Deskin flinched with every squawk of the seagulls’ cry. Each assignment he left bloody, chewed at a piece of him. Years ago, it had been for weeks. Now it lasted only a few days and was quickly tossed aside like a bad dream. But this time...

  Even a few restless nights about the city hadn’t driven away the screams. Deskin looked up, staring daggers at the feathered rats circling above. This time, even the damn birds wouldn’t let him forget what he’d done.

  He had snuck out of their rented room, under a fake name of course, and took to the river’s edge. Ships came and went from the port and back into the Corazon like ticks, latching on to unload their weight and depart well fed. The sun was not half past risen, but people moved and shouted in a commotion. Sailors from Solstill guarded their ships with a menacing glare, their dark-skinned hands resting on ready blades while hired hands gambled and plied their trade, and merchants met with dock keepers.

  Deskin swam through the crowd like a snake to grass, finding a sort of peace. In the bumping of shoulders and stepping aside carts, there was an isolation. A silence. He could forget his past, his name, his task. He was just one of many bodies and faces, lost in the rhythm of the city, faded to the background of someone else’s story.

  But he wasn’t. Not really. Deskin felt his hand reach for the red noose around his neck. Still a Deadman. Still not free. He pulled at the rope; its rough yarn was almost as familiar as his own voice after all these years. But soon it won’t be. Soon I’ll be rid of it and all of this. He closed his eyes, yanking hard on his collar. One last job and I’ll be free.

  The numbers ran through his mind again. Eight years of debt. Eight years of bloody jobs. Eight years on the run. Eight years of looking over his back. Eight years of the Hangman’s threat tight around his throat.

  One last job.

  He let the smell of salt and sea smother the memories as he traveled further into the city. The tall warehouses shrank back as the cobbled road grew spotted, and the tide of people grew thin. Calls of stock lists and barking orders faded to jealous stares and hushed whispers. Stilted water, brown with muck, splashed against his boots.

  ‘The Dips’ sat on the lowest earth of the city, slowly sinking back into the mud it crawled out of. You did not leave the Dips any more than the tattered makeshift structures people called homes left their places. Few guards patrolled the area. A perfect place for a thriving criminal enterprise. More than once, Deskin pulled back his cloak to reveal a belt of daggers and drive back potential thieves. A good pair of boots could go far in the Dips. But a blade in the back went further.

  Scanning the ruined and dilapidated homes, he spotted the hidden symbol. Following it led him to a pair of large orcs in mismatched garb standing outside a tent door. They gripped the worn handles of their cudgels upon sighting him. Scars crisscrossed their gray skin, snarls already belching from behind broken yellow teeth.

  “Ain’t nothing round here for you,” The slightly uglier one barked. “Best get gone.”

  “Here to see Mr. Trinket. Got business.”

  The ugly one raised his dull eyes weighing Deskin for a threat. “Don’t know nobody by that,” he growled. “Get gone.” They tightened their grip on the cudgels.

  Deskin sighed, switching to the spoken code. “Been raining some. Cousin said it’s half past over. (The job is done.)”

  The ugly one rubbed his jaw. “Rain brings mud. Mud sticks and stains. (Were you followed?)”

  Deskin rolled his eyes, “My cousin was a cobbler. Made me a new pair. (No.)”

  The guards scanned the street. “Keep your hands to yourself. No heavy pockets walking out, or you’ll be dragged.”

  Deskin raised his empty palms. “Just business.”

  Satisfied, the orcs parted, and Deskin stepped into the dirty tent.

  A wave of sweet and sticky lemon scent crashed across his senses as he entered another world. The low-hanging trash tarp shifted suddenly into a lush tent canopy hung from thick wooden poles. Lit braziers burned dim against the sparkle of wealth laid out around him. There were rings carved from rubies, pearl necklaces still shimmering with the sea’s salty spray; wealth to buy a castle, a keep, a kingdom.

  A debt? Deskin thought, reaching forward. It would be so easy. A stuffed pocket and I could be free. I could go home. I didn’t need to keep doing this. The Hangman would take this prize. It could be enough. His muddy boot squelched loudly against the plush carpet beneath him.

  “Don’t worry about that,” a gentle voice called out. “The stains never stay.”

  Deskin froze, panic tickling his neck. His eyes flicked across the room like prey. Shelves of endless silver glittered in his sight like the lure of a venomous flower.

  “Mortal weakness is attachment. Purity and higher being are achieved only through self-determination.” An elf with long golden hair stepped out from behind a pillar. He smirked, as if holding back a particularly sweet secret. “Do you agree?”

  Deskin looked at him uncertainly. “Agree?”

  The elven man smiled, his diamond inlet vest sparkling to match his pearl white teeth. “Braatis the Reclusive proposed that man’s weakness lay in emotional connection. People, places, things. They detract from the spiritual self and feed mortal desires as distractions from one’s true consciousness. So, I ask again. Do you agree?”

  “I wouldn't say no to things. Gold can get you what prayers can’t. But people...ugly bunch. More likely to backstab you than any bit of coin ever has.”

  “Ha! A cynic? Amongst the Death’s Row gang? Who would have thought?”

  Deskin pulled back his hood. No point in hiding his identity here. “Mr. Trinket, the job is done.”

  “Ah, good. Such a shame about Ruben. So much potential. But he never could stay away from the cards.”

  Deskin fought back a memory of the man’s desperate whimpers. “I don’t think it was the cards that killed him.”

  Mr. Trinket examined a sapphire the size of a fist. “Perhaps, but vices do have a way of growing. And as they say,” he winked, “the House always wins. But that is not the only reason you are here. How can I help a Deadman?”

  “The Night of Lights festival. Cliffside temple is throwing a party. I need to get in.”

  “Ooh?” Trinket smiled devilishly. “A temple? Has the Hangman finally found a god worth praying to? And the goddess Malina? Really? Not who I would have chosen. I always found his tastes more...explicit.”

  Deskin kept his face still as stone. “I need to get in. That’s all you need to know.”

  Trinket pouted and sauntered closer. “Need to know? Perhaps. But what a tantalizing request. Tell me what I want to know.”

  “What are you-” Deskin tried to speak, but the words were thick. A rush of lemon flooded his mouth, drenching his tongue, drowning his throat. He groped at his neck, but the pain only spread, burning his eyes, his skull thudding with pressure.

  “Shh,” Trinket whispered. “Open your mind or I’ll pry it open.”

  The throbbing pain turned into a ripping across his scalp, driving Deskin to his knees. The world went fuzzy. Trinket’s form loomed over him.

  “What. Are you. Doing. To me.” Deskin bit the words out as claws gripped his skull, grinding the bone.

  “Shh, silence.” Trinket brushed Deskin’s hair.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The pain doubled, images flashing in his mind. The docks, Ruben, the city gate, the Twins, an order.

  Trinket pressed harder. “There we are.”

  Festival, Gods’ Fist, a debt, a ring.

  All at once, the claws released, the pain shuddering to a stop. Deskin fell forward, panting, spitting out the sour taste drowning his mouth.

  “A ring?” Trinket cooed, brushing back a fallen hair. “How curious.”

  Deskin scrambled to his feet, hands flying to daggers. “What did you do to me, witch?”

  Trinket shrugged, turning away. “Don’t bother with the dramatics. Blood stains Tlaxcali drapes, and I despise having them cleaned.”

  Anger burned in Deskin, his grip tightening on his blades. “What. Did. You. Do.”

  “I will not warn you again.” Trinket’s voice was cold, the charming grace replaced by a cold warning.

  Deskin gritted his teeth and released the blades.

  “I sated my curiosity.” He picked at an invisible speck of dust on his sleeve. “Your cover will be in Baron Brewland’s entourage. You’ll go as a serving boy.” He raised a hand to silence Deskin’s questions. “A no-name upstart from the northern territory. Kill him, if need be; it is of no matter.”

  “I don’t do that,” Deskin growled. “I’m no hitman.”

  “No?” Trinket cocked his head curiously. “Your collar says differently. Now go. I will have someone contact you the day of the festival.”

  “But how-”

  “Goodbye, my little Deadman.” Trinket waved him off, disappearing into the sea of gold.

  The echo of the throbbing pain tugged at Deskin for the rest of the day. “Witchcraft,” he spat.

  He had never understood magic. His family had no money to spare on its study, he had never felt a great connection with any of the gods, and no Fae came to kiss his heart when he was a babe in his mother’s arms. Sure, the stories enticed him as a kid. Unassuming boys and girls giving life to mines ran dry, dead harvest bloomed at their touch, and deserts turned green.

  A fantasy.

  He used to practice. When the lines in his father’s face grew deep, and his brother’s clothes hung loose on a thinning frame. He’d close his eyes and try to force the rain to come, for the crops to grow, for any sort of reprieve. For hours, he had sat up at night straining until he passed out, covered in sweat, numb in defeat. The magic never came, but the debt collectors did.

  Had it worked, maybe things would have been different. Maybe he would have fixed things. Found some pay in the city smelting iron with a touch or driving the wind for sailing ships. Or maybe if he were talented like the heroes in the stories, then maybe he’d have made something else of himself.

  But there are no maybes, just here and now. One step at a time. One last job.

  The sun burned angrily and high by the time Deskin crossed the city to the western bluffs. Sweat mixed with the stench of the Dips clinging to him, souring an already bad mood. The cliffside temple to Malina’s Order sat on the highest hill in the city. It loomed over Meerside, demanding an arduous hike up what was affectionately referred to as “Gods’ Fist.” Deskin had once asked a preacher if Malina sat comfortably atop the Gods’ Fist. He hadn’t been welcomed back since.

  He leaned into an alley at the bottom of the grounds. A curving garden path several hundred feet long peaked at the base of the temple. Even from the bottom, Deskin could see the white pillars that shone in the sunlight like a beacon across the city. The path up was bedecked in benches and carefully manicured rose bushes. Welcome to all, from lovers in the park to pilgrims cast in awe of the temple’s prowess.

  Deskin eyed a group of beggars making their way up the hill for a chance at the Temple’s daily offerings. He acquired some dirty linen from a washerwoman’s basket and draped himself in the cloth, allowing it to hang loose past his face. He feigned a limp as he trekked up the hill, falling into the group of beggars without a second glance.

  Tall white pillars enclosed the entire outside, allowing beams of sunlight to pierce deep into the building and reflect off the glossy floor, making it glow like a candle on top of the city, or perhaps a ring on Gods’ Fist. For all its artistry, Deskin’s focus remained on the temple guards in boiled leather armor and bearing short swords at their waists. They were stationed along the path, bowing to those who were welcome, and eyeing those that were not.

  Just fifteen feet before the shining base of the Temple, a middle-aged human guard stepped in front of the path with his hand out. “Halt all of you.” His bearded jaw twisted into a scowl. “I can only take half of you lot.” Groans erupted throughout the group while some shuffled to the front hoping to be in the lucky half.

  “Where are we supposed to go?” A beggar cried.

  “You are lucky we are taking any of you at all,” the guard growled. “Don’t need you none dirtying up the place when we got important guests coming for the festival!” He waved over several other guards, their hands resting ready on their blades. “The rest of you can piss off somewhere else.” Angrier mumbles sounded out among sighs of relief as he allowed select individuals inside.

  Deskin watched as the group quickly dwindled and the guard began to end his count of those allowed in. Without a thought, Deskin pushed the beggar in front of him and swiftly stepped to the side. As the man fell, he knocked down several others.

  The guard jumped back. “Hey! Knock it off!”

  The beggar whipped around, dirt falling from his face. “Who did that? Who pushed me?”

  Another one twisted and yelled, “You pushed me!”

  “I didn’t! He did!” Within moments, fists were cocked back.

  Several guards step forward trying to corral the group, but Deskin yelled, “Knife! Got a knife!”

  Blades flew from scabbards as the group devolved into a panicked stampede running in every direction. The guards rushed in trying to drive the scattered group back, but, in the chaos, Deskin was already gone.

  He ducked into a pew and bowed his head as if praying, counting his heartbeats, waiting to hear the heavy boots of a guard approach, but none came. Instead, there were the soft steps of holy men and a gentle violin echoing off the stone. Slowly, he raised his head and caught his breath. Chandeliers of incense hung around the room. His nose filled with a foreign scent. The smell of a gentle touch, a quiet whisper of cloth, clean and pure.

  Immensely tall, the ceiling rose pillared in white and glowing with sunshine. Smooth stone floors reflected beneath his dirty boots. In front of him lines of wooden pews sat before an altar of gold. Malina, imitated in a mortal form, rose above the altar fifteen feet high. Surrounded by jeweled offering bowls, she was depicted in the long sweeping robes of her Order. Her arms were out wide, greeting the masses, beckoning them to rise.

  But it was her face that caught Deskin’s eye. Her lips pointed towards the sky in reverence, as if shaping the light around her, allowing the rays to fall on her skin, a blessing to the sun itself. But her gaze drove a shiver down Deskin’s spine.

  If disgust could live inside stone cast eyes, then it was all he felt from the goddess. It made him want to flee, too aware of every speck of dirt that stained him. He wanted to find a dark corner to hide away in, escape her gaze, and this light, all too bright for his eyes.

  He shook away the feeling best he could. “Just a bit of stone. Someone else’s god. Pull yourself together.”

  He tracked holy men and women in their clean white robes, paying attention to worshippers and practicing their own prayers. The Hangman could have any ring he wanted but of course, I gotta steal one from a temple. He scanned the room finally catching a door behind the giant altar. Focus. Just one last job.

  He watched patiently to confirm as two nuns exited, disappearing into the heart of the temple. Before he could move to discover more, there was a clatter of heavy boots behind him.

  Three guards searched the space, their eyes narrowed. “Hey, you!”

  In a flash Deskin leapt up and dashed to the edge of the pews and down a corridor. He slid past the corners with ease. He’d been running for half his life, these overdressed garden gnomes had nothing to him. He was slick against the stone, sliding like a seal to water, and they stomped about like a sheep in pasture.

  The hall opened to the outside porch and Deskin flew as the sun kissed his smiling cheeks. This was something he understood. Something that made sense. Something as innate as the air he breathed.

  One foot in front of another. Death or capture behind him and nothing but freedom before him. I’ve a job to do and I ain’t going to let any bumbling, idiotic, slow-

  His feet flew out from beneath him, the ground kissing his chest like a drunken man’s embrace.

  “Hells below,” Deskin groaned, peeling his cheek off the marble floor. He pulled up at his hood enough to turn and growl at the cause of his crash, but the curses died in his mouth.

  A priestess lay on the ground before him, rubbing her head, her white robes uncharacteristically dirty. On the crisp cotton were specks of...dried blood?

  His eyes shot to her. Her headdress had fallen back, revealing a wave of dark silver hair that shined in the sunlight. Her lips were red and looked soft as satin. He caught a hint of violet in her eyes before he quickly looked away as she turned.

  “Are you alright, sir?”

  Am I okay?

  He should have laughed but her voice was like summer rain. She stared at him with genuine care. As if he hadn’t just crashed into her like a blind bull. Deskin wanted to speak, to apologize, to thank her for even asking. But his mind was blank. She glowed, beautiful and soft.

  She is...

  A pounding of boots echoed from where he’d come.

  A distraction. Deskin leapt to his feet, turning to obstruct his face from her sight.

  “Sorry, darling.” He leapt from the porch into the garden grounds. As he snuck back into the city proper, he knew he had outrun them. He caught his breath against a wall, the humid air heavy on his lungs. He couldn’t help but smile.

  Hells, that was close! And that girl? She was damn gorgeous and... Deskin sighed. And a loose end. A liability. If she had seen my face... It was foolish to risk getting caught like that. Even worse to waste time ogling some nun. If I had been captured...no. He breathed deep. Don’t even think about it. Just get back to the Twins. Focus.

  Taking the long way back, he walked into their rented room.

  As Deskin entered, Beirt sheathed the knife and frowned, seemingly disappointed Deskin had returned at all.

  “Took you long enough,” Eayrne muttered.

  Deskin shrugged. “Had to take care of a few things.”

  Eayrne stood; his long fingers grasped Deskin’s shoulder. “When I tell you to do something, boy. I don’t expect you to waste my time.”

  “Job is done.” Deskin swallowed. “Contract is cleared.”

  “And?” Eayrne tightened his grip, pinching Deskin’s flesh.

  “And,” Deskin hissed. “Payment is taken care of. Mr. Trinket can get me inside to rob the place. I’ll be out on your mark like we planned.

  “Good.” He released Deskin a joint at a time. “Now we wait.”

  “And you two? Taken care of?”

  Beirt giggled. “Don’t you know? We will glow! The Priestess won’t ever forget this show!”