a tavern, three blocks from Madeline Palace. The Spotted Pig. Two weeks. Midnight.”
“Done.”
“Do not disappoint us, Headtaker.” The man turns and walks out the tavern. She waits until he’s out the door before she’s grabbing the paper, curiosity overwhelming her.
Her employer was no doubt a noble, but her target…
Dorian Hughes.
She blinks, uncomprehendingly, and rereads the name.
Dorian.
Her mind roars.
Dorian is my target?
He is no stranger to her, for the tales of his magical ability have spread far throughout the continent. But all she can think of is the boy she once knew, all scrawny edges and wide smiles and too-big glasses.
She hasn’t seen him in over a decade.
The shock is passing, leaving a mix of devastation and resignation.
Is he involved in something? The more curious part of her, the business mind, is intrigued, darkly amused that of all people, he would be caught up in something dark. The other part of her revolts, feels genuine revulsion at the thought that he is her target, that she just accepted this bid, and that the man warned there was no backing out.
Dorian has blood on his hands because of her. She owes him many great debts—and this might be the chance she gets to clear them. To save him, like he did her.
She crumples the note up and stands, walking through the tavern until she reaches the hearth. Tossing the note in the flames, the paper crumples and flakes into ash.
She leaves when it’s burned. I’m coming for you, Hughes. It’s the only thing she can do.