In the corner of Hawkeye’s parlor, Tims open the lid of one of Hawkeye’s many chests of assorted items he had collected over the years. He sifted through the oddments, each bearing the telltale marks of ingenious design. Among them, a glove stood out, crafted by a particularly brilliant inventor. The glove gleamed with mechanical complexity: a spring-driven lever was fastened to a length of slender, tightly wound rope, its end terminating in a compact grappling hook. This, Tims knew, could prove invaluable.
Picking up the mechanical glove, he stashed it in one of the many hidden inner pockets of a long overcoat he wore.
The overcoat had become part of his daily wear, another subtle imposition from Hawkeyes. It allowed him to conceal tools that would otherwise provoke unwanted questions. As a forester’s apprentice, this attire was entirely unremarkable and nobody would think to look twice.
He closed the chest and got up, letting the hush of the room settle around him. The chamber felt different with Hawkeyes absent. Though older and seasoned somewhat, he realized he had not quite outgrown that feeling of master and apprentice. He knew Hawkeyes had been placing considerable trust in his judgement these days but he still felt inadequate. Perhaps it was his upbringing he never could erase.
Task complete, Tims rose and moved quietly across the chamber.
At the door, a scrap of parchment caught his eye, unseen when he’d entered.
Its message was cryptic, as Hawkeye’s notes always were: It read, “In dark harbors, quests lead astray; hope lies around the tanning of hides. Wait for the King’s word. The night is ripe with tales of harvest red deeds. Be informed.”
He tucked the note into a hidden pocket, ensuring it was out of sight before he locked the door behind him, drawing each bolt in turn. Then, as quickly as discretion allowed, he slipped away and made for his own apartments.
Tims lit a ring of candles upon his worktable and withdrew the note, smoothing its creases before setting it down in front of him. He scanned his surroundings, then took up a quill and pulled a sheet of fresh parchment closer. For a moment his hand hovered, suspended over the page, and then he scrawled a brief list, each word a potential key:
Dark harbor, tanning, King’s word, night, harvest red, informed.
The teapot whistled over the stove in the background, a thin, urgent sound. He rose, poured a mug of memory tea, and sat back down, the steam curling between him and the page as he scrutinized the words. With Hawkeyes, every word was intentional.
“King’s word” was obvious enough. Even before his own revelations, the King had been alert to disturbances in the city. That meant Hawkeyes, loyal as always, had known too, though he’d seen fit to leave Tims in the dark for the most part. Listening in on Lord Conner’s conversation was just one piece of a larger investigation the King was working on. A flash of irritation surfaced. Why hadn’t Hawkeyes simply told him? Or, for that matter, the King? He set it aside; answers could wait.
Tanning? The word circled in his mind. Tanning of hides. The tannery? If something significant was happening, perhaps it was near the old tannery not far from the docks. A run-down tavern stood close by, a place he could likely pry some answers from.
Sudden realization illuminated his thoughts, and he allowed himself a brief, triumphant smile. “All right, Hawkeyes. Give me the next challenge.”
“Dark harbor,” plain enough: the docks.
“Night” and “harvest red.”
“Night” meant his clandestine excursions; he was accustomed to moving in shadow. But “harvest red” — the words pricked at his memory. It could refer to the harvest moon, a simple observation of the season, but he knew Hawkeyes. He wouldn’t lean on something so simple. No, he had to mean the lore behind the moons, bound up with Miea and Diea, goddesses who shared a strange tie with Kata. Tradition cast the harvest moon as an omen of blood, an ill season freighted with portents of violence.
Tims sat back, letting out a frustrated sigh. Time was slipping away. He needed to be out in the streets, finding hard evidence so he knew what to do next. Averin’s life was at stake.
Blood… blood… dark harbor, docks… death?
He sprang to his feet, pulse racing with clarity. Of course — a murder somewhere around the docks.
Breath catching, Tims felt the gravity of his charge press in. He was to investigate a killing.
His thoughts fired in rapid succession, and he immediately frowned. Why would the King want him to investigate a murder? That was the work of the city guards. Why bring this to his attention? He didn’t know how these procedures worked, at least for the most part.
Then the last of the message surfaced in his mind.
“Be informed.”
Was he to meet an informant?
Puzzling over the whole ordeal, he took the note and shoved it into the fire beneath the stove, watching the edges curl and blacken.
Turning to the nearby closet, he rummaged around and pulled out the thick night clothes he wore for climbing in the colder months.
His foot bumped against the chest holding more of his things, and his mind immediately fixated on something else entirely.
Slowly, he looked down at it before unlocking the lid. He had taken the book out a few times before, stealing moments to read. Its wealth of knowledge was staggering to him, the pages reading more like some lore or tale told to children. But now, he wondered. Kae Dias was a sect that dated far back in Percvam’s history. He knew, as everyone else did, that historical accounts were seriously lacking in information these days. Perhaps…
He dug into the chest and pushed aside everything he had deliberately piled on top. Pulling the book free, he held it reverently for a second before laying it on the table.
His palms brushed over the strange wheel-like symbol with dragons encircling it, and a soft, audible click sounded. He opened the cover to the still-familiar but deadly title:
“The Journals of Dragonblood – A Collection of Writings on Origin, History, Artifacts of Magic, and Prophecy.”
He hadn’t gone too far into the lore before. It was too damning, too terrifyingly factual in the writing of many hands. Now, as things started to turn desperate, he wondered if there was something here that could help after all.
He turned the pages a few times to where a helpful index appeared. Only now did he realize just how much information was contained in this book.
He only half believed he would find what he was looking for when, on the third page of indexes, he blinked in astonishment. There, in plain letters, was written “Kae Dias.” Even more astonishing was how much information and how many cross-references were listed beneath the name.
His heart pounded loud in his chest as he flipped to a title called “The Involvement of Kae Dias in Dragonblood’s Fall.” He turned to the page and began to read.
The fall of Dragonblood was, of course, the fault of internal failures. This cannot be argued. But how the White Council managed to bring down the shield wall is an interesting thing. They could not have done it themselves. This failure has been a thorn in their sides for centuries, as the two magics canceled each other out. It was only when they entertained the idea of seeking help from an enemy they had fought countless times that they succeeded.
Kae Dias is a well-known sect to us, as their source of power is similar to that of the White Council’s, yet more direct, having elements not present in the White Council’s power.
In a way, Kae Dias is more dangerous in what they wield, for their power is a combination of the gods, the artifacts of magic, and the ties held to that dark continent, Scaron. There is still great evil in those lands, awaiting the return of her emperor. In the dark recesses of Tausin, the magic of Merlwood’s enchantments is harnessed in Kae Dias’s mortal hands: deadly, creative, and absolutely evil. Anyone who wears the sign of her god, he who has no name, is forever damned, a corpse who is but a vessel to the god.
The shield wall we fought to hold was without her protector. In this vulnerability, the White Council employed the darkest of magics, calling on the black woods of Scaron’s tainted lands, and thus the magical shield walls of Dragonblood fell, our doom pronounced across the worlds.
Tims blinked, his heart tight in his chest. He felt sick to his stomach as this simple retelling of an event he knew nothing about cast a shadow of darkness across his understanding of the world. There was absolutely nobody he could go to with this information. It solidified his worst fears to heights he couldn’t have imagined. What, in all the nine gods, was Lord Conner mixed up in?
Needing to dislodge the sudden evil that threatened to dominate his thoughts with fear, he flipped the pages at random until he found a hand-drawn image of a strange whip. The chains that made up the majority of the weapon seemed almost to glow, and at the end of the chain hung a deadly star-like gem.
It is said that every Dragonblood King was given a special gift at their coronation by a dragon high lord. These were to aid them in their long battle to stem the tide of evil hearts that never stopped corrupting.
– Dragon Star Whip
The Dragon Star Whip is a whip that has been dipped into dragon’s fire and will never go out. Its properties are highly destructive but most deadly against dark magical forces. The tip, made out of shards of dragon scales and blood, is one of the most powerful artifacts gifted to humankind._
– Sword of Eskaver
This sword can only be wielded by one of royal blood and, even then, only by one worthy of it. The power within the sword is a combination of both dragon and crystal. Its power lies in its ability to control magical elements as well as magicborn alike. It is not a weapon used lightly and more often than not is seen in the Sword Hall of Dragonblood’s Palace. Only in dire need is it to be lifted and used. Its properties have the power to destroy armies with a single thrust. Thus, in the hands of those who are unworthy, it cannot be touched without searing, unbearable pain.
Tims literally trembled at the words he read. The book was filled with journals and items concerning magic as if it were something so natural to everyday life, woven into the bones of history. He flipped a page and saw a most damning title.
What Is White Magic?
According to the White Council, white magic is a good source of magic flowing directly from the gods down to those deemed blessed by the White Council’s priests. This is the only magic seen as good. All other sources are evil and must be eradicated, as they are not blessed by the gods and are seen as poisonous and a direct attack on the gods’ order of things.
It went on to describe the order of the White Council and its many governing factions before another title appeared, the weight of it already pressing on Tims before he read a single word.
Wild Magic
“Wild Magic has a long history for those who know where to look. With most things on Exodus, the hidden past is steeped in old magic and relics that bear witness to it. It is said that Wild Magic is forbidden for a very secret reason. Those who tried to harness it never could, except for one very specific race: Dragonblood. And as history recalls, Dragonblood were the White Council’s nemesis.
On the eastern edge of the continent Elise, where human kingdoms reside, the Volesin Sea separates it from the sister continent of Eden. It is here that Wild Magic still thrives, and with it, creatures born of the fae. It is by the magic of Exodus that magicborn creatures live and breathe. That magic is essential to the entire world, a fact deliberately hidden from human societies.
Through nightmarish experiments of dark alchemy, Dragonblood was birthed, with no care given to those who went insane and others who struggled to remain themselves. Through it all, Dragonblood became a special kind of human hybrid race. They bore an innate ability, encoded within them, to harness the elements of the world. And with enhanced gifts from dragons, breathed on by their flames of magic, they used their power mostly for good.
Shortly after the appearance of humans, Dragonblood became legendary emissaries between the magicborn and humans alike. They were the peacekeepers, guardians of renown, granted special privileges by the high lords of Exodus. High in the mountains of the Midlands, they were given the task of upholding the laws of the Creator God while stemming the tide of evil brought on by those who sought to enslave the world, driven by ambitions whispered by corrupt gods.”
Tims set the book down and slid his chair back. Taking several unsteady breaths, he wondered once again. Why was he given this information? What could he possibly do with it? He was nobody of importance. Why give him this damning book?
A more personal and troubling thought speared its way into his thoughts. The journal spoke of Eden... just as he had envisioned in his dreams. The wolf and eagle were born there.
A most damning thought came then. Were they real? And were the somehow suddenly connecting themselves with him? The vision laid out for him to find a secret place to listen to Lord Conner came to bear. He knew he hadn’t remembered that place. He was shown it.
He was in so much trouble. He could envision the sword of a temple priest beheading him for blasphemy, for invoking the forbidden God, for consorting with demons or whatever else they would name is crime.
He went to the chest again, and with shaking hands, placed the book at the bottom, burying it underneath his clothes and tools before locking the chest.
Shuddering, he made his way out.
From shadowed alleys to the rooftops of merchant buildings, Tims made his way through Sarsda, at one point pausing at the stone mason’s towering alley wall and the next building. He couldn’t jump that height.
With two deep breaths, one hand braced against the towering chimney and the other against the opposite wall, he pushed off and began climbing the stone.
Reaching the second roof, he gripped the tiles and pulled himself up before rolling onto his stomach with a sharp gasp. “Nine seconds,” he whispered, then grinned. “Beating my own record now.” Getting to his feet, he gauged the distance and, in pure rapture, started to run again.
Above, the sun was slipping down the sky, and soon the city would be cast in darkness.
At the edge of the building, he jumped and felt weightlessness take him.
His muscles reacted like springs as he hit the next roof solidly and kept running. Adrenaline pumped hot through his veins with each stride. For a heartbeat he was the child back in Willow Town. He leaped across another roof and landed with precise, practiced skill.
He laughed silently, wanting to howl into the wind. The pure bliss of the run erased everything from his mind: the sky his only ceiling, the city below quieting, merchants and stores closing up, none the wiser to his presence overhead.
To the left, the enormous towers of the nine temples stood etched against the glowing setting sun.
For a good half hour he ran like this, knowing every building and corner. Even as the sun dipped below the horizon and lamplights flickered to life in the dark, he leaped on, sure-footed and certain.
Skidding to a halt at the next roof’s edge, he got his bearings. The temples lay to his left, which meant the harbor was southeast. Ahead, the roofs began to spread out with longer gaps. The docks weren’t quite in the Wastelane, but close enough that the buildings were rickety and unsafe to run on. Worse, they squeaked and groaned when anyone tried to pass unheard.
He looked up.
Sarsda was built on levels, with guild towers stretching the length of the city. The more wealth a guild held, the more of its buildings were stitched together by bridges and stairs. It made visiting one another simpler than climbing all the way down to street level to cross. Bridges and stairs were the city’s true skyline.
Above was one such bridge, connecting the guild of dye merchants. Its walls and towers were etched with intricate patterns, a testament to the wealth that could afford such extravagant stonework.
Tims had watched King Joshua and Queen Anna fuss over Lord Cromwell’s holdings. Cromwell held powerful sway in the Council of Lords. His estates, built on the dye industry, stretched through many of the Five Kingdoms. He held most of the guild power, and any who came to challenge him were usually thrown out. More than once, Cromwell’s estates had taken issue with a foreign guild and seen them banned from entering Calmone with their dye wares. They were probably a family that would have to be looked into soon.
Shifting the bag strapped to his back, Tims reached into his coat and withdrew the mechanical glove. Fastening it tight around his wrist, he aimed upward and went still, listening, judging the wind.
Silence.
The trigger slid back with a sharp twang.
In seconds, the hook shot over the bridge and caught on the far side. With a quick tug, the rope went taut, and Tims flipped another lever. The coil retracted, hauling him up as he pulled hand over hand.
His muscles burned at first, but he ignored the pain and focused on the mission. The bitter winter air slapped his face, keeping his mind clear and sharp.
At last his hands closed around the stone outcrop, and Tims pulled himself the rest of the way onto the bridge. He knelt there for a moment, catching his breath while he untangled the grappling hook. Then he looked around, scanning each direction.
A nearby torch burned in a sconce, its flame guttering in the wind. Someone had been on the bridge recently. He would have to be extra cautious.
The bridge connected to the main dye house, its outer walls bristling with carved outcrops and decorative ledges bearing the guild’s symbols. Good. He wouldn’t have to pick a lock; he could cross straight to the opposite bridge without breaking in.
With one last look to ensure no one was near, he moved toward the building’s entrance. Stepping off the bridge onto an outcropping ledge, he gripped the jaw of a lion statue overhead and pulled himself up to the next. Careful to catch the pointed nose of some strange carved creature, he hauled himself higher and onto the roof above.
He stood and climbed to the topmost part of the towering building. A pole rose there with the dye guild’s emblem, a large green gem over crisscrossed swords, flanked by a lion’s head on either side. The banner snapping furiously in the wind and cold gusts of winter air rushed across his face. He pulled his scarf tighter.
The rush of standing here filled him with a fierce pride. For a long moment, he savored the feeling of rising above what he had been born as.
Looking out, Tims saw, to the south and east, the first dark smudge of the Hollow Forest, famous for its eerie tales when travelers strayed from the King’s Highway. Nearer, the edge of the harbor came into view, the docks clustered close at hand. The smell of fish and brine tugged at the air.
He stretched, then, with adrenaline pouring through him, ran the length of the roof and jumped to the opposite bridge connecting to another tower, which eventually gave way to a warehouse somewhere in the harbor district.
For the next few minutes he ran, crossing several more roofs before finally skidding to a halt. Below, a dark alley yawned between leaning walls.
Taking out his mechanical glove again, he scanned the area, finding the outstretched pole he’d been looking for, halfway between the ground and where he stood. He aimed, fired, and watched the hook catch perfectly, swinging a few times around the metal pole.
Testing the tension, he tightened his grip and leaped, thumb slamming a third lever that increased the recoiling speed.
He flew through the air, his overcoat snapping around him as he swung in a long, arcing descent. With the ground racing up to meet him, he timed his steps and began running, feet catching the cobblestones lightly. A small smile tugged at his lips as he hit yet another lever on the glove. The grappling hook retracted, the rope slipping cleanly free of the pole to fall in a neat coil at his feet.
Taking his bearings, Tims found the direction he wanted and set off at a purposeful stride.
The interior of Pirate’s Tavern was dark and musty. The usuals were at their tables, drinking and watching two women, barely dressed, dance provocatively on a low stage. They moved halfheartedly; it was a slow night, and they weren’t about to make much in coin.
Near the edge of the stage sat a figure with a patch over one eye and a wicked scar running the length of his face. His hair was disheveled beneath a black top hat. Dressed in a black leather tunic, he kept an array of fancy daggers hidden inside a dark blue jacket. His was a face to remember: not just the patch, but the scowl that never left it.
When one of the dancing girls came close to the edge, the man lifted a hand with a silver coin.
The girl smiled knowingly and knelt down.
His expression never wavered, even as the girl’s assets were almost in his lap. From the simple string at her hip, where a small pouch hung, the man dropped the coin in. The girl leaned in closer and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Later tonight?” she whispered.
The man tipped his hat, and the girl resumed her dancing, this time with a touch more enthusiasm.
From the corner of his eye, the man watched a young fellow, likely in his early twenties, enter the tavern. His attire marked him as a cabin boy from one of the many sailing ships docked in the harbor.
The man turned his attention back to the girl on stage, but a nagging thought distracted him. Turning slightly, he gave the boy another glance and narrowed his eyes. This was his contact? With a gruff snort, he pushed back from his table by the stage and rose to his feet.
Tims walked through the room, immersing himself in the role. Dressed in sailor’s garb, he hoped nobody noticed how little he actually knew about the persona he was wearing. All he truly understood was that a cabin boy served the ship’s captain and ran errands. That wasn’t hard to imitate. He did that all day long.
Keeping up appearances, he crossed the room, weaving between men who looked as if they hadn’t seen land in years.
A few eyes turned his way, but most ignored him.
A sudden, deep voice growled, “What are you doing away from your ship, boy?”
Tims turned to see a man with tattoos across his arms and face, skulls, twisted symbols, and seductively drawn women. He had no hair, and a scar ran the length of his face with a patch over one eye. His muscles bulged beneath a thin shirt despite the cold weather. This was probably one of the last outings the crews would have for the season. Winter would ice the waters, and they would hole up until spring. Months of frustration and anger, cooped up together. It wasn’t uncommon to find the docks filled with drunken fights and brawls.
“I’m doing what my captain told me to do,” Tims said, matter-of-fact, pitching his voice a little higher to match someone younger. He held up a piece of parchment on which he had quickly scribbled a note beforehand.
The man glared hard but didn’t bother to read the message. Most likely, he, like most in this tavern, couldn’t read a single word. They lived and breathed on the water. They had no need for the finer things of life.
“Ruffus, leave him be. The boy is here to see me.”
Both the muscular man and Tims turned toward the voice.
The man who had been sitting near the stage now loomed over them. He gave Tims a smile that looked more menacing than friendly, the skin beneath his patched eye twitching. “Captain Hawks must be outfitting his last voyage, I take it.” He set a heavy hand on Tims’s shoulder, a grip that felt strong enough to crush his head. “Let’s meet your captain, boy. I knew you’d show up sooner or later.”
Not taking no for an answer, the man pressed firmly on Tims and guided him through the room and out the door.
Once outside, he kept his iron grip, steering Tims into a nearby alley.
When they were out of earshot of anyone, the man looked up and down the street before finally letting go. He studied Tims from head to toe like a hungry wolf sizing up a sheep.
“Now…” The man held his glare, unblinking. “What in all the gods’ names are you doing here instead of Hawkeyes? Where is he?”
Tims shook his head, unsure where this conversation was going. “Sir, I don’t even know you. You must have me confused with someone else.”
The man’s smile drew up, all menace and teeth. “No, my friend. I’m certain who you are and why you’re here.”
“Then enlighten me, because I’m confused.” Tims shrugged, keeping his tone light.
The man’s expression soured. He looked out toward the street and beyond, where the docks lay on the dark harbor water. “Name’s Drake,” he said with an offhanded wave. “I run these docks. Whatever goes down around here, I know about it.” He turned his gaze back and fixed it firmly on Tims. “You are Tims Caulder.” He gave a tight grin, his eyes squinting dangerously.
Tims’s left foot slid back into a ready stance. If he had to flee, he wanted to be prepared. He kept his face steady, but his eyes narrowed a fraction.
Drake grinned. “Hawkeyes and I go way back. Before he was employed by the King to spy on every blasted noble in court.”
“What makes you think I know who you’re talking about?” Tims took a small step back, ready to run.
“Let me guess,” Drake said, still wearing that crooked grin. “Hawks gave you a cryptic message, told you to come down here to the docks, used the image of the harvest moon to say a murder took place. Right?”
Tims didn’t move.
Drake shook his head with a soft laugh. “Either you distrust everyone, or Hawks trained you well.” He sighed and flicked a hand dismissively.
“Tell him this. For two weeks now, we’ve been finding dead bodies of women. Your fancy soldiers came into my district, harassed my people, and walked away with nothing.” He spat to the side and went on. “I know a lot of people around these parts—some very shady, if you know what I mean.” His smile shifted into a chilling grin. “You wouldn’t last a minute in a room with these cutthroats. Everybody knows how worthless you are. I guess it’s good I do my own digging.”
Tims was fairly certain Drake wasn’t happy that Hawkeyes had sent him instead. The irritation in Drake’s voice dripped with contempt.
“You tell Hawkeyes, if he wants information in the future, not to send a dog to do his work for him.” Drake’s grin widened, all teeth. “Understand, dog?” He gave a harsh bark of laughter.
Tims glared, anger burning low in his stomach. Stepping back only slightly, he whispered in a cold voice, “If you have anything useful to say, spit it out. Otherwise, I’m wasting my time and will suggest to my King that you be investigated for withholding knowledge in a crown affair.” He smiled coolly, his eyes turning to daggers. “If you’d rather fight it out, that’s satisfactory as well.” He took another step back and let his sword hand slide over the hilt. “You want to keep wagging your tongue, or do you want to see who you’re really talking to?”
The night held its breath for a heartbeat.
A slow smile spread across Drake’s face, and he laughed softly. “Either you’re as stupid as everyone claims you are, or you’ve gone and made them all think it on purpose.” He chuckled and clapped Tims on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. He studied Tims a moment longer before nodding. “You’ve fooled an entire noble class,” he said with a shrug. “Not hard to do, of course. They’re too caught up in their own schemes to see past their own asses.” His eyes narrowed. “But you… are something else.” His tone dropped, turning thoughtful. “So where is Hawkeyes? I sent a cryptic message for him to come himself. I need to show him something important.”
Tims shrugged. “If I told you, I wouldn’t exactly last long under Hawkeyes, now would I?” He paused, then added, “Hawks gave me the message to come here, so that’s what I did. Are you going to show me what you’re so eager to share, or not?”
Drake looked at him for a long moment. “Fair enough.” After a beat, he waved a hand. “Come with me.”
Tims followed Drake through the docks and into the shipyard filled with vessels drawn up on land. Weaving their way around the hulks of ships, they came to a long line of warehouses and stopped at the second one. Drake produced a key and unlocked the bolt on the door, then motioned for Tims to enter.
Tims hesitated briefly before stepping into the dark interior, where only the silhouettes of high windows and spilled moonlight broke the gloom.
Drake struck flint and lit a nearby lantern. Holding it aloft, he said, “The first victim was in this warehouse.” He walked to a corner and raised the lantern higher. “One of my workers came in to do inventory on a shipment we’d received that day. He found a woman sprawled out, legs spread. She was naked and dead. Her throat had been slit open.”
Tims saw that the floor had been scrubbed, but the dark stain of blood still clung to the boards. “I don’t understand.” He scanned the area out of habit, mapping exits and shadows. “Why send for Hawkeyes? This is something the City Marshal should be investigating.”
“Ah, but that is where things get interesting.” Drake’s grin turned fierce, lantern light catching the hard lines of his face. “Before I ever notified the city guard, I did a little digging myself. See, this happened on my turf.” He gave a low, glowering snarl. “I knew the girl was raped and killed. Not many will care once they figure she’s a prostitute. But I knew her. She was kind and gentle, bad on her luck she was. Her family died of a disease and she was left with nothing. Nobody wanted to employ her, and she was too scrawny to be working my docks. I did what I could to help out, but she worked the Wastelane and even had a few higher-end clients.” He shook his head in disgust. “As soon as the city guards found out she was a prostitute, they chalked it up to a deal gone bad and left.” The lantern’s glow showed him glaring again. “This wasn’t a deal gone bad. I saw what had been done to her.” He clenched his fists. “He enjoyed torturing her before slitting her throat. Her body—” He paused and closed his eyes. “Her body had been broken. Her legs had been burned and branded. Even her… parts were burned. He was making a statement. He got his kicks from hearing her scream before he let her die.”
Drake fell silent, staring at the empty space as if the scene might reappear there. At last he muttered, “They won’t do anything unless the woman is high born.”
Tims thought for a moment. “Was there anything he did specifically? Did he leave any kind of special marking? I once heard Hawkeyes mention that certain people leave calling cards because they see this as a challenge. They have to up the stakes for themselves to feel anything.”
Drake nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as he reached back through memory. “She was branded. I recognized the mark of the brand immediately.”
At Tims’ questioning look, Drake shrugged. “This is why I wanted Hawkeyes here. Most merchants know that emblem. We try to have as few dealings with them as possible. It’s from Kae Dias, the most ruthless cutthroats in Percvam. One of their ships is docked for the winter in our harbor. They claim they’re here for the festival and in the middle of sealing a deal with one of the prominent dye guilds in Sarsda.”
Tims’ eyes went wide. “They’re here?” Dread poured into his heart and he grimaced, the writings from the journal flashing across his mind. He buried his feelings, acting professional. “That is a problem. The dye guilds are powerful and hold a lot of wealth. Now I know why you want Hawkeyes investigating this.”
“The quieter, the better,” Drake said coldly. “If word gets out that Kae Dias is being investigated, many powerful lords will not take too kindly to that fact, especially if it’s a murder involving a prostitute. Things could get very ugly, very fast.”
Tims thought’s drifted to Averin, a lump forming in his throat. He had to find evidence and fast!