The Stinky Mole smelled of sour mash and unwashed bodies. Alph pushed through the heavy oak door, his boots thumping against floorboards slick with spilled ale. He expected an empty booth. He had finished the trial with days to spare, and the guild’s week-long deadline remained a distant horizon. But Nylessa sat there, leaned back, boots propped on the table, nursing a mug of dark stout. She looked entirely too comfortable.

  "You're early," she said, her grin flashing white in the dim light. She didn't bother moving her feet from the table. "Congratulations, New Blood. Since it's official now, drinks are on you."

  Alph froze. He slid into the seat opposite her, his brow furrowed. "How do you know already? I just left Rook an hour ago."

  "I have my sources," Nylessa said, taking a long pull from her mug. "News travels fast when you're the one watching the show."

  Irritation flared in Alph’s chest. "You were there? In Gloomwater?"

  "Standard observer rights," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Referrers get to watch their recommendees. Guild protocol. We can’t touch the target or help you out, but we get a front-row seat to the performance. And what a performance it was."

  She barked a laugh, nearly choking on her stout. "The sobbing nephew? Really, Little Raven? 'My poor uncle and his copper bracelet!' I almost fell off the roof laughing."

  Heat crawled up Alph’s neck and settled in his cheeks. He had spent the last hour basking in the quiet satisfaction of a successful job, but Nylessa’s mocking laughter stripped the achievement bare.

  The memory of his high-pitched, grieving facade—the way he cracked his voice just so to disarm the massive half-orc constable—suddenly felt less like a masterstroke of manipulation and more like a desperate, humiliating pantomime. He had felt proud of how easily the lie slipped past his lips, of the way he controlled the scene, but under her sharp gaze, the memory felt vile and shameful. He felt exposed; his private desperation became a cheap street performance for her amusement.

  "How much did you see?" he asked, his voice tight. "The front desk? The courtyard?"

  "All of it. Every tear. Every quivering lip." She leaned forward, her eyes dancing with mockery. "I didn't know you had such a future in the theater. You looked like a lost puppy looking for a teat."

  "It was standard due diligence," Alph snapped, his voice rising in a desperate attempt to salvage his dignity. "Field testing the local law enforcement’s response times and investigative depth. It’s a procedural necessity to gauge how much heat the target actually carries."

  "Sure it was," Nylessa snorted, the sound sharp and dismissive, like flint striking stone. She settled back against the rough pine of the booth, the leather of her armor creaking faintly with the movement, and gave him a saccharine, mocking smile. "And I’m the Queen of the Dark Elves."

  She paused, her expression softening for a fraction of a second.

  "Though, I suppose I would have done the same if I were in your position." Her voice took on a distant quality. "If I wasn't inducted into the Guild by my—"

  She cut herself off abruptly, as if catching herself mid-confession.

  "Anyway." Her eyes darted toward the bar, finding sudden fascination with a stray splinter on the table. "It doesn't matter. You got the job done. Even if you wasted time playing inquisitor instead of just sitting at The Sturgeon like a normal person."

  Alph’s jaw set, a hard line of tension that Nylessa’s eyes tracked instantly. His hand tightened around the handle of his mug until his knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white. The target deserved to die, he thought, shifting his focus away from her mockery. He was a grave-robbing parasite.

  Nylessa watched the set of his jaw, her eyes narrowing as she read the rigid line of his shoulders. She let out a short, sharp breath that might have been a laugh if it weren't so cold.

  "Don't go looking for a higher purpose in the work," she said, her voice dropping into a cynical, instructional tone. "Trying to justify a kill is a habit that will eventually get you killed. In this trade, morality is just a distraction from the math."

  "The Guild doesn't care about deserving," she said, shadows dancing across her face in the lantern light. "It's a business, not a crusade. Some fat noble in the Upper District puts silver on the table because the target dug up his family crypt. If he'd spent his life robbing the poor, even if he killed all of his former gang members, he'd still be breathing."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  She shrugged. "He would be pursued by the constabulary, sure, but that's nothing for the likes of him. We kill for the coin, Little Raven. The fact that he was a piece of shit was just a happy coincidence."

  Alph stared at her, the warmth of the ale doing nothing to touch the chill that had settled deep in his stomach. The liquid slid down his throat, a futile attempt to chase away the cold certainty of her words. He poured another round into his mug, the amber liquid sloshing against the rim, and chugged it down in one desperate go, tasting nothing.

  She’s right. The thought settled heavily in his chest. He wanted to believe there was a way to do good, even when it came to killing, but his palm left the mug, fingers curling into a tight fist. Do I even deserve to call myself good?

  On Earth, he never took a life directly, but he had ruined many in court. Witnesses dismantled on the stand. Innocent victims crushed by his cross-examination. Their faces flashed through his mind, one after another. He shook his head, pushing the memories away, and turned back to Nylessa.

  "About the coin, Rook didn't say anything about the payout."

  Nylessa leaned in. Her voice flattened. "He wouldn't. There is no payout for you. Not this time. Call it the Initiation Tax. For a new blood's first trial, the Guild absorbs the entire bounty as a membership fee." Her grin returned, sharp and wide. She tapped her chest. "Actually, I benefited from you. As your referrer, I get a small placement cut from the Guild's share. I made a tidy sum of silver just for watching you cry in a courtyard."

  Alph’s jaw tightened. He looked at the empty glasses on the table. He had traveled to the coast, infiltrated a gang, killed a Tier 1 professional, and survived a lethal toxin. The Guild took the bounty. Nylessa took a commission. And he was expected to pay for the ale.

  "Then why the hell did you make me pay for the drinks?" he asked, teeth grinding together.

  Nylessa stuck out her tongue, her eyes narrowing into playful slits. Her hands kept moving, filling her mug without pause. Her cheeks were already flushed from the alcohol.

  Alph felt another hole opening up in his shrinking coin purse.

  He downed the rest of his water and stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. The frustration in his gut solidified into a cold, hard pivot.

  "You’ve made your coin from me," Alph said, his voice low and steady. "Now you pay in lessons."

  Nylessa blinked, her tipsy grin faltering. "Lessons?"

  "You’re a Tier 2 Shadow Rogue, right? I’m in need of a trainer for Tier 1 Rogue skills. Since my labor put silver in your pocket, you owe me a debt. You’re going to train me."

  Nylessa stared at him for a moment, then let out a sharp, jagged laugh. She gave him a mock salute with her mug. "Fine. A debt is a debt. I’ll show you how a real Rogue moves."

  "Good," Alph said, turning toward the door. "I need some quality sleep before we start. I’m exhausted."

  "Don't forget to inform the bartender that you're paying for my drinks," Nylessa called after him, her voice already slurring slightly. "I'm going to need a lot of ale to get through this lesson."

  Alph waved his hand dismissively as he walked toward the bartender, boots heavy against the worn floorboards. He gestured at the booth where Nylessa sat, her mug already halfway to her lips again.

  "Put her tab on mine," he said, voice flat. "Whatever she orders tonight."

  The bartender grunted acknowledgment, wiping his hands on a stained rag.

  "And I need a room upstairs," Alph added.

  Back in the booth, Nylessa remained alone, her slim fingers wrapped around the tankard as she swirled the dregs of her stout. Her brown eyes, touched with that distinctive red tint, stayed fixed on the door where Little Raven had vanished moments before.

  "Self-healing," she muttered, the words swallowed by the tavern's din. The phrase felt odd in her mouth, exciting and strange all at once. "Shrugs off corpse poison like it's nothing. Heals cuts in seconds." She'd watched those wounds seal themselves, skin pulling together faster than it had any right to. No salves, no bandages, nothing. "Definitely some kind of variant profession, but... which one though?"

  A slow, dangerous smile spread across her dark features, the kind of expression that would have sent wiser people backing away. She tapped her fingers against the scarred wooden table, the rhythm sharp and predatory, like the heartbeat of a hunter circling wounded prey.

  "If he can't stay broken, I don't have to hold back," she whispered to the empty air around her, her smile taking on an edge that was almost feral. The realization sent a thrill racing down her spine. "I can hit him as hard as I like. Push him past every limit. He can just heal it all back up."

  Her hand drifted to her side, fingers pressing against ribs that had ached for days after their first encounter in that filthy alley. He'd moved like water, struck like stone, and left her gasping against brick walls with her pride in tatters along with her body.

  The stout buzzed warm in her veins, loosening her thoughts and sharpening her hunger for revenge. Her smile widened further, stretching into something that wasn't quite sane, the alcohol making her bold and reckless. This wasn't just training anymore. This was repayment, delivered with interest.

  She began mentally drafting a curriculum that would make the Gloomwater trial look like a pleasant summer stroll through a garden. Endurance exercises that would leave normal combatants weeping. She would break him, over and over, until he was either a master assassin or a pile of very quickly mending meat.

  The thought alone had her snickering into her mug, loud enough that a few nearby drinkers shot her confused looks. When some fool at the next table leaned in with a grin, she turned just her head—slow, deliberate—and let her eyes go flat. The guy paled and jerked back like he’d just remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere.