Emil

A low baritone ring blared in the distance. Coming from the clocktower overseeing Lower Dannan, it signaled the passing of another hour.

Emil slumped in his seat. There were still two hours until noon, but the meeting with the witch had already drained him of all his energy. It was same as always. Whenever he pushed back against his assignments, she would press him on his guilt, trample over his emotions, and bring up events that he wanted to forget.

At least I managed to squeeze more money out of her pockets.

Mia won’t be happy that he has to leave for another mission so soon, but what can they do? They needed Steiger’s payments to afford rent. Raz’s medicine was also becoming more expensive. Prices for everything had gone up after an abnormally weak harvest season.

He let out a heavy sigh. He wanted to go home. His time with Mia and Raz was already being cut short and he didn’t want to waste another second.

Where the hell is this damn bastard?

“Yo, Emil!”

And speak of the devil. Emil winced, hating how he immediately recognized that frivolous tone. He rolled his eyes as his accomplice for the assignment strutted to a seat across from him.

They were inside one of the private rooms of a tavern located in Upper Dannan. Like all establishments in the upper district, this place was filled with well-furnished luxuries. Emil thought it was excessive for a tavern, but at least the aged wood used on the walls and the dim candle lights gave off a tavern’s typical clandestine vibe. This particular establishment was secretly owned by Steiger and often used as a safe place for conducting meetings between agents.

“You look very excited to see me,” his accomplice said with a wicked grin. Emil fought the urge to bash him in the face. Unlike the witch, he had some winning chances against this guy.

It was Van.

“…Why does Hortensia always put us together?” Emil complained.

Van immediately began filling his glass with beer. “Don’t you know? Our pairing has the best track record in the organization. It’s only logical to use your best one-two punch for a mission with national security at risk.”

Emil narrowed his eyes. Van might have a point—if he wasn’t stretching the truth.

“I, have the best track record in the organization,” he clarified, pointing at Van, “You, are just piggybacking off of it.”

Suddenly, a glass of beer was slotted into his outstretched hands.

“Cheers!” Van exclaimed, clinking their glasses together. Emil grimaced, the bitter stench of alcohol irritating his nose.

“…Do I have to?”

Van was somehow already half-way done his glass. “Of course! Who the hell goes to a tavern and not get sloshed?!” he yelled, slamming the table.

He gave up. Once Van was in his element, there was no stopping his momentum. Emil drank, reveling in the bitterness of his situation.

He was four glasses in when the headaches began to kick in. Wincing, he reached for the plate of cakes that he ordered for himself.

“Alright! Time to begin the meeting!” Van announced as he snatched the plate of cakes out of Emil’s grasp, “A quick quiz! For every wrong answer, I will steal a cake away for myself!”

You fucking bastard. He wanted to throw Van onto the ground, but his head was beginning to spin. Van’s loud cheery voice boomed in his ears. In his inebriated state, it sounded even more grating than usual.

“First! Why is this mission so important?”

“An entire cache of Azurite is missing. It’s a stone that’s highly in demand since it unlocks an Exalted’s Gifts,” Emil said, clenching his teeth in anger. He couldn’t believe his cakes were being held hostage.

“And why is that a problem?” Van continued.

Emil rolled his eyes. “…A single Exalted by themselves could cause widespread destruction, so the distribution of Azurite is tightly regulated to make sure it doesn’t fall into wrong hands. The royal family owns the distribution rights and it leverages that power to maintain their authority.”

“Ding ding ding! Stolen Azurite is not only dangerous, but it also undermines the royal family’s power,” Van added before taking a bite of the sausage on his plate. The loud, disgusting sounds of his mouth chewing was disturbing to listen to.

“Alright, last question! Where do we think the stolen cache was taken?”

“Somewhere in Lower Dannan, likely in possession from one of the three major syndicates—Grenze, Nostra, and Aois Nua. Only they have the personnel and space to keep something that valuable hidden,” Emil answered.

“Very good! You passed!” Van exclaimed, offering the plate of cakes that he held hostage. Emil immediately swiped it from Van’s hands and devoured one of the pieces. The sweet, creamy texture of the pastry melted in his mouth. He leaned back, indulging in this fleeting moment of bliss.

“Out of the three syndicates, we can probably eliminate Grenze as a possibility,” Van said, suddenly serious.

“Why? Because I was stationed there?”

“Yes, the timing of the stolen Azurite overlapped with your undercover mission in Grenze. And Ronny, as an executive of the syndicate, would definitely have been involved if Grenze had planned the raid. As his personal body guard, there’s a fairly low chance that you could have missed this detail.”

Emil tapped his inebriated head, trying to recall anything that he might have overlooked during his three weeks in the syndicate. Blank. Nothing to came to mind.

“That just leaves Nostra and Aois Nua. And lately, both syndicates have started recruiting aggressively. This suggests that something big is brewing. Which then begs the question,” Van said, smirking as he pointed a finger at Emil, “Two syndicates. Two of us. Which one do you want?”

***

Emil ended up with Nostra.

Not that it particularly mattered—the three major syndicates all had their hands in the same trades of drugs, prostitution, and violence for hire. The only difference was the territories that they occupied in Lower Dannan.

Nostra conducted its operations in the northeastern quadrant of the slums. Its turf was the closest to the industrial district, giving it access to plenty of business from the laborers after a long day’s work.

With that in mind, Emil entered the slum’s eastern sector in the evening. He walked with a slight hunchback reminiscent of the exhausted workers, while dressed in a pair of oily overalls atop of a stained shirt tarnished by soot. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing patches of discolored skin. They were old burns caused by his Gift, but they worked well with his disguise as an apprentice blacksmith.

His destination was a dilapidated building by the area between the slums and the workshops of the industrial district.

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Emil pushed open the crumbling doors at the entrance. Right away, he was assaulted by a wave of miasma. The thick stench of alcohol and rot permeated the air. The floor beneath his soles was littered in trash, and wet with something unidentifiable.

Given the rancid smell, Emil guessed it was a hearty mixture of beer and piss. Guess I’ll have to burn these boots later. He walked in, not bothering to hide his disgust. The wooden floors creaked and groaned with each step. Van called this place a watering hole—suffice to say, Emil wasn’t amused.

It was fairly late into the night at this point, and the watering hole was sparsely occupied. Still, the few patrons in the building eyed him with burning stares as he took a seat by the dimly lit counter. They’re unusually open about their hostility. This is probably the correct place.

The barkeep arrived a few minutes later. It was a lanky man with a flashy haircut—half of his head was shaved clean, while the other half was long enough to reach his back. His face was covered in scars and warpaint.

The barkeep immediately leaned uncomfortably close to Emil’s face. Unfazed, Emil watched as the barkeep’s eyes darted about, as if scrutinizing every detail of his appearance. When he was finally satisfied, the barkeep retreated, putting on a flippant smile.

“You’re new here, aren’t youuuuu?” he said with a flamboyant tone, deliberately stretching out his words with a pompous inflection, “Do you have any idea where you are?”

Emil narrowed his eyes, pretending to be annoyed at barkeep’s pretentious attitude. “A fucking shithole. This place sells booze, does it not?” he said, choosing his words carefully as he pushed a copper coin across the table.

“It sure does,” the barkeep said as he poured ale into a wooden cup. He pushed the cup towards Emil with his slim fingers. “But I think beer isn’t the only reason why you’re here.”

He’s sharp.

Emil took a whiff of the cup’s contents. The caustic stank of malted alcohol burned his nostrils. Normal. The foam bubbling on the surface was promising enough. He took a cautious sip, trusting in his Steiger training to keep him alive from any poisons.

“Thoughts?”

“Worse than piss,” Emil said, scowling. The laborers of the industrial district were infamous for their gruff and vulgar attitudes—a symptom of the backbreaking work, long hours, and dangers of constantly being near molten flames. Emil hoped that his portrayal was convincing enough to not draw any suspicions.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the barkeep said, “So? Enlighten me. What’s your deal?” A dangerous gleam flickered his eyes. Emil sensed the patrons at the back of the watering hole stir. A faint murderous pressure was directed at his back.

“…I need cash. Quick,” he said as he set the cup down, “I heard this place was hiring.”

“I’m afraid not. Don’t you see this shabby building? I can barely afford to keep it from collapsing.”

“Not this shithole,” Emil clarified, “Your…owners. The people behind you. I heard they’re looking for men.”

The barkeep immediately narrowed his eyes. “You know of us?”

Was that too direct? Emil took another sip of the disgusting ale, trying to hide his slipping composure.

“I do.”

The barkeep’s face crept to a nasty sneer. “Then it depends,” he said. The floor suddenly creaked. “What can you offer?”

Emil immediately threw his head back. A knife’s glint flashed above his eyes, slashing the air where his neck had just been. He pushed off the stool to face his assailant. The knife came again. Slow. He lunged forward, grappling his assailant’s arm before the blade could arrive. Without mercy, he pulled.

“Ngh!” his assailant screamed as a nasty pop echoed in the air. Two more men rushed forward at the sight of their companion struggling.

Emil threw his first assailant to the floor. He stepped back and reached for his cup on the counter. One of the men charged at him with a machete in hand. Emil flicked his wrist. Beer shot out of the cup and splashed in the man’s eyes. Unable to see, the man stumbled forward yelling.

Emil raised his foot and stomped on the man’s knees. He felt a slight resistance until he heard the grotesque crunch of bone being snapped.

The last man froze after seeing his two companions fall. Emil lunged at his hesitation. He cocked his arm back and delivered a heavy punch to the man’s jaws. The blow sent him reeling to the floor—instantly unconscious.

The fight was over in less than a minute. Emil stared at the wreckage, admiring his own work. He deliberately stuck to hand-to-hand combat. Revealing himself as an Exalted would immediately destroy his cover.

He heard the barkeep whistle in admiration. Without a word, the barkeep walked to the side of the counter and reached for a wooden tube hidden below.

“Baer, there’s a candidate I like you to meet. He just destroyed three of your men without breaking a sweat,” the barkeep said. Emil realized he was talking into a voice pipe.

***

There was a hidden door on the other side of the counter that led to the basement of the watering hole. Emil climbed down the winding stairway, strong with a dank earthly smell. Eventually he reached the bottom, finding himself face-to-face with a wooden door that was slightly ajar.

Over the years, he made an interesting observation. The elites of the ruling class seemed to love residing on the highest levels of their estate, while the important members of the syndicates preferred to scurry along in the lowest floors instead.

If that pattern holds, then whoever’s in here must be a bigshot.

He entered the dimly lit room. The miasma of beer and piss on the ground level disappeared, replaced by a fragrant earthy scent. Scotch? It was the same smell that permeated Ronny’s office during his time in Grenze.

But instead of Ronny, Emil was greeted by a tall, brawny man. A fur coat adorned his shoulders, draped over his bare chest. In the room with him were a group of his henchmen. Each of them had a black mask painted with large gnashing teeth covering the lower half of their face. A pair of machetes was latched onto the straps on their hips.

“Baer,” the brawny man introduced himself as he approached with a wicked smile and an outstretched hand. Emil received it. Immediately, he could feel Baer squeezing down on his hands.

“Miles,” Emil gave his alias while also tightening his grip.

“Caiside spoke highly of you. I see that he had a point.” Baer smirked as he loosened his grip. Caiside? Is that the name of the barkeep? “So Miles, do you know who we are?”

“You’re Nostra. One of the three big syndicates.”

“And how did you know to find this place?” Baer asked, feigning nonchalance.

He’s testing me.

“Rumors. I used to be a resident of the slums. I got out. But I kept contact with a few people still living here,” Emil answered. Nothing he said was a lie.

“And yet, here you are. Back in the doghouse again. Why?”

“Money,” he said without hesitation, “I have debts to pay. Family members to feed. The jobs of the industrial district don’t pay enough.” He let his voice quiver with desperation. The syndicates tend to lower their guards once they have something that they could control you with. Now they know he was desperate for cash.

“It’s true. Life is getting tougher around here thanks to the poor harvest. You have my complete sympathy,” Baer said. Suddenly, his demeanor changed. His eyes went wild, sharpened with a savage glint. “But why should I trust you?” he hissed, “You’re just a random dude who showed up out of nowhere and thrashed three of our guys.”

Baer snapped his fingers. His henchmen instantly spurred into action. Startled, Emil immediately fell into a fighting stance. Instead of a battle, however, he found a small wooden table with a string and a machete placed before him.

“…What is this?” he asked, not daring to drop his guard.

“Show me your conviction,” Baer said, beckoning at his left pinky finger with a cutting motion, “Show me that I can trust you.”

Emil stared at the machete in disbelief. He wants me to cut it off?

“…You’re serious?” He narrowed his eyes, suddenly feeling the sweat on his neck. Baer flashed him a wicked sneer.

“Very.”

Fuck.

All eyes in the room were on him. Emil could feel their taunting gazes and the nasty smiles hidden beneath their masks. Damn sadists. Grenze never had this sort of insane initiation ritual, so why the hell was Nostra like this?

Emil clenched his teeth, cursing his own ignorance.

Not wanting to feign weakness, he slowly tied the string around his left pinky until it was taut and etched sharply into his skin. His finger was already growing numb.

I can still escape. He could easily fight his way out of here. If it got too precarious, he always had his Gift if absolutely necessary. His mission, however, would be instantly forfeit.

The witch’s words echoed in his head. “…Know that your bedridden friend’s death was on your hands.”

Raz’s medicine was on the line. If he failed here, he would not get a second chance.

Emil grabbed the machete. The weight of the cleaver felt strangely light in his hands.

It’s just a finger. It’s not like he was cutting off his entire hand. He would still be able to use his left. It wouldn’t be debilitating—in fact, he doubted it would even affect him.

He raised the machete. He squeezed tight against the handle. His right hand was shaking, drenched in sweat. He swallowed. His heart bellowed in his ears.

Come on! Suddenly, he pictured Raz, shrieking in the middle of the night, reliving the terrors of that incident. He imagined Mia, whisked away, forced to sell her body to disgusting strangers on the streets to make ends meet.

It’s just a finger!

Emil screamed. He willed himself to comply. The machete finally descended.

“Stop!”

Squelch!

Blood sprayed. Emil felt a strong hand holding his wrist. It was Baer.

“You’re one crazy bastard,” Baer remarked in delight, “I couldn’t even stop you in time.”

Baer had pushed his arm at the last second, altering the trajectory of the machete’s descent. Instead, it grazed the side of his little finger, ripping off a small chunk of flesh. The finger was mangled and bleeding, but it remained intact. Functional.

“Get Miles first aid!” Baer called out. His henchmen moved immediately. Emil glanced at their hands, noticing that none of them had their pinkies removed. “This was supposed to be a harmless test, but you were stronger than I expected. Amazing. You’ve showed me your conviction,” Baer said as he took out an expensive-looking bottle from a nearby cellar. He set aside two cups on the table and popped the cork open.

“Your injury is unfortunate, but this is a good opportunity.” He cut a slit into his palms with the edge of the machete. Blood dripped, flowing into the bottle of scotch. Emil followed suit, hovering his mangled finger over the bottle. Blood oozed—his heart still racing from the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Satisfied, Baer poured both of them a cup.

“Cheers, Miles. And welcome to Nostra.”

Emil downed it in one gulp. The ferric accent was unpleasantly bitter.