“Killing is God's work,” his mother once told him, “yet man is often the tool.” Vaskir didn’t understand the words meaning, some 10 years ago, but they had wormed their way into his mind, crystalizing into sudden wisdom the first time he killed a man. He vividly remembered the emotions of that day; he felt alien to himself, a monster in human skin. Yet there was also a relief—there was no more violence to give.

Vaskir struck out, aiming for the throat of the now visible assassin. With a speed that reminded Vaskir of Bowood, the assassin leaned back into a summersault and kicked out at Vaskir’s chin with the tip of his foot. Vaskir tucked in and shouldered the attack away. Both men recovered, staring at each other. Vaskir could hear his allies fighting behind him. A small pool of blood was forming at the assassin's feet.

‘I need to end this quick,’ Vaskir thought, shuffling forwards. Despite the wound, the assassin inched closer to meet him. Vaskir was undeterred. He flowed into a simple combination of jabs and strikes, a group of movements he had practised since the first day he picked up a sword. The black-clad assassin easily parried or dodged, but didn’t return any blows, most likely testing Vaskir’s skill. Vaskir took a half step back and reassessed. Moloch had called Vaskir a “technical fighter”. More accurately, he had shouted: “You don’t know how to turn your darn brain off, lad! No one likes a technical fighter!” Once Vaskir asked what he meant by the term, Moloch explain that there are two types of fighters in this world: technical, and instinctual. Everyone is born an instinctual fighter; you’ll cry and bat at anything that upsets you when you’re a child. Most warriors never grow out of this, they just use basic techniques to channel their inner passion and instinct into combat. These are the types of warriors that get gut instincts and take big risks. Even the most highly trained warrior, if using an instinctual base, will throw years of learned practice to the side on a whim. Technical fighters are different—their knowledge is sacred, never to be discarded easily. They keep analysing, searching, and probing until the solution presents itself. They make for cold and distant generals, yet fabulous tacticians. Vaskir was the latter, constantly learning. All his gut instincts were born off prior or gained knowledge.

They say that liars can spot liars—the same is true for technical fighters. Both men became suddenly wary after the first exchange. Vaskir studied his opponent's footing, then stance. The man was in a half-crouch, one arm extended, holding his shortsword at an off-angle, the other arm was tucked behind his back. Vaskir warily inched closer. His stance was the only one he had ever been taught: slightly lowered hips, both hands clutching the hilt, one foot slightly extended forwards. Vaskir feinted. The assassin flinched into a more defensive stance, sliding backwards simultaneously. What did this tell Vaskir? It told a story of a fighter that was aware of his injuries and hoping for a blatant mistake from Vaskir. It also opened Vaskir up to a 50/50 play. Will the assassin keep his nerve and continue to play defensive, or, strike out during Vaskir’s next attack, hoping to end the mind games? Vaskir kept his expression neutral and slowly closed in. Then lunged forward! The assassin moved forward as well, utilising his superior speed to land a killing blow. Vaskir suddenly halted his momentum, something only possible if pre-planned; he felt his thighs burn as he stopped and leaned back, lowering his shoulders in preparation to strike.

The assassin's shortsword missed by an inch, the attack, originally aimed for Vaskir’s throat, sailed passed his eyes. The black mask the assassin was wearing hid his expression well, but Vaskir could sense the look of surprise beneath. Vaskir cleaved upwards, aiming for the assassin’s armpit. The assassin moved into the blow, making it land on his stomach. Vaskir’s new strength forced his sword deeper and further than normal. Vaskir could feel, and hear, the low thud of a rib being broken. Vaskir ripped his blade out, already turning to help his friends, when something knocked him off his feet. He flew through the air and landed on the table they had been drinking at.

Vaskir groaned in pain, his shoulder had been dislocated. It felt like something was burning underneath his skin. As Vaskir turned to look at what had knocked him off his feet, he grabbed his shoulder, angled his arm, then purposefully fell back down onto the table, knocking the bone back into the socket. He gritted his teeth as he assessed what happened.

The assassin was still standing and had been the one to knock him off his feet. His arms dangled uselessly, belly cut open, head tilted back. Thick strands of blood, clustered in groups of 10 or more—writhed from his open wounds. They flailed like burning snakes, small droplets detached and coated the area, soaking into the dust. The other fights inside the Haversack had stopped, as both the assassins and his allies stared at the blood tentacles crawling out of the assassin’s body.

‘Frenzy!’ Cradow shouted at the top of his lungs. Vaskir swore and rolled off of the table. The 3 other assassins burst into motion—not at his allies, but their frenzied companion. One of the assassins, by far the largest, tackled the frenzied one. Covens flinched from behind her shield as she watched the large assassin get impaled by the blood tentacles. Pravin was the only one to keep his nerve enough to strike and managed to lame his assailant's leg as he moved away from him.

One of the assassins let out a guttural word in a language that Vaskir couldn’t pin down. The assassin with the injured leg took out a small black bag and threw it towards where Vaskir was laying underneath the table. Vaskir watched the bag sail towards him, his mind racing with all the horrible contents it could hold. A low ‘thrum’ echoed through the tavern, a sound every mercenary has heard a thousand times over: a crossbow drawstring snapping off a shot. The crossbow bolt hit the bag and carried it to the far wall. A black mist immediately exploded out, leaving a trail, where it was beginning to grow.

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‘Fucking Blackmist!’ Cradow shouted, dashing to Covens and Ken, the closest ones to the mist, and pulling them back. Vaskir got to his feet and shouted:

‘Pravin, back into the basement!’ Pravin had taken a few steps closer to the assassins, ready to attack, but pulled away and started jogging towards the basement door. Vaskir looked to where the crossbow bolt had come from and saw Lucy sprinting down the stairs towards the basement. He nodded; all his allies were accounted for. He got to his feet and cast a final glance at the assassins. They had subdued their companion and were dragging him to the door. The Blackmist spread until it covered his view. Vaskir coughed and made his way down, barring the door behind him.

‘Invisible assassins?’ Vaskir said, aiming the question at Covens.

‘Not invisible,’ she said, ‘just… presenceless.’

‘That’s not even a word,’ Cradow muttered.

‘So what, they can just turn off their existence?’ Vaskir continued. His face was flushed from the battle. An edge was forming in his tone, tired of being taken off guard by what the Ascendant world had to offer.

‘It’s aura manipulation,’ Covens said.

‘Yeah, I can do it some too,’ Cradow said, and as he spoke Vaskir got the sudden urge to ignore him—different from the usual. Vaskir nodded, tucking the knowledge away for later, then turned to Ken and Lucy.

‘You two okay? Safe and healthy?’ Vaskir asked.

‘Wha’ have you brought ta my door, lad?’ Ken asked, softly. ‘Na more than 5 pig-shiten minutes ‘ave passed but… assassins?’ He stroked Lucy’s hair, then brought her close, to his chest. He kissed the top of her head and she smiled up at him. ‘You’re a dead-eye, lass, a dead-eye.’ He looked at Vaskir. ‘Get out of my tavern, boy. Go raise new hell somewhere else; somewhere… other.’ Vaskir paused, mouth slightly agape, then nodded. His three allies looked at him, and he looked at them, each in turn. All had come away with a fresh injury.

At the thought of injury, Vaskir suddenly felt his own wound. He gingerly rubbed his shoulder. He sucked air through his teeth, then slowly exhaled, trying to master his mind.

‘We need to move,’ Pravin said, suddenly the voice of reason. ‘This fight is gonna get noticed. Hell, in this town, even muttering the word “Frenzy” is gonna get you shadowed.’ He pointed at Cradow. ‘And he screamed it at the top of his lungs. Then Blackmist, then 3 assassins dragging a frenzied man? Nah,’ he shook his head, ‘the city will be in an uproar.’ Vaskir nodded.

‘We’ll take one of the side exits,’ Vaskir said, looking at Ken, letting him know that he knew about them. Ken gave him a slight nod. ‘Then… we find a place to stay. Lay low through the uproar, attract no more attention.’

‘How the hell did they even track us?’ Cradow said. ‘The captain of daddy issues should still be on a boat, right?’

‘Unless he found an Ascendant specialized in communication,’ Covens said. ‘But they’re rare and expensive. We’re in over our head.’ Vaskir burst out laughing. Everyone turned to look at him; the laugh was loud, slightly unhinged. Pravin frowned in worry.

‘Of course we’re in over our head,’ Vaskir said. ‘I thought the exact same thing before you showed up and ruined everything!’ Covens let out a none believing laugh.

‘Before I showed up and saved your life?’ she asked.

‘At least it would have been a worthy death,’ Vaskir said. Before Covens could respond, Pravin jumped in.

‘We’re obviously thankful that you saved us,’ he said, ‘Vaskir’s just… upset, with how much more complicated everything’s gotten.’ Pravin looked at Vaskir and frowned at him—this was the first time he had seen Vaskir start an argument.

‘There are no worthy deaths,’ Cradow said. Vaskir looked at him blankly, not understanding, then shook his head (which was a mistake because it immediately ignited a headache). Vaskir groaned, closing his eyes. After a few seconds, he turned to Ken.

‘Alright, we’re leaving,’ he said. ‘Sorry about the mess.’ Ken huffed a laugh. He escorted the group away from the wine barrels and back up the stairs. The main room truly was a mess. It also smelled quite harshly of soured milk.

‘That’ll be the Blackmist,’ Cradow commented, noticing everyone’s wrinkled noses. Ken took them into a small closet and ran a knife against the wood until it hit a seam. Then, he pried a few loose wooden blocks from the wall and revealed a small hole.

‘It’ll get you into the alleyway. Don’t show your faces until you hit the trading square,’ Ken warned. Vaskir slapped Pravin on the back, directing him to go first. Pravin nodded, looking at the hole with worry. After a minute of shoving, they managed to send him through. Cradow and Covens followed soon after. Ken grabbed Vaskir’s arm as he readied himself to climb through.

‘Talk ta Slimy,’ Ken said. ‘He works out the Blackstone mine. Skinny fella, runs with the Lacers.’ Vaskir nodded.

‘Listen, Ken,’ Vaskir paused, lost for words. Finally, he sighed and restarted. ‘I missed you. And I missed Tabby. But I was a selfish bastard and—’

‘No,’ Ken said with a weight of word that only follows deep understanding. ‘You were a coward, Vaskir. You could fight, you could talk, but when it came to joining a family… coward.’ The word fell like a dead branch. Vaskir nodded. He climbed into the small hole and quickly exited into an alleyway.

‘You look bad, Vask,’ Pravin said.

‘He looks like a coward to me,’ Cradow said. Vaskir turned, glaring.

‘You have no right to listen in on private conversations,’ Vaskir said, stepping up to Cradow’s face. Cradow smiled, then laughed.

‘I didn’t hear a word you said to that tavern keep and his daughter,’ Cradow said.

‘Then why call me a coward?’ Vaskir said, still seething.

‘Never speak ill of a man or woman who has saved your life,’ Cradow said. ‘I heard you yearn for your own death when you questioned Covens life-saving actions. Those are the words of a coward.’

‘It’s been a rough day, sir,’ Vaskir said.

‘Maybe… sir,’ Cradow said. ‘Life is precious, act like it.’ Vaskir shook his head.

‘Coming from the man who leapt into the jaws of death the first time I saw him?’ Vaskir said and Pravin nodded. Cradow grinned widely; joy and pride were evident on his face.

‘And yet I’m still alive!’ Cradow said. From him, the words sounded like a mantra. The group laughed.

‘Alright,’ Vaskir said, ‘follow me.’ And he began walking towards the mine. With 3 assassins and a frenzied monster somewhere in the city, it was best not to waste any time. Vaskir’s gait slightly fumbled as he remembered that Tabbathy was somewhere out there as well. Pravin reached out and caught him. Vaskir smiled and the group continued on.