After breakfast the next morning, a male attendant ushered Soren and Alaric from the dining hall. “Come. You’re expected.”

As they neared the main entrance, a familiar figure caught Soren’s eye. “Master Kurgan?”

The silhouette paused at the threshold, framed by the doorway.

“Master Kurgan!” Soren called out, quickening his pace.

The attendant blocked his path, spreading his arms wide. “Keep moving. You’re expected elsewhere.”

“But that’s my old master. I need to speak with him.”

“I said, keep moving.”

Soren watched as the figure disappeared into the bustling street beyond.

Alaric sidled up next to him. “I don’t think that was Kurgan.”

Soren frowned. “Are you sure? I could have sworn…”

“Come on.” Alaric nudged him forward. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

They followed the attendant down a flight of steps, the air growing cooler and damper. At the bottom, the attendant opened a door. “Welcome to the Vault.”

He gestured them inside and the door closed behind Soren and Alaric, leaving them alone.

Soren’s eyes widened as he took in the cavernous chamber.

Weapons hung from racks—swords, daggers, and bows. Rows of shelves stretched into shadowy recesses, laden with an assortment of jars and bottles.

The musty scent of old parchment mingled with the sharp tang of metal and leather. Soren’s fingers itched to explore, to touch and examine every object.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

Soren started at the familiar voice. He turned to see Raz emerging from between two towering bookshelves, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“Master Raz.” Soren bowed his head.

Alaric looked around. “What is this place?”

“The Vault will be where you conduct the next phase of your training.”

Alaric crossed his arms. “Why us? We’ve barely begun our training. What about all the others still at the fortress?”

Raz’s smile widened. “You were being assessed, not trained. You were chosen for the Threshing for a reason.”

Alaric scoffed. “Yeah, because we’re the worst of the lot.”

Raz shook his head. “On the contrary. All students go through the Threshing when the masters have uncovered their talents.”

Soren’s brow furrowed. “Our talents? What do you mean?”

Raz’s eyes glinted in the lamplight. “You both possess qualities the Guild finds intriguing.”

“So, we were the best?” Alaric asked.

Raz shook his head. “No.”

“So, we were the worst?”

“No.”

Alaric turned to Soren. “I’m so confused.”

Soren opened his mouth to press further, but Raz was already moving on, beckoning them to follow.

“Come. Let me show you some of the tools of our trade.”

Soren followed Raz through the labyrinth of shelves, his eyes boring into Raz’s back.

A familiar twinge flared in his chest as his father’s killer moved with such casual grace.

Yet, the burning desire for vengeance that had once consumed him had dulled to a low simmer.

Raz may have wielded the blade, but he wasn’t the true architect of his father’s death.

He was certain the real answers lay hidden somewhere within the Guild, perhaps within the Vault.

Soren swallowed his resentment, forcing himself to focus on the present. He needed to bide his time, to learn, to climb the ranks. Only then might he uncover the truth he sought.

As Raz paused before a rack of peculiar devices—traps and mechanisms of intricate design—Soren steeled his resolve.

He would play the dutiful initiate, for now. He would learn everything Raz had to teach. And someday, he hoped, all of this would lead him to the answers he craved.

“A contractor must be prepared for any situation.” Raz lifted a small metal contraption from its stand. “This, for instance, is a lock pick of my own design. It can defeat even the most complex tumblers in a matter of seconds.”

He replaced the device and moved on to a shelf holding an assortment of vials and powders. “Poisons, of course, are a staple of our craft. But equally important are their antidotes.” He tapped one of the jars and a black bug through itself against the glass. “You’ll become intimately familiar with both.”

Soren’s gaze lingered on the creature as they continued their tour.

Raz led them to a table strewn with maps and documents. He lifted a brass monocular, offering it to Soren. “For surveillance from a distance. Essential for gathering intelligence on your target.”

Soren peered through the eyepiece, marvelling at the clarity of the magnified view.

“And here.” Raz spread out a sheaf of papers. “We have shipping schedules, trade routes, and detailed maps of the major towns and cities across Wiete. Knowing your target’s movements is half the battle.”

He pulled out several leather-bound ledgers. “Genealogies, financial records, and other such documents are invaluable for understanding your target. Knowledge is power in our line of work.”

Soren’s head spun with the wealth of information laid out before him.

Raz clapped his hands. “Now then, I believe it’s time we outfitted you properly.”

He strode to a closet and threw open its doors, revealing rows of neatly hung garments. He withdrew two sets of clothing—grey hooded tunics and leggings.

“Your attire.” He handed a set to each of them. “Go on, try them on.”

Soren unfolded the tunic, surprised by its weight. The fabric was soft but sturdy, with a silk lining that felt cool against his skin. As he slipped it over his head, he noticed areas of increased thickness around the chest and stomach.

“Wyvern scales,” Raz said. “Sewn into the lining. Light but remarkably effective as armour.”

Alaric let out a low whistle as he examined his own tunic. “Look at all these pockets! I’d have killed for something like this on the ships.”

Soren cinched the tunic’s belt. The hood cast his face in shadow without impeding his vision.

“How does it feel?” Raz asked, circling them with an appraising eye.

Soren flexed his arms, testing his range of motion. Despite the added weight of the wyvern scales, the tunic allowed for fluid movement. “It’s perfect.”

Raz nodded. “These tunics are more than mere clothing.” He gestured for them to approach a table, upon which lay an assortment of small objects—lockpicks, vials, thin blades, and other tools of the assassin’s trade. He lifted one of the grey tunics. “Think of it as a mobile arsenal, designed to conceal a variety of tools and weapons.” He ran his fingers along the tunic’s seams, revealing hidden pockets and compartments. “Observe.”

With deft movements, Raz began tucking various items into the tunic’s concealed spaces.

A set of lockpicks disappeared into a slim pocket along the sleeve.

Vials of unknown substances found homes in reinforced pouches near the waist.

Stilettos slid into sheaths built into the lining.

“The key is to distribute the weight evenly.” Raz adjusted the placement of a small grappling hook. “You must be able to move naturally, without betraying your presence, or the presence of your tools.”

Soren watched as the tunic seemed to swallow up item after item without any noticeable change in its silhouette.

Alaric shook his head. “But won’t grey stand out? I thought assassins were all about blending in. Surely black would be better?”

Raz chuckled. “A common misconception. True stealth isn’t about not being seen—it’s about not being noticed.” He tapped his temple. “The human mind is remarkably adept at overlooking the mundane. Dressed like this, you’ll be virtually invisible in plain sight.”

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Soren considered this. “I see. We become part of the scenery.”

“Precisely. You’re catching on quickly.”

Alaric fidgeted with one of his many pockets. “So, what now? Do we start learning all those fancy poisons and lockpicking tricks?”

Raz’s expression turned serious. “In due time. For now, I want you both to familiarise yourselves with the Vault. Study the maps, examine the tools, read the texts. Knowledge is the foundation upon which all else is built.” He gestured towards the rows of bookshelves. “You’ll find treatises on history, politics, anatomy, and a hundred other subjects. I expect you to become well-versed in all of them.”

Soren’s eyes widened at the sheer volume of information before them. “How long do we have?”

“As long as it takes. But I wouldn’t dawdle. The Guild doesn’t suffer idle hands.” Raz turned on his heel and strode towards the exit. “I’ll return later to check on your progress. Don’t disappoint me.”

The heavy door closed behind him, leaving Soren and Alaric alone in the cavernous Vault.

Alaric let out a long whistle. “Well, this ought to be fun.”

Soren ran his fingers along the spine of a nearby book. “It’s…overwhelming.”

“You can say that again.” Alaric wandered over to a weapons rack, lifting a curved dagger from its stand. “Where do we even start?”

Soren’s gaze swept across the Vault, taking in the dizzying array of objects and texts. “We start at the beginning.” He plucked a tome on basic anatomy from the nearest shelf. “And we work our way up.”

Alaric grinned, replacing the dagger. “Right you are. Though I might need your help with some of the big words.”

Soren smiled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “We’ll muddle through, as always.”

He settled at a large desk and pored over the anatomy text, his sculptor’s eye appreciating the intricate diagrams of muscles and bones.

He traced the lines of tendons and ligaments, marvelling at the complex interplay of systems that made up the human form.

Yet as he studied, his gaze shifted, focusing instead on cataloguing the body’s vulnerable points, imagining how a well-placed blade could sever a crucial artery, or paralyse a limb.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it? The human body is like a work of art, each part perfectly designed for its function. But it’s also fragile, delicate.”

Alaric glanced up from his own book. “Sounds like you’re mixing your old craft with the new.”

Soren nodded. “There’s an artistry to it, in a way. The sculptor shapes stone to create beauty. The assassin…well, I guess we shape flesh and bone to create…” He fell silent. After a moment, he shook his head, not wanting to dwell on that line of thought. “What do you make of what Raz said about the Threshing? About us being chosen for our talents?”

Alaric frowned. “I don’t know what to think. We were told we were the worst, that the Threshing was punishment. Now they’re saying it was because we’re special? It doesn’t add up.”

“I know. Why lie to us in the first place? What purpose did that serve?”

“To see how we’d react under pressure, whether we had it in us to kill.”

“Possibly. But it makes me wonder what else they might be lying about. Can we trust anything they tell us?”

“For all we know, this whole Guild could be built on lies. Maybe everything Raz just said to us is a lie. Maybe the Threshing was what we were originally told, maybe it wasn’t. I don’t think it actually matters though. The Threshing, the training, all of it—they’re just ways to break us down and rebuild us into what they want.”

Soren glanced around the Vault. “We probably shouldn’t discuss this here. We never know who might be listening. There could be ears in the very walls.”

“I’m sure there’s all sorts of body parts in the walls…and under the floor.”

“You know what I mean.”

Alaric nodded. “You’re right. We need to be more careful.”

They lapsed into silence as they returned to their studies.

Hours slipped by as Soren and Alaric immersed themselves in the wealth of knowledge contained within the Vault.

Soren found himself engrossed in a comprehensive treatise on poisons, his mind reeling at the sheer variety of deadly substances detailed within its pages.

“Listen to this,” Soren said, breaking the silence. “There’s a poison here derived from a rare sea creature that causes temporary paralysis from the neck down, but leaves the victim fully conscious, still able to feel pain. They’d be aware of everything happening around them, unable to move or speak.”

Alaric looked up, his lip curling. “That’s terrifying. Imagine being trapped in your own body like that.”

Soren nodded. “The book says it was once used by pirates to interrogate captives. They could torture them for information without fear of them escaping or fighting back.”

“Brutal. But I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it? We’re not exactly training to be healers here.”

Soren turned back to the book, his finger tracing a diagram of the creature. “It’s strange. Part of me is repulsed by all this, but another part...it’s like solving a puzzle. Understanding how these substances work, how they interact with the body, with each other. It’s fascinating in its own way.”

Alaric gestured to the map spread out before him. “Speaking of pirates, come look at this.” He pointed to a detailed chart of ocean currents. “With information like this, you could predict a ship’s course days in advance.”

Soren leaned over to examine the map. “And combined with those shipping schedules—”

“You could intercept any vessel, anywhere in the world. It’s not just about the physical skills, is it?”

“I’m starting to see why all this is here. The more we know, the more options we have, the more effective we can be.”

As the day wore on, Soren felt his mind expanding, filling with new knowledge and possibilities. The brutality of the Threshing seemed a distant memory in the face of this intellectual challenge.

He found himself making connections between disparate fields of study, seeing how knowledge of anatomy could inform the use of poisons, or how understanding architecture could enhance surveillance techniques.

The creak of the door startled him. He looked up to see Raz entering.

“Well now.” Raz surveyed the open books and unrolled maps. “I see you’ve been busy.”

Soren straightened. “Time got away from us, I’m afraid.”

Raz waved a hand. “No need to apologise. Curiosity and a thirst for knowledge are virtues in our line of work.” He peered at the open texts. “Poisons and navigation, eh? Interesting choices.”

Alaric shrugged. “Seemed as good a place to start as any.”

“Indeed.” Raz nodded. “And have you found anything of particular interest?”

“The complexity of it all,” Soren said. “I never realised how much... preparation goes into being an assassin.”

“A contractor.” Raz’s eyes glinted. “Many assume our craft is all about the kill. But the true art lies in the planning, the research, the careful orchestration of events.” He moved to stand behind them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “You’ve taken your first steps into a larger world, but I have no doubt you’ll rise to the challenge.”

Soren dipped his head. “Thank you.”

“I think that’s enough study for one day. Return to your quarters and rest. We’ll reconvene here at dawn.”

As twilight settled over Welttor, Soren sat cross-legged on his bed, a stub of candle casting flickering light across the pages of his sketchbook, charcoal sweeping across the parchment in confident strokes.

Images from the anatomy book danced in his mind, informing each line and curve as he sketched.

He found himself applying the newfound knowledge to his art, noting how the underlying structure of muscles and bones gave form to the human figure.

A familiar face began to emerge from the page—the weathered features of Master Kurgan taking shape beneath his fingers.

He added depth to the eyes, capturing Kurgan’s stern gaze. The strong jaw, the creased brow, the slight downturn of the mouth.

Where once he might have focused solely on capturing Kurgan’s likeness, now he found himself noting vulnerable points—the carotid artery along the neck, the delicate bones of the eye socket.

Was this what it meant to become an assassin? To see every face as a potential target, every body as a collection of weaknesses to be exploited?

From his own bed, Alaric rolled onto his side, peering at Soren’s work. “What are you drawing? You’ve been at it for ages.”

Soren hesitated for a moment, then turned the sketchbook to show Alaric. “Master Kurgan.”

Alaric’s eyebrows rose. “Blimey, that’s good. It’s like he’s staring right at me.” He squinted at the drawing. “Though I don’t remember the veins on his neck looking quite so…pronounced.”

Soren glanced back at the sketch and shifted his weight. “Just trying to apply some of what we learned today.”

Alaric nodded. “Mixing business with pleasure, eh?”

“Something like that.” Soren studied the drawing. “I can’t stop thinking about this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know it was him I saw leaving the Guild. But what was he doing here?”

Alaric sighed, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “Soren, we’ve been over this. It wasn’t him.”

“How can you be so sure? I’d recognise Kurgan’s gait anywhere. The way he holds himself, the slight limp from that old injury—it was him, I’m certain of it.”

“His gait?” Alaric shook his head. “The bloke had his back to us. And we were being hustled along by that bloody attendant. You barely got a glimpse.”

Soren’s jaw tightened. “I know what I saw, Alaric. Years of studying under Kurgan, watching him move around the workshop. It was him.”

“Look.” Alaric’s tone softened. “I get why you want it to be him. A familiar face, a connection to your old life. But Welttor’s a big city. There’s probably loads of people who walk like that. Old men with bad backs, former soldiers with war wounds—any number of explanations that don’t involve your old master showing up halfway down the country at the headquarters of an assassins’ guild.”

Soren frowned. “But if it was him, don’t you think that’s important? What business would a sculptor have with the Guild?”

Alaric swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaning forward. “And what if it was him? What then? You heard what Raz said about discretion. We’re initiates now, Soren. We can’t go sticking our noses where they don’t belong.”

“So, we just ignore it?”

“That’s exactly what we do. You’ll drive yourself mad trying to guess at things that aren’t real. It’s best to just forget about it and focus on our training.”

Soren opened his mouth to argue further, but the look in Alaric’s eyes made him pause. With a sigh, he closed his sketchbook. “Maybe you’re right. It’s just hard to let go of the past sometimes, you know?”

“I know. But we’re here now, for better or worse. We’ve got to make the best of it. It doesn’t make sense him coming all this way.”

“Maybe he’s looking for me.”

“Maybe. Or more likely, it wasn’t him.”

Soren let out a long sigh. “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense. I must have been seeing things.”

“Exactly.” Alaric stretched back out on his bed. “You know, being an initiate is way better than being a recruit. More relaxing, isn’t it?”

Soren nodded. “It has been nice to have time to create again. And I have to admit, today’s study was a welcome change from the brutality of the fortress.”

Alaric grinned. “No one trying to bash our heads in or have us run over stupid obstacles. Just books and maps. And those tunics! I still can’t get over all those hidden pockets.”

“The intellectual challenge is stimulating, in a way I didn’t expect. All that knowledge, just waiting to be uncovered. It’s almost exciting.”

Alaric propped himself up on one elbow. “See? That’s the spirit. Focus on the positives. We’re learning things most people never even dream of. And we’re doing it in relative comfort, I might add. No more freezing our backsides off in drafty barracks.”

Soren chuckled. “I suppose you have a point there. Though I’m not sure I’d call these beds the height of luxury.”

“Compared to what we’ve been sleeping on? They might as well be stuffed with eiderdown and unicorn hair.”

“Still, we shouldn’t get too complacent. This is the Guild, after all. You saw those weapons in the Vault. The poisons, the traps, all of it. We’re not here for a scholarly retreat. We’re being trained to kill.”

Alaric’s smile faded. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Easy to forget what we’re really here for.”

“We need to stay ready, keep our guard up. For all we know, this could be just another test. See how we handle a bit of comfort, if we let our skills slip.”

“You really think they’d do that?”

“After everything we’ve been through? I wouldn’t put anything past them.” Soren ran a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling very tired. “We can enjoy the reprieve, but we can’t forget why we’re here or what’s at stake.”

“Do you ever wonder if we made the right choice? Joining the Guild, I mean.”

Soren’s gaze drifted to the window, to the darkness beyond. “I’m not sure we ever really had a choice.”

“I know, but sometimes I think about home, about the life we left behind. Maybe we should have just…I don’t know. Found some other way.”

Soren turned back to his friend. “And what would that other way have been? My father was murdered, Alaric. Your future on the ships was gone. We came here for answers. We can’t lose sight of that, no matter how comfortable things might seem right now.”

Alaric nodded. “You’re right. It’s just hard sometimes, isn’t it? Knowing what we’re becoming.”

“It is. But we’re in this together, remember? Whatever happens, whatever they throw at us, we’ve got each other’s backs.”

“Always.”

Soren managed a small smile. “Now, we should probably get some rest. Who knows what Raz has in store for us tomorrow?”

“Probably something horrible and painful, knowing our luck.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Soren set his sketchbook aside and blew out the candle, darkness settling over the room.

He lay back, staring at the ceiling, his mind still churning.

Despite Alaric’s reassurances, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen Kurgan.

And if it was his old master, what did that mean?