Soren and Alaric followed the grey-robed attendant through the winding corridors of the Assassins’ Guild headquarters.

When they reached an oak door, the attendant rapped twice and ushered them inside.

Soren stopped at the sight of Raz sitting behind a broad desk. Raz—the man who had recruited them, the man who had killed Soren’s father. He glanced up at their entrance. “Soren, Alaric.” He set his quill aside and gestured to the seats across from him. “Please, come in.”

Soren settled into one of the chairs as Alaric lowered himself into the other.

“You both appear to be recovering well after the Threshing.”

Soren nodded. “We endured.” He kept his tone neutral, still unsure where this meeting was headed.

“Such trials are never easy.” A grin flashed across Raz’s scarred features. “But you showed exceptional resilience and fortitude. You should be proud.”

Alaric shifted in his seat. “We did what we had to. Nothing to be proud of though.”

Raz looked between them. “You passed the Threshing. Most who are entered do not live to tell the tale. The determination to succeed, whatever the challenge—that is the foundation needed to attain true mastery in our trade.” He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “And so I wish to mentor you both, to nurture that potential through specialised training.”

Soren remained still and silent, his lips pursed.

Raz held up his hands. “I know tensions linger between us and I don’t take your position here for granted.” His features softened. “Still, I believe we can accomplish great things together.”

Soren weighed Raz’s words. Was this offer genuine, or a trap to toy with them? “What would this specialised training entail?”

Raz smiled. “My area of expertise lies in subtlety—intelligence gathering, impersonation, moving unseen through hostile territory. Skills that favour scalpel over sword.”

“So, you’re a surgeon?” Alaric asked.

“In a sense.” Raz tapped the ledgers on his desk. “Understanding the flow of finance is another essential tool. Information and money grease the wheels of power.” He raised a finger. “Speaking of which…” Raz slid two leather pouches across the desk. “These funds should cover your expenses for the next few weeks.”

Soren weighed the purse, keeping his face composed. This was no paltry sum. “When do we begin?”

Raz chuckled. “Patience. Your formal training starts tomorrow. For now, rest and reflect on how far you’ve come already.” His expression turned solemn. “The path of a contractor is not undertaken lightly. But for those few with the fortitude to walk it, the potential for wealth and mastery are great.”

Soren licked his lips. “Mastery?”

The corners of Raz’s mouth twitched. “Indeed.”

“We’re ready.”

Beside him, Alaric stiffened.

“Excellent.” Raz moved towards the office door, beckoning them to follow. “Come. Your new quarters have been prepared.”

Soren rose and rubbed the back of his neck. “When you say tomorrow, which tomorrow do you mean?”

“You have a full day. It is dawn now. The day is yours.”

Soren hesitated, holding back as Raz made to leave the office. “There is one thing still weighing on me from the Threshing.”

“Oh?” Raz inclined his head. “Speak freely.”

Soren glanced at Alaric before continuing. “Taking a life under threat of your own death, that’s one thing. But the images still haunt me.” He closed his eyes, images of blood and death flashing through his mind. “Tell me, how do you cope?”

“I understand such deeds can challenge one’s spirit.” Raz tapped his chin. “But always remember we are tradesmen fulfilling a service. Sentiment has no place on the executioner’s block, nor in the contractor’s work.”

“This wasn’t some contract though. I murdered fellow recruits—I still see their faces in my dreams.”

“When memories haunt, I’ve found it helps to picture each face fading to grey, losing all distinction. Imagine their features blurring, bleaching of colour and life until only faint shadows remain.”

Soren tried visualising Kierak’s face fading to a flat grey mask, empty of meaning. The image brought a sense of calm.

Raz moved closer to Soren. “As their faces fade, allow your thoughts to drift, like leaves on a river. Don’t cling to what cannot be changed.”

Soren took a long breath, picturing the other fallen recruits one by one. The exercise left his thoughts more settled, the memories less vivid.

“Remember, the past is done. But we always have a choice which path leads forward.” Raz gripped Soren’s shoulder. “I have faith yours will be a worthy one.”

Soren managed a thin smile in return. “I look forward to resuming our lessons tomorrow.”

Raz dipped his head. “It will be my honour. Until tomorrow then.”

A female attendant led Soren and Alaric through the bright halls.

At last they reached an iron-banded door which the attendant unlocked. “These will be your quarters.”

Soren stepped inside. Thick rugs warmed the stone floor while a table bearing a bowl of fruit and carafe of water stood to welcome them. His gaze lingered on the two beds with their plush quilts and fat pillows.

Alaric let out a low whistle. “Far cry from that drafty old fortress, eh?” He flopped down on the nearest bed.

The attendant sniffed. “As an initiate of the Guild, you have earned some privileges. When not training, your time is your own to spend as you will.” She eyed them both. “But be prudent. Err too severely, and consequences will follow.”

“What kind of things we talking here?” Alaric asked.

“No getting drunk. No taking drugs. No engaging the services of prostitutes.”

“We’ll be on our best behaviour,” Soren said.

The attendant nodded. “Very well. I’ll have suitable attire sent for moving through the city.” She withdrew, the door clicking shut behind her.

Soren stood over his bed and pressed the mattress, soft but firm.

Alaric sat up on the bed. “Fancy a look around town then? Could do with a change of scenery and a hot meal after whatever that crap was they called food in the infirmary.”

Soren’s stomach rumbled in response. “Good idea. Let’s explore this place.” He patted the purse in his pocket. “Feels nice to finally have some cash at our disposal.”

Soon, the attendant returned with fresh clothes in a basket and set them on the table. “Shall I have food brought to you here, or would you prefer to eat in the dining hall?”

Soren and Alaric exchanged a look.

“We were thinking of finding somewhere in the city,” Alaric said.

Soren frowned. “We should save our coin and eat in the dining hall.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right. No need to splurge just yet.” He gestured to the attendant. “Lead the way.”

Soren and Alaric followed the attendant through the Guild’s pristine corridors, their footsteps echoing off the polished stone floors.

Alaric leaned in close. “What do you reckon we should do first? I’ve heard tales of Welttor’s famous caramel cream cakes. They say they’re so rich, you can feel your teeth rotting as you eat them.”

Soren glanced at the attendant’s back. “Welttor’s a big city, full of people who might not take kindly to a pair of northerners poking around. We should avoid drawing attention to ourselves.”

Alaric rolled his eyes. “Come on, Sor. We’ve been given a bit of freedom for once. Surely we can enjoy it without looking over our shoulders every second?”

“I’m not saying we can’t enjoy ourselves. I’m just saying we need to be smart about it. Remember why we’re here.”

“You’re no fun.”

He glared at Alaric. “You’re right. But who can blame me?”

“We need to find joy wherever and whenever we can in this place. Things are going to go pretty dark pretty quickly if we don’t.”

“You’re probably right.”

Alaric grinned. “Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

Soren sniffed. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, Sor…don’t do that. It never ends well when you start thinking.”

Soren’s glare returned. “I’m serious.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The attendant took a left, leading them around a corner.

“So, what is it?”

“Something doesn’t seem right about Raz.”

Alaric shrugged. “Well, yeah. He’s a trained killer. Nothing’s going to seem right about him.”

Soren shook his head. “No, it’s more than that.”

“What do you mean.”

“I don’t know yet. But I can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing something important.”

Before Alaric could respond, the attendant came to a halt before a set of wooden doors. She turned to face them. “The dining hall.”

Their conversation died as they stepped into the bustling mess, the aroma of hot food making Soren’s stomach rumble.

They filled their plates with bacon, eggs, and toast before finding seats at one of the long wooden tables.

Around them, other members of the Guild ate and talked in hushed tones, the clink of cutlery and scrape of plates echoing off the cream walls.

Soren sipped his black tea, his eyes roving over the hall. “Just think, someday we’ll be full members of the Guild seated here.”

Alaric stared at his plate, pushing the eggs around with his fork.

“You must at least be excited to start training with Raz.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. “Oh yes, thrilled.”

“You don’t seem very enthused by the prospect.”

Alaric dropped his fork onto his plate. “Maybe I’m less eager than you to cosy up to your father’s killer.”

“That’s not fair.”

Alaric’s glare bored into Soren. “Do you still remember why you’re here?”

“Of course I do.”

Alaric leaned forward. “Funny, seems you’re more fascinated by the craft…you hardly mention your father these days.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “This was meant to be about justice, not pursuing power for its own sake.”

Soren looked away. “My motivations haven’t changed. But we can’t reclaim the past now, only move forward.” He met Alaric’s eyes. “Our reasons for staying may not be the same as our reasons for coming.”

Alaric’s nostrils flared and he shook his head.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Speak.”

“It’s a slippery slope you’re on, that’s all.” He stood, the wooden bench scraping against the floor. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Alaric, wait.” Soren raced after him. “Let’s not fall out. Please.”

Alaric stopped and glanced down at his cast. “This whole thing is taking a toll on both of us.”

Soren squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I know. That’s why we should take a look around the city. Get something of ourselves back. Like you said, find some joy.”

“You’re right.” He smiled weakly. “Let’s go explore this city properly. Have some fun for once, eh?”

Soren returned the smile. “Fun. Almost a foreign concept after so long, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t have to be…”

Returning to their room, Soren and Alaric changed into the fresh clothes left by the attendant.

They exited onto bustling streets, the early morning vendors opening for the day.

Soren took in towering buildings and crowded thoroughfares, feeling lost among so much movement and noise. “Where should we even begin? It’s all so…”

“Overwhelming?”

“Yeah.”

Weaving through throngs, they soon settled at an oak table near the back of a coffee house.

Soren sipped from the steaming black liquid. “Have to say, this is nice coffee.”

Between sips, Alaric glanced around the crowded room. “So strange being among normal folk going about their lives, oblivious to what we’ve been through.”

Soren nodded. “Makes me wonder if we can ever fit in to civilised society again.”

Alaric raised his eyebrows. “Who says we were ever civilised?”

Soren laughed.

“Reckon we should find some real drinking holes.”

“Let’s pace ourselves. One thing at a time.” Soren glanced around at the patrons. “Not sure I could cope with a beer right now.”

“Fair enough. Gin then? Or rum?”

Soren grinned. “For now, I just want to get to know this place.”

Alaric rolled his eyes and let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. You win.”

Soren savoured the last sip of his coffee, the rich dark roast warming him against the autumn chill outside.

Across the table, Alaric knocked back the dregs of his own cup. “We’ll have to remember this place. Perfect spot to unwind after training.”

“And far better brew than the sludge they serve back home.”

Alaric looked down at his cup. “What’s home anymore?”

“You know what I mean.”

Alaric met Soren’s gaze with watery eyes. “I know.”

Soren stood and stretched, his joints creaking after sitting for so long. “Shall we continue our explorations?”

Alaric rose. “Yeah, let’s do this.”

They headed out the door onto the city streets.

Leaves drifted down from the canopy of trees that lined the avenue. Soren tucked his hands into his pockets, bracing himself against the wind blowing in from the docks.

Merchants called out from stalls bursting with vibrant silks, exotic spices, and artisan crafts while lively music drifted from a busker’s guitar at a crowded central square.

Passing a bakery, Soren sniffed the yeasty aroma of fresh bread. “I wish we hadn’t eaten now. That place smells great.”

Alaric grinned. “It does. Must be those caramel cream cakes.”

Soren entered the bakery. The warm, sweet scent enveloped him as they approached the counter, eyeing the array of pastries and cakes on display. “Two caramel cream cakes, please.”

The baker, a portly man with flour-dusted hands, beamed at them. “Ah, excellent choice! You won’t find better in all of Welttor.”

Cakes in hand, they exited the shop and found a nearby bench overlooking a small square.

Pigeons pecked at crumbs scattered across the cobblestones, while seagulls wheeled overhead.

Soren took a bite of his cake. His brow furrowed as he swallowed. “Huh.”

Alaric, who had already devoured half of his, paused mid-bite. “What?”

“It’s just…” Soren took another small bite. “It’s not that great, is it?”

Alaric shrugged. “Now that you mention it, yeah. It’s a bit…underwhelming.”

“You know, I reckon old Cara’s honey cakes put these to shame.”

Alaric nodded. “Creation’s truth. Remember those apple tarts she’d make? Now those were something special.”

Soren looked down at his half-eaten cake, then at the birds still pecking around their feet. With a sigh, he tossed the remainder onto the ground.

Alaric followed suit, and they watched as the seagulls and pigeons descended in a frenzied swarm, devouring the cakes in seconds. “At least someone’s enjoying them.”

Soren leaned back on the bench, crossing his arms. “I don’t get it. Everyone raves about these cakes. The baker acted like they were some kind of delicacy. But they’re just ordinary.”

“Maybe we just picked a bad bakery?”

“Maybe. Or maybe people just like to hype things up. Make the ordinary sound extraordinary.”

Alaric turned to look at him. “Don’t go getting all cynical on me now, Sor.”

Soren shook his head. “I’m not being cynical, I’m being realistic. Think about it. How much of what we’ve been told—about the Guild, about our training, about anything really—has turned out to be the whole truth?”

Alaric was quiet for a moment. “I see your point. But still, there’s a difference between being cautious and losing faith in everything.”

“Is there? Sometimes I wonder if knowing what’s true and what isn’t is as simple as it used to seem.”

“You know what? Maybe the cakes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. But that doesn’t mean everything’s crap. We’ve just got to…I don’t know, be more discerning, I guess.”

Soren nodded. “You’re right. We can’t take everything at face value anymore. But we can’t dismiss everything either. It’s about finding the balance, isn’t it?”

“Exactly.” Alaric stood. “Now, what do you say we find something actually worth eating? I’m still hungry.”

Soren managed a small smile as he got to his feet. “Alright.”

They skirted by an herbalist’s stall, the fragrant bundles of drying lavender and sage filling Soren’s nostrils. “We could spend hours just people watching here.”

Alaric gestured to a theatre with bold lettering advertising upcoming performances. “Music, dance, comedy.” He turned to Soren. “You think we’ll ever get a chance to see those things?”

Soren shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe. I think the higher up you get in the Guild, the more freedom you have.”

Alaric clasped his shoulder. “Don’t let our trade make us forget how to live.”

“We’ll share it all. Fine meals, theatre, music…”

Soren and Alaric ambled aimlessly for the next few hours, enjoying the freedom of movement.

As they turned down a quiet avenue, a stationer’s shop caught Soren’s eye. He paused, staring at the display of journals, and drawing implements arranged in the window.

Alaric followed his gaze. “Thinking of taking up art again?”

“I don’t know…seems a waste of the Guild’s coin.”

“You deserve a bit of indulgence. Might help centre your thoughts.” Alaric cocked an eyebrow. “Unless you’re afraid you’ve lost your touch?”

Soren’s fingers itched for the feel of charcoal sweeping over textured paper. But he hesitated, shaking his head. “It’s a frivolous indulgence. I should remain focused on developing more practical skills.”

Alaric nudged him towards the door. “Come on. Let’s at least take a look.”

Soren wavered, part of him longing to rekindle that simple joy. “Fine, you’ve made your point.”

The scents of parchment and ink enveloped Soren as he stepped inside. His eyes roved over stacks of blank journals, just waiting to be filled.

His fingers trailed over the tomes, feeling their potential. After so long immersed in the assassins’ world of danger and deceit, this glimpse of his past kindled almost painful nostalgia.

Selecting a sturdy leather-bound sketchbook, Soren allowed himself to imagine the satisfaction of capturing scenes and scenery within its pages. He chose a set of drawing pencils and some sticks of charcoal, picturing sweeping strokes bringing form to the shadows in his mind.

Approaching the counter, Soren set out the supplies.

The shopkeeper peered at him over wire-rimmed spectacles as he tallied the cost. “Let’s see now…charcoals, fine sketchbook, drawing pencils…” His voice trailed off as he scribbled numbers. “Comes to twenty-five krones for the lot.”

Soren raised his eyebrows. “That can’t be right.”

The shopkeeper shrugged. “That’s the price for quality. Take it or leave it.”

Swallowing his disappointment, Soren forced a polite smile. “It is a fair amount you ask. Perhaps if you could lower it somewhat?”

The old man’s eyes glinted. “I could offer you twenty-four krones, but no less. My wares are priced fairly and crafted to last.”

Soren glanced at the sketchbook’s cover. “How about twenty?”

The shopkeeper shook his head. “Absolutely not. The best price I can do is twenty-four.”

“Twenty-two, then.”

“No.”

Soren let out a sigh. “You sure you can’t go any lower on price?”

The shopkeeper raised his hands. “Not if I’m to stay in business.”

“You drive a hard bargain, sir.” Soren managed a thin smile. “Sadly twenty-four is too steep for my current means. But I appreciate you taking the time.”

The shopkeeper grumbled as Soren placed the art supplies back.

Alaric’s hand clamped down on his shoulder before he could exit. Without a word, he handed twenty-five krones to the shopkeeper and bundled the equipment back into Soren’s arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Consider it a gift for better days ahead.” Alaric nodded at the sketchbook. “There’s more to this world than darkness and blood. You’re an artist. Remember that.”

Soren could only swallow past the lump in his throat. “Thank you. But this is too much.”

Alaric waved a hand. “Nonsense, it’s nothing. You deserve a bit of light after all the crap we’ve endured.”

Soren shook his head. “But these supplies aren’t cheap.”

“If you insist on repayment, how about you sketch my portrait at some point? Just make sure you get me on my good side.”

Soren laughed. “Why would anyone want a portrait of the back of their head?”

Alaric gave him a shove and grinned.

Back in their room, Soren settled onto his bed and opened the sketchbook. With a fortifying breath, he selected a stick of charcoal.

His hand hovered over the pristine parchment as he gazed about for inspiration. But nothing stirred him. The creative spark he’d known so keenly before lay buried beneath layers of brutality.

With a sigh, he slid the sketchbook aside. Alaric had meant well, but returning to artistry would not be so simple. Too much weighed on him now—the deeds committed aboard that ship, the blood on his hands, the unanswered questions about his father’s murder.

Perhaps, in time, inspiration might return. But for now, he would continue focusing his energy on the training ahead.

He lay for almost an hour, staring at nothing as Alaric dozed on the opposite bed.

Sitting up, he opened the sketchbook again and selected a stick of charcoal.

He swept it across the parchment in a quick slash.

As simple lines took form, some long-dormant part of him awoke.

After a while, Soren found himself shading the distinctive features of Nia, Isolde, Ganrel, and Jareth.

Movement next to him broke his trance.

Alaric peered over his shoulder at the portraits. “Ah, I wonder what’s become of them out there…”

“Who knows? I hope…I hope they’re still alive.”

“Yeah. Who knows what crap the Guild’s thrown at them. Maybe ours wasn’t the only Threshing.”

Together they sat in silence, staring at the page.

Soren’s hand continued sketching almost of its own will.

The hulking outline of Kierak took shape under his charcoal.

Staring at that sneering visage, the implications of what he had done aboard the ship struck him deep in the gut. Before he could stop himself, a tear splashed down, blurring the harsh lines.

He scrubbed the charcoal portrait into a grey smear. He had killed, and lost some essential piece of his own humanity.

“I see their faces too.” Alaric spoke in little more than a whisper. “Just wondering ‘what if?’”

Soren turned to see Alaric slumped on the edge of his bed, his eyes distant. “We did what we had to in the moment.”

Alaric shook his head. “And there’s no undoing what we did.”

They sat in silence for a long moment before Soren spoke. “We bear these scars together. Wounded, not broken.”

“Yeah. We’ll get through this.”

“I think Raz spoke the truth—there’s little room for sentiment here. We must accept what’s done and move forward.” Soren closed the sketchbook and set it aside. “We can’t live in the past.”