Even after years of conning the elderly, Dalthan hadn’t figured out why they tended to collect expensive things only to then leave them strewn across their houses. The wealthy of Wavecrest were certainly egregious offenders of this particular sin. You could find valuable pieces of art hanging from the walls if you walked down a hallway or stepped into the right bedroom. The only thing securing the treasures were usually a bit of twine and a rusty nail.

The opulence didn’t stop there. Often the kitchens were stocked with enough silver to smelt a bag of coins. Decorative rugs that would fetch a small fortune were cast pointlessly across the floor. For people to walk on. It was like piling up a mound of gold in your living room and watching people stomp on it.

It was like they’d been begging for someone to stroll in and help themselves. So, of course, the [Rogue] had spent his days doing exactly that. When he wasn’t talking the rich out of their fortunes, he was repossessing it from their not-so-humble abodes. There was no reason the aristocracy couldn’t eat with steel utensils like everyone else. Nor did they need a painting hanging in their hallway that was worth more than five years' rent in a Low Town hovel.

No one had ever thanked him for it, but he’d been doing the city a favor. Truthfully, the pittance he managed to earn from his wealth redistribution was merely a secondary benefit of the fulfillment of civil service. It was basically volunteer work, considering he barely made enough to rent out his penthouse suite and afford the lobster dinners at the Bistro. But it wasn’t about the money. It was about giving back to the community. If those good deeds also managed to put clothes on his back and food in his stomach, so much the better.

They were good deeds. He was convinced of that. Regardless of what this ridiculous character sheet claims.

He did have to remind himself of his impeccable virtue to keep his twitching hand from snatching the fist-sized emerald that was laying, obviously forgotten, upon a nearby table.

The egg-shaped emerald was only one of the numerous sights that attracted his gaze. The large room, far more spacious than the house had looked on the outside, was filled with knick-knacks and baubles. Some seemed to be little more than twisted sticks or painted stones, while others were shaped from precious metals or inlaid with twinkling gemstones.

The entire room was lit by the flickering light of dozens upon dozens of candles set into crude iron candelabras. An ancient and rotting bookcase sat against the right-hand wall. The presence of spiderwebs stretched across several of the mildewed volumes suggested that Agadeem was not much of a reader. The left wall was lined with oak shelves that were filled with transparent jars stuffed with what, Dalthan assumed, were cooking ingredients. Though why anyone would have a spice rack so extensive, he did not know. He supposed that once someone reached a certain age, they embraced their hobbies.

As past times go, cooking struck him as harmless enough.

The massive fireplace set into the far wall reaffirmed his belief that Agadeem was an aspiring chef. A crude metal cauldron that looked large enough to serve as the elderly woman’s bathtub was suspended over a merrily crackling fire. Large windows flanked the fireplace on either side, offering a glimpse of the dark, foggy landscape beyond. The light of a full moon gave the entire scene an eerie, ephemeral glow.

Dalthan didn’t remember seeing any fog on their way here. And it most certainly hadn’t been dark. He was a heartbeat away from asking about the oddity when his elderly host spoke first.

“Have a seat!” Agadeem's green dress hung loosely from her stooped figure, its hem brushing against the floor as she moved toward a table set in the center of the room. Dalthan’s path across the room just happened to take him within arm’s reach of the glittering emerald he’d had his eye on. “It’s been far too long since Little Belly has come to visit. How long has it been, girl?”

“It hasn’t been that long, Aunt Aga. You know Ancev keeps me busy.” Belial’s voice was carefully measured, holding a note that Dal couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t until her velveteen voice rose into the air again that he recognized it for what it was. Respect. “I’m here now because he sent me to fetch Dalthan.”

Dalthan was carefully settling the emerald into his pocket while the two women took their seats. Their brief exchange had given Dal the chance to quickly scan the room for any other treasure in need of liberating. What did this old woman need money for, anyway? More oregano for her culinary experiments? A set of mage globes to replace all these candles?

She would probably break her hip on a shopping trip. The easiest way to keep her safe was to spare her the burden of too much money.

Strangely, despite the numerous tiny tables and rickety racks scattered across the floor, Dalthan’s green eyes didn’t find any easily liquidated items. Instead, he began to notice the inordinate number of stuffed creatures that populated the large room. Ranging in size from as small as a mouse to as large as a bear, he wasn’t entirely sure how they’d managed to escape his notice. What’s more, a trick of the light made him feel as if the entire dead menagerie were watching him.

Perhaps the jars along the wall were filled with taxidermy supplies instead of spices?

It would explain the lack of cookware. Dalthan was no chef, but he doubted that there was a large catalog of recipes that used only a single cauldron.

Satisfied that he’d solved the mystery, Dal slid into the empty chair beside Belial. On a whim, he did something that he was trying to get into the habit of doing. He identified his host.

The [Dusk Hag Witch-Queen] glanced from Belial to Dalthan and then back to the drow again. “Wait,” Agadeem said, her voice little more than a dry croak. “Are you telling me that the numbskull in charge sent you to chaperone him?”

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

Dalthan didn’t much care for the incredulous tone in the old woman’s voice. That didn’t stop him from lifting a hand to offer her a polite wave. “I haven’t met Belial’s boss yet. Do you have any idea why he would be interested in me? Aside from the obvious, of course. I’ll be quite disappointed if they’re only interested in me as a bit of eye candy to pretty the place up.”

The [Rogue], once more, found himself the subject of Agadeem’s scrutiny. Unlike last time, Dalthan forced himself to turn his gaze away from her captivating golden eyes. He noted her hooked nose and the strands of her black, oily hair. Her thin lips were pursed in concentration as if he were a puzzle she was struggling to solve. All the while her eyes pulled at him like a fisherman’s lure reeling in a stubborn catch.

Dal felt heat blossom behind his eye as his ears suddenly pounded with the quickening pulse of his heartbeat.

“Aga stop!” Belial’s voice hiss through the air like the sizzle of a branding iron pressed against bare flesh.

The [Rogue] was distantly aware of a different sort of heat splashing against his skin. The entire room seemed to grow bright as if a caged sun had been dropped in the middle of the chamber. Dathan desperately wanted to see what was happening, but somehow, he knew if he let his eyes move, they’d be drawn straight into the churning golden depths of the [Witch-Queen]’s gaze.

She’d made him do as she wished when she’d asked his name. He would not allow her to control him again. Even as his vision began to darken, he refused to give in to the impulse to meet her gaze.

“Bah!” The old crone muttered, throwing her skeletal hands up in the air in disgust.

The effect on Dalthan was immediate. He rocked back as if she’d slapped him, the crudely carved chair he sat in creaking ominously as he did. His vision swam back into focus, giving him a glimpse of a furious Belial and an unapologetic-looking Agadeem.

He was still catching his breath when his tongue caught a familiar coppery taste clinging to his lips. An experimental touch of his fingertips found a small trickle of blood leaking from his nose.

“If I get blood stains on my new outfit, you’re buying me another.” Dalthan grumbled, finally breaking the tense silence that had fallen across the room.

“I don’t think you’re man enough to make me do anything, dearie.” Agadeem said, her lips drawing back to expose a nearly toothless smile that was anything but friendly.

Dal frowned as he accepted a handkerchief from Belial. He had no idea where she could have possibly kept one in that form-fitting dress of hers, but he was too busy trying to save his clothes to question its providence. “I don’t believe that ‘thinking’ is your strong suit, you senile old crone.”

To Dal’s surprise, the old woman cackled heartily.

“What was that all about, Aunt Aga?” Belial was seething in the seat beside him. The dark elf’s ruby eyes blazed with an intensity to rival the [Witch-Queen]’s. “You were hurting him. I didn’t bring him here just so you could break him. Imagine what Ancev would do to me if you had!”

Dalthan leaned back, giving the beautiful dark elf a side-long look. “Well, it’s nice to know you care, Belial. That’s probably the most touching thing anyone has said to me since I got here.”

“Incidentally,” Dal deadpanned, “that is a low bar.”

“Hey.” Belial rounded on him with an expression that immediately made him flinch. “Don’t snap at me because the old woman gave you a bloody nose. Let’s focus on her, shall we?”

The [Rogue] nodded glumly before turning his attention back to the witch who seemed completely content to let the two bicker amongst themselves.

“So, you want to tell us what that was all about?” Belial was carefully modulating her voice again.

The witch rolled her eyes. “Oh, grow up. He isn’t hurt. Much.” The old woman rose to her feet with the aid of the table and the gnarled wooden stick she’d kept by her side. “I needed to know what he did before he got here. If he caught Ancev’s attention, he could be dangerous for you to be around, Little Belly.”

The woman turned and began hobbling her way toward the simmering cauldron. “Unfortunately, he resisted my domination. Somehow. What race did you say you were, boy?”

Dal dabbed at his nose while the witch busied herself at a shelf next to the fireplace. “I didn’t,” the rogue said. “But, if it matters, I’m human.”

“Demi,” Belial corrected. When Dalthan shot her a scandalized look, the dark elf merely lifted her shoulders in an artfully provocative shrug that made it impossible for him to hold a grudge.

“That’s a mistake,” Dalthan muttered.

The hag turned toward him and brandished a ladle like a fencer waving an epee. “They don’t make mistakes on the character sheet, boy. That’d bring the whole system down. If it says it on the sheet, then it’s true.”

“But that’s impossible,” Dal replied mulishly. “My mother had a family in Low Town. She certainly didn’t have any elven blood.”

“And your father?” The witch asked as she scooped up a ladle of the cauldron’s contents to pour into the earthenware bowl she’d found on the nearby shelf.

Dalthan scoffed. “He was a fuck up, but he was a human fuck-up. I’m telling you, there’s some kind of mistake. Accidents happen. Why don’t we just go talk to this Ancev guy and tell him to fix it.”

Belial looked aghast at the way the rogue casually invoked a potential world-ending evil like Ancev. “I don’t think that conversation is going to go the way you want it to, Dalthan.” The drow woman said with a shake of her head.

“Little Belly is right,” the witch said with a decisive nod. She hobbled her way back across the room with some kind of stew sloshing over the side of the bowl in her hand. When she reached the table, she set the bowl of murky fluid in the center before taking her seat with a soft groan.

“That pompous dust cloud isn’t going to admit he’s wrong. Even if he is. So that leaves us just one more option.” The witch queen’s hand moved in a blur, snatching the bloody handkerchief from where Dalthan had left it on the corner of the table. The thief barely had time to offer a wordless squawk of protest before the crone tossed it into the earthenware bowl.

As soon as the fabric touched the liquid, black flames erupted across the cloth. In the space between two heartbeats, it disintegrated into ash.

“Now,” the [Witch-Queen] murmured, “let us see the truth of young Dalthan’s blood.”

As one, the three figures gathered around the table leaned closer to see the secrets for themselves.