Sorcerer's Shadow

* * * *

The transition from viewing myself as someone's muscle, occasionally performing 'tasks', to seeing myself as an independent hitman, is somewhat hazy. Part of the confusion comes from the fact that I served multiple employers during and post-war, including Nichols himself.

It seems those around me began labeling me that way before I did, but my self-perception didn't shift until I'd built professional habits and a systematic approach to the job.

Precisely when this transformation happened is unclear, but by the time I'd completed my seventh assignment—eliminating a despicable individual named Vernon—I was definitely operating as a professional.

* * * *

As I was mulling over this revelation, considering whether to burst out laughing, I noticed that Nyxara had vanished; in essence, we had no guidance on our next step.

I cleared my throat. Drevolan broke his intense gaze with Thaleia to ask, "What is it, Viktor?"

"Do you know how to get back to where the gods were?"

"Hmmm. I think so."

"Let's head there, then."

"Why?"

"Do you have a superior plan?"

"I suppose not."

As I rose, a fleeting temptation to sip from the well crossed my mind. Thankfully, it was short-lived. We helped Thaleia up and I noted her petite stature—she was barely taller than me, in fact.

We set off back the way we'd come, Drevolan and I each supporting one of Thaleia's arms. She seemed miserable, her teeth gritted, perhaps from rage or perhaps from pain. Her eyes, which I initially thought were green, appeared to be grey, focused straight ahead.

We reached the archway again and paused for a breather.

Drevolan proposed that Thaleia take a seat and give her legs a rest. Thaleia's response was terse. "Quiet."

I noticed Drevolan's patience running thin, much like my own. We simultaneously bit our lips, exchanged glances, and faintly smiled. We assisted Thaleia and resumed our journey, following the direction Drevolan believed to be correct. After taking a few hesitant steps, we halted once more when Thaleia let out a gasp. "I can't…" she said, and we helped her settle on the ground.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps. She closed her eyes, tilting her head skywards; her forehead was slick with perspiration and her hair seemed drenched. Drevolan and I shared a look, but words eluded us.

A moment or so later, as we contemplated whether offering to carry Thaleia would deeply offend her, we saw a figure approach from the darkness. Slowly, it became discernible under the astonishing starlight.

The figure was extraordinarily tall, broad-shouldered. He had a huge sword fastened to his back, and his face had distinctive Dragon features. His attire was Dragon colored, although its form—a peculiar formless jacket and baggy pants tucked into darrskin boots—was quite unusual. His hair was curly brown, his eyes dark. He appeared to have passed at a mature age. His forehead bore wrinkles from deep thought, his eyes surrounded by lines of anger, and his strong jaw made me think he was often clenching his teeth. contemporary romance

He observed us as we watched him. I was curious about Drevolan's reaction, but I couldn't tear my gaze away from the Dragonlord's face to read Drevolan's expression. I felt my heartbeat accelerate and my knees weaken. I had to swallow repeatedly to regain my composure.

Finally, he spoke, addressing Thaleia. "I was informed I'd find you here."

She gave a nod but remained silent. She looked distressed. Drevolan, apparently not accustomed to being overlooked, introduced himself, "Greetings, lord. I am Drevolan D'Lira."

The figure turned to Drevolan and nodded. "Greetings," he responded. "I am Kyran."

Kyran.

Kyran the Victor.

Founder of the Imperion Empire, scion of the noblest lineage of the House of the Dragon, a hero of myth and legend, the foremost among the notorious Imperion slayers of Terrans. The list could continue, but it seemed redundant. Here he was.

Drevolan stared at him and gradually genuflected. I was unsure where to cast my gaze.

* * * *

People really ought to know better.

No record exists of a Vorgan testifying against their own kind to the Empire and living, yet there are always those who dare. They claim, "I'm exceptional. I have a scheme. I'm untouchable; I have protection." Or perhaps, they haven't thought it through, they simply cannot accept their own mortality. Alternatively, they may feel that the Empire's hefty reward justifies the risk.

Regardless, that's not my concern. My services were solicited through approximately four intermediaries. I rendezvoused with a man outside a grocery store, and we chatted as we strolled around the block. Opal was perched on my left shoulder. It was early morning, and the vicinity was deserted. The man was nicknamed "Feet" for some obscure reason. I was familiar with him, and when he mentioned an assassination job, I deduced it must be significant, given his prominent status in the Organization. Consequently, whoever instructed him to arrange this must be of high importance.

I responded to him, "I have contacts who handle such matters. Would you like to elaborate?"

He replied, "A conflict arose between two of our acquaintances." This implied it was between two Vorgan. "The issue escalated, causing unease all around." This suggested one or both of these individuals held prominent positions in the Organization. "One of them feared for his safety, panicked, and sought refuge with the Empire."

I let out a low whistle. "Is he testifying officially?"

"He has already begun to an extent, and there's more to come."

"That's bound to sting."

"We're attempting to suppress it. It might be possible. If it's not, we're in for a turbulent time."

"Indeed, I can imagine."

"We need a serious solution. I mean, seriously serious. Do you get me?"

I gulped. "I think I do, but you should spell it out."

"Norsanti."

"Just as I suspected."

"Has your contact ever dealt with that?"

"What does it matter?"

"No difference, I guess. Your contact will have complete support from numerous people for this; all the assistance required."

"Alright, I'll need some time to ponder this."

"Of course. Take all the time you need. The payment is ten thousand imperials."

"I see."

"How much time will you require to decide?"

We walked in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked, "What's his name?"

"Vernon. Familiar?"

"No."

We continued our stroll as I mulled over the situation. The neighborhood went about its usual business around us. It was an oddly peaceful walk. I finally said, "Alright. I'm in."

"Excellent," he said. "Let's head to my place. I'll pay you and provide the initial information. If you need more, let us know, and we'll assist."

"Okay," I agreed.

* * * *

done.co