Avaria Leurain.

  The name pricked incessantly at the back of the assassin’s mind, like something he had heard before but, for some reason, had forgotten. That he was genuinely intrigued by the acrobat’s answer was not something Lon had expected, and he had every intention of looking into the name when given the proper time. It disappointed him somewhat that now could not be that proper time, but the urgent fulfillment of his duty could no longer be postponed. Already off schedule due to his capture, Lon could not risk waiting any longer. If he did, the Valor would increase their watch in knowing that he had escaped, and the caster would heighten the alert of Neurial’s guards plainly out of spite. Also, if he retreated now, it would be as though admitting to having made a critical mistake, and this, more than anything else, was something Lon would never do.

  There was, at least, some small relief in knowing that Lucille was the only one who had any inkling that Lon had erred. With some convincing, that brash harlot could be made to swallow a well-woven lie in the stead of truth, but Fairwater…she would not be so easily deceived. Even with time, Lon doubted that he could sway the Honorbound into believing that all had gone as he had planned. The woman’s keen eye would surely note his beaten and battered state even if he tried to hide it, and should he wait to allow himself to heal, the lizard she kept at her right hand would unfailingly point to out his “inexcusable tardiness”. Indeed, there would only be doubt concerning his skill and chastisement if he lingered longer, though all this trouble would have been wholly avoided if not for that damned jester.

  Lon pushed the thought to the back of his mind; already he’d concocted a clever way to deal with her. The girl was his pawn now as she’d been before, and like Lucille, both witch and acrobat were going to move exactly how he wished. This time, the only thing that could stop his progress was being discovered by fortress guards, but with the Springtide currently in full swing, there was little chance of that. Fairwater had alerted Lon long before that the manpower within Dragon’s Teeth was going to be unusually light, as most of the guardsmen would be pulled from the fortress so to better manage the festival. It was for this reason that Lon’s task had to be done tonight; while security was low and before others would arrive to patrol the fortress in their place.

  Inevitably, each of Cambria’s Honorbound would bring with them a platoon of bodyguards to take up residence in the estate, but so far, only one of the total seven had arrived in Neurial. To his fortune, this meant that Lon had little to hinder him as he made his way to the eastern wing, as the hallways were quiet and remarkably barren without much in the way of life. Without the pressure of minding his steps or dodging from shadow to shadow, it allotted the assassin extra time to shrug off his lingering fatigue. Although most of the backlash from the use of his charm had fully faded away, there was a weight within the core of his bones that still persisted. Thankfully, these pangs would vanish completely by the time Lon reached his goal, but they remained a sharp reminder to only sparingly use the stone. In this one sense he was almost envious of Lucille and her magic skill, though not enough that he would pine for what pitiful amount of power she had.

  Suddenly, Lon heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the hall ahead, and instinctively he stepped into the folds of the nearest shadows. Tucking himself behind a thick stone column built halfway into the corridor, he pressed his chest against the cold of the rock and quieted his breath to a slow inhale. He waited, allowing for the steps to near and then pass by his position, and once they’d gone a short distance away Lon turned his head to steal a look. It was a chambermaid, one far too focused on her task to pay her surroundings any mind, and as quickly as she had entered the hall her back disappeared around a corner.

  Lon relinquished his hiding place after he could no longer hear her steps. Perhaps, he thought as he started walking again, it was a boon that he had been detained. As much as he had wanted to end Fairwater’s mission as soon as he was able, it was likely that he would have met with unwanted company had he come here hours before. He had not considered that in order to make room for its influx of guests, the eastern wing of Dragon’s Teeth would be filled with both maids and men preparing the estate. In these later hours however, such attendants would be released from duty to take part in the Springtide outside. Their absence, along with the darkness proffered by the setting sun, were both conditions Lon had gained only by his late arrival.

  In some twisted way, his foul luck had indeed helped him in the end, and with it, as well as with the guide provided by his guild directing his every step, it was nothing for Lon to arrive undetected within the eastern wing. That Fangris could procure a copy of the schematics used in Dragon’s Teeth’s construction was unsurprising, and Lon had spent much of his quiet days within the city memorizing its design. Though he had no way of truly knowing where his target would be housed, the Honorbound of Highloft had proclivities enough that Lon could take an educated guess. The man was a known lover of nature, particularly of sweet-smelling flora, and there was a private courtyard in the lower part of the keep meant for growing such worthless things. But Clavicus Kross, unbeknownst to the public, was a lover of loose women as well; especially those best described as hopelessly na?ve. It was this one thing that Lon and any Honorbound seemed to have in common, and in being so, he could accurately deduce those easiest of ways for sneaking bedmates in.

  There was little doubt that a room providing these two pleasures would be reserved for Kross’s lodging, as the Mediator would take the Honorbounds’ suggestions into account so to better accommodate his guests. Given this knowledge and his own confidence, Lon’s trek ended at a distant guestroom, one nearby a section of servant corridors that looked out toward a newly-budding garden. Cautiously he pressed his ear to the room’s heavy door, hearing nothing within save the faintest whispers of a freshly fueled and crackling fire. Habitually then, he brought a blade to hand before letting himself inside, though this precaution proved unnecessary as the room was void of life. Regardless, his assumptions concerning the Honorbound had been correct, for there were several letters upon a center desk that were emblazoned with Highloft’s stately seal.

  Lon locked the door at his back as he pushed it closed, and striding in across the carpet, he frowned at the lavish space. He didn’t relish the thought of a thorough search inside of a giant, ornamental room, and search he must as he had no clues of where to look for what Fairwater demanded he find. There were thousands of places one could stash a letter in a place like this; from lights to beds to a cut in the carpet, everything was fair game. Lon had at least been told that Kross never kept the letter on him, and since the man could trust no one else with it, the assassin was certain that it was here.

  Relenting to the search with an annoyed groan, Lon began sifting through the various documents stacked upon the table. This yielded nothing, as was expected, and so he moved next to scour through the most routine of hiding places. Flipping up furniture to check between cushions and frames, he also looked behind paintings, picked through pillows, and checked the floors for signs of tampering. But only when fingering through a large shelf of books did he finally find what he was after. Tucked away within a book without title or hard binding, Lon spotted the white edge of a thin envelope folded inside the yellowed pages. He retrieved it, and carefully removing the parchment from within, he read through the contents to confirm that this was indeed Amelia’s letter. Lon’s eyes skimmed over the lengthy script, causing him to smirk as he marveled at the damning knowledge upon the sheet. He read it again to commit the parts that intrigued him most to memory, though was interrupted by a sudden clunk against the guestroom door.

  Startled, Lon hurriedly stuffed the letter into his tunic, realizing then that the noise had been that of the doorknob failing to turn; where someone had tried to push the door in, thinking it already unlocked. His exit was cut off, and certain that this new arrival had a key, Lon bounded quietly across the room to the chamber’s other side. He heard the scrape of metal on metal as the latch of the door clicked open, and stepping in time with the swinging door, Lon hid himself behind it. Pushing his back against the wall so to keep from being struck, he held his breath and slipped his dirk silently from its sheath. He had hoped to avoid such a meeting until he was gone from Kross’s room. If he was to remain undetected, he was going to have to be swift.

  As soon as the stranger shut the door Lon leapt into action, moving quickly before his unwanted guest could realize they were in danger. And indeed, the woman was unable to even gasp before Lon’s blade touched her throat. However, something rather unexpected stilled the assassin’s blade, stopping its edge just a hair’s width short of piercing the woman’s skin. He recognized this woman’s face, just as she recognized his, and in so doing, a deep look of disgust and hate replaced the girl’s initial surprise.

  “Develli,” the young woman snarled, speaking his name like a curse.

  More than just a little amused by this most unanticipated way of meeting, Lon chuckled in response to her disdain but did not relax his blade. Instead, he pushed the flat of it into her neck, and leaning closer, he allowed his face to rest mere inches away from the girl’s own. “This is why no one within the guild considers you a true assassin,” he purred. “You are far too easy a thing to undermine and kill, Lucille. It is only by the grace of Nox that you are allowed to live.”

  Lucille’s jaw tightened at the insult, her teeth grinding behind her lips. At this Lon smiled; the enchantress’s rage had always been highly amusing to him. And yet, as much as he enjoyed toying with the girl, he did not wish to spur on her magic, and so moved his blade across her neck so to draw a solitary drop of blood. It was just enough to remind the caster that it was he who was in charge, but though Lucille winced at the prick, to her credit, she showed no fear.

  “You mean to kill me this time, then?” She growled, sounding more impatient and annoyed than she did afraid.

  “It would gain me nothing to kill you,” Lon told her coolly, “except, perhaps, some peace of mind. After all, if you were dead, you would no longer vie for my position, or anyone else’s for that matter. But, unfortunately, you are under contract, which means you are of use to the guild, and I have no desire to receive another lecture from our Lady.”

  The enchantress dared to flash a cocky smile at his admission. “You recognize my importance then,” she falsely concluded.

  “Importance?” Lon balked. “The only importance you possess is that of a pretty face and a willingness to spread your legs. It is the only reason you were chosen to be contracted to Kross.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Lucille’s expression further creased with hate, and a growl rumbled angrily within the deepness of her throat. Her emotions spilled into her bracers, causing the serpents coiled there to hiss at Lon in loathing. Wisely, however, albeit surprising, the snakes did not retaliate. There was little point in doing so, both assassins knew. In being inside the Mediator’s estate, neither Lon nor the livid caster could risk attracting attention. But more than this was that he and Lucille had had such spats before, and always the caster had lost their battles because she could not refute the facts.

  Lucille was considered talented only by the most rudimentary of definitions, and was a passable assassin solely because she was lucky enough to be born with some small level of magic skill. Compared to the others of their guild however, she could hardly be considered a novice. Time and again the girl had proven incompetent in the art of cloak and dagger, and her planesbreaker ability was, in truth, a paltry one at best. Lon himself had managed to beat her on two separate occasions when adequately prepared, and knew, as did everyone else, that the only reason Lucille was of any use was because she’d been placed in Cambria. Here, her magic would always catch her targets by surprise, but if pitted against another magic user or someone able to fight their ilk, Lucille was far more likely to lose than she was to win. The reason for her ineptitude was obvious, even if not something the girl would acknowledge or make an attempt to fix. Quite simply, the emotions that Lucille invoked to fuel her magic were the same feelings that sabotaged it. At every opportunity granted her, the enchantress had proved herself unable to control her power in the heated moments of a fight, and Lon had taken advantage of that very weakness more often than once.

  “Fawln take you, Lon,” Lucille cursed at him, all but admitting her defeat. She had little choice but to do so, of course, given the placement of her superior’s blade. Even so, Lon found her obedient attitude a most welcome one. After having dealt with that bitch Valor captain and that likewise damned acrobat, it was refreshing to have a woman that he could easily cow to his whims.

  “You should be grateful to me, you know,” he said, needlessly prodding at the caster’s temper. “I did give you quite the gift, after all.”

  “Do not toy with me, Develli,” Lucille spat back in contempt. “That insulting letter you sent to me was meant only to draw me out of Dragon’s Teeth. That the Valor captain was even there at all was purely coincidence.”

  “Not true,” Lon corrected calmly, smirking fiendishly. “I had to account for the Valor’s appearance, and I thought only to bolster your standing with Kross by having you take care of my problem.”

  Lucille scoffed. “Are you trying to imply that all of this was because of some great scheme?” In saying this, she openly laughed. “What utter nonsense! Or do you mean to tell me that all those bruises upon your face were something you planned as well?”

  Lon’s emotions tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he did his best to keep from frowning. He had not expected the inept Lucille to notice the truth of his battered state, and had been hoping to keep it hidden from her for a while longer yet.

  “You thought I wouldn’t notice, aye?” The enchantress mocked him with a sneer. “I do have eyes of my own, you fool, and I saw their men drag you away.”

  “And you think that was not planned?” Lon lied. “You think that such a lowly band could capture me on its own?”

  “I do, in fact,” Lucille snapped back. “You think of yourself far too highly. You never would have chosen capture, if only to save your precious face. Admit it, Lon, another one of your ‘brilliant plans’ has gone and fallen apart.”

  “Who is there to say that it has?” Lon refuted with a grin. “You know nothing of what I’ve been scheming, only that you’ve played a role in it against your will. And you will play your role again; you do not have a choice.”

  Lucille’s eyes narrowed at the threat, yet her demeanor remained confident. “I have no intention of being used by you,” she stated matter-of-factly. “And, more importantly, neither do they.”

  Before Lon could react, one of the leviathans upon Lucille’s wrists struck his chest swift as lightning, and a burning sensation erupted there while he was knocked away. “Damn it!” He cursed at himself once he’d gotten far enough away, feeling the gash that had been torn across his shirt and skin. Fortunately, the attack was not one meant to kill or even injure him, though Lon was quick in realizing just why it had not been so. The place where he had been struck was the same place where he had stored Amelia’s letter, and that—along with a section of his tunic—had been inconveniently ripped away.

  He spied the letter soon enough, dangling from the fangs of Lucille’s serpent, and spotted, too, the wicked, victorious smile adorning the witch’s face. How foolish Lon had been to think that the caster had any ounce of foresight, for she blatantly lacked any and all if she meant to strike him now. Though having no intention of killing Lucille, he had given up his key advantage by admitting it. He should have expected the girl to not see things the way he did, to not see how the death of either of them now would spell disaster for the guild. No, Lucille had only seen his “kindness” as an opportunity for herself, and the fool would take advantage of it, regardless of the effects.

  Understanding his error, and even worse, his position, Lon readied himself for the potential of a very uneven battle. “You mean to draw the whole fortress down on us?” He asked the girl, half in threat, though really Lon only meant for the banter to buy him time.

  Lucille laughed as she pried Fairwater’s letter from her serpent’s fangs, and stroked the enchanted whip as she touched the parchment to her cheek. “Of course not, Lon,” she replied with a smirk. “Though if they did come, they would arrive just in time to find you dead. How grand of a story would it be that Kross’s loyal bodyguard prevented an assassination attempt on the Mediator? I do believe it would only garner me more favor from Kross, on top of that which I will be getting for delivering him a Valor captain.”

  “Fool,” Lon spat. “You do not know the trouble such an action would cause for the guild.”

  “Again you think yourself better than us,” the girl scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You are not irreplaceable, Lon.”

  “Oh, but I am, Lucille Lenova; far more irreplaceable than you.” Lon jabbed his blade at the letter then, seeing there his chance at turning the tide. “The letter you hold is reason enough as to why I must remain alive. Interfere now, try to take my place, and you will only ensure that Fangris sees you permanently removed.”

  The very real threat of the guild’s ire chipped away at the caster’s confidence, and glancing at the envelope she’d torn from Lon, Lucille turned it over in hand. “This letter from the Fairwater woman, is it really so important a thing?”

  The question caused Lon to smile; so he had been right in his guess. Lucille knew absolutely nothing concerning Fairwater’s blackmailing. Kross had not trusted her enough to divulge that information, which meant Lon possessed the advantage he needed to twist the circumstance. “Your ignorance on this matter is exactly why you are stationed with Kross,” he started. “But even you, at your lowly rank, know the rules of our guild. You know that we support and lend service only to those deemed worthy of our time, and it has recently been decided that Fairwater is the more ambitious of our contractors. There is more to gain by supporting her than by colluding with Kross or any other, and the letter you hold is the key that will secure Fangris’s future interests.”

  Lucille stared hard at the assassin for several silent moments. “I was not informed of this,” she replied eventually with a frown.

  At this, Lon only sneered. “Scarcely is there ever reason to tell you anything.”

  Blindsided by his cruel taunt, the caster’s cheeks swiftly reddened with the rising of her anger, and Lon was certain that she would attack now, regardless of his warnings. “Attack me now,” he thus began, aiming to deflect her ire, “and you will certainly lose both your prizes tonight.”

  “Another one of your pathetic schemes?” Lucille growled, though her hands did pause.

  “Consider it a piece of advice, for the sake of yourself and of the guild. If you try to kill me now, you may win, or you may not. But rest assured that if you attack me, you forfeit your gift to Kross. You know the man’s desires better than I, and so which do you think he will prefer: the assassin whom you must lie about in order to curry favor, or a captain of the Valor that he so deeply despises?”

  Lon could see the mage’s mind as she contemplated this question, as well as the frustration on her face when coming to an answer. As though responding to her hesitance, the serpent still hovering at Lucille’s side curled nearer to her face, and in its silent wondering it hissed, almost as though it spoke. “I know that!” Lucille snapped suddenly at the snake, causing it to recoil, after which she turned her burning gaze angrily upon Lon. “Tell me what you’ve done, Develli, and you’d better say it plainly, or I’ll have my Hydra tear a giant chunk out of your chest.”

  This battle won, Lon smiled beneath his cowl. “I mean only that you are not the only pawn under my employ, Lucille. There is one other, and she is currently releasing your captured Valor captain. So stay and fight me, if you wish, but you will give up the better prize. It is, of course, your decision in which trophy you wish to keep, but if you want to remain a part of our guild, then you know which to choose.”

  Apparently his explanation was indeed plain enough, for the caster’s face contorted fiercely in her realization. “DAMN IT!” She roared in vehement frustration, and howling all manner of Val Aven curses, she slammed Fairwater’s letter down upon the nearby desk. The cursing continued as she stormed passed Lon and to the guestroom door, where she stopped briefly before leaving and sharply turned around. “You might think yourself some keen strategist, but you’re nothing more than a damned opportunist, Lon Develli! You got lucky this time, that’s all!”

  “On the contrary,” Lon responded calmly, smiling smugly to himself. “It takes no luck to outwit you.” For the second time today his arrogance earned him naught but pain, as Lon immediately felt the Hydra’s fangs piercing into his shoulder. The pointed teeth of the enchanted metal sunk deeply into his skin, and caught so off guard by the shock of it, Lon very nearly yelped. Fortunately, the force of the blow dropped him to a knee, and this distracted his senses just enough to keep him from crying out. Had he done so, Lucille would have no doubt considered his pain her victory, and Lon refused to allow the witch any satisfaction of the sort.

  Barely able to turn his gaze around enough to see her, Lon watched as Lucille clenched her fist so tightly that her knuckles turned white as snow. In reaction, the daggered vice upon his shoulder squeezed its fangs in deeper, and again the assassin had to catch himself before uttering a responding noise.

  “Your arrogant mouth will get you killed one day,” Lucille warned him as a goodbye, “even if it isn’t me who has the pleasure of cutting you down.” As soon as she had said her piece Lucille recalled her serpent, purposefully causing the injected fangs to sharply rip away. A blast of pain rippled through Lon’s body at their cruel removal, and it took all the assassin had to maintain his silence. It little mattered, for as soon as she had recalled her beast the enchantress disappeared, having left both room and colleague behind to run swiftly down the hall.

  Only after the girl had gone did Lon finally allow himself to breathe, whereupon he shed both his shirt and cowl to tend to his injured arm. “Accursed bitch,” he grumbled in anger as he cleaned his new puncture wounds, bitter that things had, yet again, failed to go his way. “No matter,” he eventually stated once he’d finished bandaging his shoulder and replacing his clothes. For better or worse, things were still going along the path that he’d intended, and vengeance would soon be meted out to those who had been fool enough to wrong him. The acrobat would soon reach the Valor captain’s cell, if she hadn’t already, and not long after, that idiot witch would inevitably meet there too. Lucille would pay dearly for having harmed him so, and so too would the jester. After all, it was unavoidable now that the two would battle, and given the temperament of them both, what a grand fight it would be. The only thing that Lon lamented was that he would not be there to witness it, as neither girl would dare to leave that fight without the other dead.