Grim was comfortable. The fire warmed his bones, his mug was full, and the bar was nearly empty, which was how he preferred it. Crowded rooms made him anxious and he left the luxury of the inner city to escape his problems, not to add to them. Alcohol helped to forget. The night was late and his vision blurred from the booze. The walls were made of ramshackle boards claimed from the rubbish heaps of the inner city, the floor was dirt, and the ale tasted like piss. Grim rarely felt more at ease. In the back of his mind, he dreaded going home. He could already see the judgment in his father’s eyes. He took another drink.

The family who owned The Dancing Bear ate the leftovers of the day’s food. The girl couldn’t have been more than thirteen and looked pretty, if a little skinny. The mother was attractive enough that he might have tried his luck with her, were he in a better condition. At the moment, he couldn’t think straight, let alone be charming.

Besides, he’d rather not piss off the father. Even looking at the man-made Grim nervous. He was thickly built, and scars covered every inch of his body. An indentation marred his left cheek where the bones snapped and never healed right. It gave his face a lopsided look, forcing his lips into a grimace. Grim had noted that he was missing the middle finger of his right hand. The Venarans had often cut the fingers off captured archers in the last war.

“Fucking Greencloaks.” Grim took another drink.

Despite the father’s rough exterior, the family seemed happy and the sight made Grim’s heart ache. He frowned into his empty mug. Last call had long since passed and that was all the comfort he would receive tonight. He felt numb.

“Hello!”

Grim jumped at the voice and looked over to see the girl standing about a pace away, looking up at him with curious eyes.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “You’re Grim Thorne, aren’t you?”

He could feel her staring at his scar. Grim self-consciously rubbed at the brand on his throat, an elongated X-shaped disfigurement that ran the length of the right side of his neck, stopping just below his jawline. It marked where he had been branded a bastard. The memory of searing hot iron and the smell of charred flesh made his skin crawl.

He forced a smile to his face “Never heard of him. With the last name of Thorne that guy must be a real prick,” he slurred, trying to take a drink from his mug and reliving his earlier disappointment.

She smirked, “That’s what my mom said.” Grim narrowed his eyes as she kept talking “I’m Melissa Elania Haverson. But my friends call me Lissa. You can too if you want.”

Grim smiled. “Well, Lissa Elania Haverson, what can I do for you?”

The girl beamed when he called her Lissa. “Well, Sir, my mom said I couldn’t bother you while I was working because you were still giving us money, but now that you aren’t anymore she said I could come talk to you.”

Grim glanced to where the couple sat across the room, they were both looking at him. The woman whispered in the man’s ear and his booming laughter echoed across the room. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out who they were talking about. Grim returned his attention to the girl. “Well lass, what’s on your mind?”

Lissa bit her lip and looked down to the ground, brushing one of her feet against the dirt floor. The girl soon looked back up at him. “I just wanted to ask what it’s like?”

“What it’s like?”

“To live in the castle.” Her eyes lit up at the mention of his home.

Grim fought the urge to grimace and instead, forced a smile to his face. “It’s incredible. The halls are always filled with the smell of baking bread from the kitchen, the view from the wall is a sight to see and it’s  the safest place in the whole city.”

“What about the people there? The nobles, the Briar Guard, The Earl and Ilyena? I love seeing her when she comes outside. Everything about her is so beautiful. I’d love to be just like her someday.” She glanced in the direction of where the castle would be through the wall.

“She’s-” Grim paused. “Nice.”

“What about everyone else?” Lissa asked, her eyes still wide.

“The Earl’s the finest warrior I’ve ever met. I can personally attest to that.” Grim rubbed at an old welt along his leg. Bastard. “And the nobles throw the most wonderous parties with all the finest foods. Some of them shipped all the way from Tara.”

The girl glanced at his belly. “I could have guessed that last part on my own.” She smiled.

Grim snorted in amusement as Lissa smirked at him. He self-consciously patted his cookie pouch and forced a smile. “Maybe you can have one of these someday too.”

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and marry a Briar Guard someday, then I could live up in the castle with you. wouldn’t that be great?”

“Aye, Fair Lissa, that it would. I’ll be sure to start sending them your way.”

Lissa blushed and looked at her feet. Grim chuckled. “Maybe in a few years then.”

He might have been a bastard, but he wasn’t about to crush this girl’s fantasy and sense of wonder. The world would do that soon enough. As she opened her mouth to speak again, the door of the tavern slammed open, its hinges screeching. Grim winced and Lissa jumped.

Grim whipped his head around as a man stumble through the doorway, hand pressed to his side. Blood seeped through his fingers. Upon his face rested the mask of a wolf. Grim recognized the mask as one worn by the Sons of the Reaper. Resistance and freedom fighters against the Venaran occupation. Or vagabonds and traitors depending on who you asked. Grim always believed that if you had to hide your face then you were probably a criminal.

“James, help me, they’re coming!” the man cried. “Please.”

The scarred man leapt to his feet with a curse. “Hilda, take him to the back and see to that wound. Melissa, hide. Now.” His voice had an unmistakable air of command that reminded Grim of the officers back at the castle. James said nothing to him, only giving him an imploring look as the girl crawled under one of the tables. He frowned, realizing he was the sole patron left in the building.

Grim sat still as a statue as Hilda led the wounded man into the back room behind the bar. He didn’t have to wait long. Hilda and the wounded man were barely out of sight before the door slammed open again. Two men barged inside, armored in plated bronze scales, with swords drawn. Their green cloaks billowed behind them as they entered.

They wasted no time with pleasantries. “Where is he?” the first demanded, a squat bald man, face creased in anger.

James crossed his arms. “The last of our guests have left. We’re about to close. Sorry sir, but if you wouldn’t mind…”

The bald man walked closer to James. “Bullshit, we saw him come in here and there’s blood on your floor. This man helped slaughter a gathering of our soldiers. If you defend him, you’ll hang alongside him. I’m not asking again.”

James’s hard stare didn’t budge an inch. And Grim felt a grudging respect for the man. James crossed his arms. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave Sir. I’m not asking again.”

The bald man’s face contorted in anger and he rammed his fist into James’s gut. The scarred man hunched over from the blow and the Greencloak tried to step around him.  James pushed his way in front of him again, blocking the man’s way. The Soldier glared. “So, this is how you want to play it? Fine.” The man started beating James, pummeling his armored fists into the man’s body, knocking him to his knees. The bald man kicked him in the chest, knocking him flat on the ground. James wheezed, gasping for air.

Lissa ran out from under the table screaming. “Stop! Please stop! Don’t hurt him!” Tears were running down her face. As she ran to her father the second soldier grabbed her by the throat. He was a big man and slammed her onto a nearby table with ease. She squirmed beneath his grip, a mixed look of terror and pain upon her face. Grim stood up.

James coughed, and a drop of blood dripped down his chin. “Please don’t hurt her.” It was the first time Grim heard fear in his voice.

The bald man bared his teeth. “Tell us where he is and we won’t have to.”

Grim couldn’t stomach watching anymore. He staggered to his feet, the world seeming to spin as he did so. “For fuck’s sake, calm down you two.”

For a moment, they were so surprised they hesitated, staring at him in shock. Grim didn’t think he’d ever sobered up so fast his entire life as he stared them down. The bald man broke into a grin. “By god’s big hairy balls, it’s the bastard. The commander is going to have a field day with this.” His companion grunted in agreement as he held the girl on the table.

“The Son is in the back. These people are just tending to the man’s wounds like any decent person would do. And let the girl go. Is that what Venaran soldiers do nowadays? Beat up children? Ten more and you get promoted from asshole to jackass? Your mother must be proud.”

Grim pretended to be drunker than he was as he stumbled toward them. It wasn’t hard. The man holding Lissa down released her and walked toward Grim, sword in his hand and fury in his eyes. For the first time, Grim considered that this might be a bad idea.

Lissa stared at him in abject horror. James looked at Grim like he was an imbecile, which he probably was.

Just as the soldier was almost upon him, Grim rushed forward and plowed into the man. He caught him by surprise and they both tumbled to the floor. Grim was a big man and what he lacked in fine motor skills, he made up for in brute force as he pummeled his fists into the man’s face. Thick droplets blood soon covered his hands

The pounding of boots heralded the arrival of the second soldier and Grim rolled to the side, flailing his way underneath the nearest table. Crawling on all fours, he scurried to the other side as the soldier flipped the table over. It landed with a crash and sat between them like a barricade. The man on the ground moaned, clutching his shattered face as blood pooled around his head. The remaining soldier stared at him, face contorted in rage.

Grim glanced toward James, hoping some help might come from him. The scarred man tried to find his feet, but kept falling to the ground, struggling to find his breath. Grim grimaced, turning his attention back to the final soldier. As the soldier rounded the table, Grim grabbed a fallen stool.

The man lunged at him and Grim caught the point of the sword on the stool, turning the blade. He tried to ram his shoulder into the man, but the soldier side stepped and Grim stumbled, falling flat on his face against the dirt floor. What an embarrassing way to die.

Blood and dust filled his mouth as he crawled forward. The soldier stepped on his back, placing a boot firmly between his shoulders. Grim struggled, but the man had him pinned. Lissa knelt by her father, looking at him with terror-filled eyes. He forced a smile to his bloody lips and closed his eyes.

The warmth of blood flowed over him and he waited for the pain to start. Then a thump sounded next to him and the weight above disappeared. Grim rolled over and saw the man in the wolf’s mask standing over him, a bloody axe in his hand. His free hand clutched his side while his eyes winced in pain. He stared at Grim, flexing his fingers against the wooden haft of his axe. Grim realized the man was deciding whether or not to kill him.

The man threw the axe to the side and offered Grim his hand.  Grim took it and the Son hauled him to his feet. “Thanks for not murdering me,” Grim said.

“Thanks for ratting me out.”

Grim grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.” He looked around the tavern. Hilda helped her husband up, a worried look written across her face. The man seemed to be breathing easier and he clutched his daughter to his chest while she shook. He gave Grim a silent nod. Grim felt something stir within him that he’d thought long dead. Pride.

The two Greencloaks lay on the ground with the stillness of death, neither breathing. Grim paled at the sight. He felt sick and was certain it wasn’t from the drink. The man in the mask answered his unspoken question while he stared at the bodies. “You killed the first one, broke something important it seems.”

Grim swallowed, a hollow feeling running through him. “What now?”

The Son regarded him a moment. “Go to sleep and I’ll take care of the bodies. Tomorrow it will be like nothing ever happened.” He turned to the family and looked the father in the eyes. “Thank you, James.”

The scarred man scowled in return while he held his daughter. Grim could only stand there, staring at the scene. It felt as if the world were happening to him as opposed to the other way around. He tried to ground himself, but found it impossible as thoughts flashed through his mind faster than he could handle.

He’s dead. I killed him. Goddess forgive me.

Grim’s gut twisted and he gritted his teeth. He leaned against a table and nearly fell as his arm erupted in pain. He cursed under his breath, noticing the blood dripping down his arm from a ragged gash. The pain hit him like a hammer and grounded his thoughts within the present. The masked man sat on a stool, inspecting the hasty stitches over his wound. Did he do that while Grim was fighting for his life? With a satisfied grunt, he let his shirt fall and stood up, moving to see to the bodies.

“My arm,” Grim said, too overwhelmed to say more.

James came up to him and looked at the wound through his torn sleeve. “It’s not bad, but we should stitch that up. Hilda, do we have thread?”

The woman shrugged. “There’s some in the back. Didn’t even know we had it until he found it and stitched himself up,” she said, nodding at the Son.

“I’ll get the thread and see to the wound,” said a small voice, rasping as though it hurt to speak. Everyone’s eyes turned to Lissa. She looked emotionally drained herself and looked at Grim with steeled eyes. James looked about to object, but seeing his daughter so determined, he stayed silent and gestured toward Grim.

Grim seated himself on a stool while Lissa fetched the thread. James helped the Son move the bodies into the back room. Chopping sounds soon sounded from its depths. Grim didn’t want to think about what was happening back there. Lissa returned. She was as pale and quiet as the Greencloaks while she poked him with that damnable needle over and over again. He hated getting stitches. As she tied the final stitch off, she broke the silence. “Grim, why does the Earl let these men do this?”

Grim swallowed hard, his memory going back to the first years of the occupation, when he had been a child. He remembered the riots, he saw the city in flames from his bedroom window in the castle. He almost smelled the rot, the stench so burned into his mind that he could remember it over a decade later. Grim turned his head to look her in the eyes. “Because he doesn’t care.”

***

The clinking of glasses and the rustling sound of footsteps roused Grim. He held his eyes tightly shut, hoping to fall back into the painless void of sleep. Each clink and every step felt like a pickaxe being driven into his skull. The pressing demands of his dry throat waged war on his lethargy, demanding that he rise and find some water. He quietly groaned, lamenting being alive.

A foot knocked into his side, putting an abrupt end to his internal strife. Grim blinked his eyes open. Hilda stood over him, arms crossed. “Get up. We’re about to open.”

She walked away as Grim staggered to his feet. Straw stuck to the side of his face and he brushed the stray strands away. He had slept in the common room on a small pile of straw. There were only two other rooms in the building. One to house the family and another for storage. He wasn’t invited to the first and he was loathe to sleep in the latter, where they’d butchered the corpses. Even in the common room, he could still see the occasional rusty droplet staining the dirt a shade darker.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

He shuddered as he walked to the bar and took a seat. Grim cradled his aching head in his hands. He looked up as Hilda stepped into his view. She placed a foaming mug of beer before him. “First one’s on the house. For last night.”

Grim looked dubiously at the amber liquid. “Do you have any water?” Didn’t think he’d ever hear himself say that.

“I can send Lissa to the well if you’re willing to risk shitting blood for the next week.”

Grim grasped the mug and raised it to her in a silent salute.  “Beer it is.”

Hilda smirked, grabbing a mug from under the bar and beginning to polish it. “That’s what I thought,” she said, “and thanks for helping last night. I’m not used to your kind lending us a hand, Grim”

“Only if there’s a noose in it,” he muttered.

“Gallows humor? Really?” She smirked.

Grim drank deeply and lowered his mug to the bar. “Any chance I could get some food?” Hilda paused her polishing and held out a hand, palm up. Grim raised an eyebrow “Don’t trust me?” He shot her his most winning smile.

“No.”

Grim chuckled and reached for his coin purse, surprised to find it still there. He pulled out a silver lion and placed it into the woman’s hand. “That should cover my tab for a while.”

Hilda nodded and disappeared into the back room and soon returned with a steaming bowl of gruel. Grim was a little disappointed by the fare but wasn’t about to complain. He was too hungry. She placed the bowl in front of him and walked past him to the main entrance while Grim dug in. The gruel lasted a mere moment.

Grim studied the rim of his mug, tapping his finger against its glass as the door groaned open behind him. He winced at the sound and took another drink. His stomach roiled from the addition of more alcohol, but the soothing feeling in his throat made it more than worth it. The sound of conversation behind him marked the arrival of the day’s first customers and the lack of screams suggested they did a good job cleaning. Grim breathed a sigh of relief.

In a moment, Hilda reappeared behind the bar and continued polishing the mug as if she had never left. As customers settled in, Lissa appeared from the back room and began rushing about the tables. Grim’s eyes followed her. She was as energetic as the day before, but her smile was forced and her eyes were red from tears. Grim turned back to Hilda. “Is your family okay?”

Hilda nodded. "We've been through worse, you only need to look at my husband to see that."

Grim swallowed. "Understood. Would it be rude of me to ask?"

"Very," Hilda said, crossing her arms.

Grim nodded in acknowledgment. "So, what happened to him?

Hilda glared at him while he fought a snicker. A hand landed on Grim's shoulder and a brusque male voice asked, "what happened to who?"

Grim turned in horror to see James standing beside him, hand clasping his shoulder. Hilda smiled sweetly. "Yes Grim, who?"

Grim picked up his mug and took another drink, mumbling the words, "Never mind."

James shrugged, seeming unperturbed. "Anyways, it's good you’re awake." He leaned in closer, beginning to talk in a hushed voice. "Our friend from last night left you a message after he and I took out the trash. You were asleep when I got back so I decided to wait till morning. It’s addressed to the Earl."

Grim raised a questioning eyebrow. "And why the hell would I want to deliver that for him? What's it say?"

James shrugged. "I don't read other people's mail." He pulled an envelope out of his jacket and passed it to Grim.

Grim tore it open and unfolded the parchment without hesitation. His reading skills weren't the best, but he could make out most common words. Luckily, the words on the parchment were simple. "The forest stirs," he read aloud. He flipped the paper over, but it was blank. He looked to James. "That's it?"

The man shrugged and stared at the envelope Grim opened without hesitation. "Really?" he asked, more than a little judgmental in his tone.

"What?" Grim asked, feeling defensive. He held up the letter and pointed at it. "If this said, 'your lordship doth fucketh donkeys' I sure as shit wouldn't be personally delivering it to him.”

James smirked. "Point taken, though I’d like to bear witness to that."

Grim tucked the letter into his sullied jacket and wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Yeah, you could watch me get smacked around again. Fun for the whole family.” Grim shook his head. “So how do you know our mutual friend if you don't mind me asking?"

James stared hard at him. "I know a lot of men from the war. Some bonds aren't easily forgotten."

Grim shrugged at the somewhat evasive answer and pushed the empty bowl from in front of him. "Thank you for your hospitality mistress, but I should head back home. The Earl is likely to skin me if he noticed I was gone." Grim was doubtful.

"I hope to see you again Grim, I really do," Hilda said.

Grim couldn't help but smile at her. He rose to his feet. "I'm sure I'll sulk back someday." He turned to James and they clasped arms, gripping each other’s forearms in a show of respect. James nodded to him in return. It always amazed Grim how some men could convey volumes in just a tilt of the head. He gave Hilda his most elegant courtly bow, feeling like a fop and enjoying the ridiculousness of it. “Farewell my friends,” he said as he came up from his final bow.

He turned to walk away. But was soon stopped in his tracks as Lissa dashed to him and grabbed him by the arm. He turned to look down at the slight girl, a question in his eyes. Her wide eyes looked up at him with an admiration he could not comprehend. She gave him a warm smile. “If the Earl is even half as good a man as you are, then we are still in good hands.”

Her words felt like a knife through his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had called him either good or a man. He didn’t speak, for fear his voice would crack, only shooting her a weak smile before walking away.

The hinges of the door screamed as he pushed it open, making everyone in a hundred paces wince in annoyance. The sun stung his eyes after his time indoors. Dozens of passersby wandered past, each wearing the patchwork woolen clothing common to the Outwalls. He received many strange looks as he walked down the street. People from the inner city rarely ventured beyond its walls unless it was upon a horse and then, only long enough to leave the city limits.

Grim had walked a few blocks before he thought to check his coin purse. He wasn’t surprised to find it empty. He shrugged and kept walking. The thieves likely needed it more than he did. Besides, he still had the money in his left boot. Some of the Outwallers along the street were looking in his direction and he didn’t like how they eyed him. Grim put a little extra pep in his step. The difference between a smart man and a brave one was an excess of stitches. He could attest to the veracity of that statement.

He didn’t know exactly where he was, but it wasn’t long before he stumbled his way onto the King’s Road. Its cobblestones shined in the in the sunlight giving testament to how well maintained it was. The road was wide enough for four wagons to be driven abreast and the hectic traffic showed the necessity of its scale. To his left, it seemed to stretch endlessly through the slums, straight as an arrow. Beyond the rundown buildings, he could make out the green, rocky hills that dominated the countryside.

To his right, he could now see the great walls of the city. Thick, imposing ramparts cast deep shadows over the Outwall in the morning light. Its gates were open and seemed to swallow the massive road like a gaping maw, consuming the hundreds of people passing beneath the iron teeth of the portcullis.

The gate was about a mile distant and Grim held his thumb up as he walked alongside the road. Dozens of wagons passed him by without a second look. Most were laden with foodstuffs and other necessities that were hard to come by in the harsh, rocky landscape of the Rills. Eventually, one slowed next to him. The driver made eye contact. “In or out,” he yelled over the din of traffic.

Grim didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the side of the wagon and heaved himself over the edge as the man cracked his whip, sending the horses into a quick trot. The cut on his arm smarted from the exertion, but hurt far less than last night. Grim landed inside the cart with a small thud among large crates filled with iron ore. He wasn’t surprised. Metal, wool, and fish were about all the Rills had to offer in way of goods.

Grim wove his way through the crates as the cart clattered over the cobblestones and took a seat near the front, behind the driver. “Thanks for the ride!” he called out.

The driver looked over his shoulder, glancing at Grim out of the corner of his eyes. “I’d have been a bastard if I didn’t. You look like a sorry sack of shit. Did you get mugged or something? Dangerous to go off the main road in this part of town.”

Grim shrugged. “Just a barfight, nothing worth retelling.”

“Ah, so you got your ass kicked,” the man said, more to himself than to Grim. Grim narrowed his eyes at the driver but didn’t retort, not wanting to draw undue attention to the story. “Where’re you headed?”

“Bleakridge Castle. If you’re heading to the market, then that’s close enough.”

The man nodded in acknowledgement, seeming content to let their ride lapse into silence. Grim was grateful for it. Needless small-talk was the bane of his existence. Held his head in his hands, bemoaning life, as they passed several blocks of tattered houses. Most were little more than shacks leaning against one another for support, like a house of cards waiting to collapse. Beggars began to line the main road near the gate, holding out wooden bowls. Misery mingled with hope in their eyes as they watched more affluent citizens ride by on business outside the city proper. The driver kept his eyes on the road, though Grim could sense a tightness in the way he sat, his hands clutching the reigns. It was hard to tell whether he was afraid or angry.

They soon passed into the deep shadow of the gate and left the warmth of the shining sun above. The air chilled and Grim flexed his fingers, willing blood into them. He could see the gate guards now, split into two separate groups who stared at each other in an uneasy peace. On his right were three of the Earl’s men, dressed in thick iron chain and standing at attention. On the opposite side of the gate were the Greencloaks. They were bedecked in various mismatched armors ranging from padded cloth to coats with bronze plate sewn into them. Venaran soldiers paid for their own equipment, thus the only uniformity to their appearance was the signature green cloak adorning their shoulders.

What they lacked in grandeur, they made up for in numbers. There were a dozen of them loitering near the gate, serving no useful purpose other than to intimidate passersby. That was always the great advantage of the southlands. They bred like rabbits and had the fertile land to support it. The soldiers huddled close together, their cloaks wrapped tight around their bodies. Grim smirked at the sight. Southerners rarely liked the chill air, but he reveled in its bite.

The two groups of guards eyed each other with distrust, seeming more intent on watching each other than the people passing through the gates. Grim was glad for that and raised his collar to try to hide the scar on his neck. He didn’t particularly want either side to recognize him.

The driver pulled up to the gate and gave one of the guards his manifest and the name of the lord he served. The soldier recorded it on a piece of parchment and waved the cart through without incident. Grim kept his eyes downcast as they passed through the thick iron gates leading into the city.

It was like emerging into a different world. The crumbling buildings were replaced with stout wooden houses, reinforced by iron frames. Wide avenues branched off the King’s Road in every direction, showcasing the vast size of the city as it shined in the intense dawn light. Grim turned his head from the view, it's brightness sending spikes of pain through his skull. As he turned, a more macabre sight captured his attention.

Half a dozen men hung from nearby stakes shaped like a cross. Their elbows were nailed to its wings, forcing their shoulders into an unnatural position as their weight dragged them down. He could almost feel his bones grinding just looking at them. Around each of their necks hung a sign with ‘traitor’ painted in white. On the ground below their feet rested masks shaped like the faces of various animals. Blood from the men dripped onto the masks below, giving them a grisly appearance. Worst of all, two had been captured alive. Their tortured expressions gave voice to their agony. They’d likely already screamed themselves mute. He knew they wouldn’t bleed out. They never did. It was a race between the inevitable putrefaction of their wounds and thirst. Grim hoped their friends would take the risk to kill them in the night.

“Poor bastards,” the driver said. Grim nodded his agreement.

The cart trundled onward, still following the main road, deeper into town. Grim could now see the great castle rising high above the surrounding buildings, standing a silent vigil over the town. It sat upon the high cliff that gave both the city and the castle their names. Bleakridge. Grim sighed as he looked up at it. He was already wearying of the day.

The smell of salt in the air told Grim they were getting closer to the port and its adjacent market. The sound of crashing waves in the distance grew louder and the familiar sounds of home somewhat soothed his pounding headache. The houses in this part of town grew larger and some were even carved from stone.

The ringing sound of dozens of smithies echoed across the city. The incessant sound was the greatest complaint of foreigners in the town. Some people joked that the Forgers guild went to great expense to move their operations closer to the market, simply annoy the southern merchants. Grim wouldn’t have been surprised if the rumors were true. The ringing of metal on metal often sounded late into the night. After two decades of living in the city he hardly noticed, but today every clang felt like a spike through his skull.

The marketplace opened before the cart, revealing a huge plaza filled with various stands showcasing everything one could imagine, from fine jewelry to fearsome weapons. The latter often caught his eye whenever he spotted a blade with the gleam of steel. It was a new breakthrough by the Forgers guild and its making was a secret they closely guarded.

The wagon came to a creaking halt along the edge of the marketplace. Grim thanked the driver and hopped to the ground, his boots clacking against the stones. He waved farewell and began pushing his way through the crowds, carefully avoiding any Greencloak patrols. Before long, he had forced his way to the other side of the market without spending a single copper bear. He congratulated himself as he walked the last block toward the series of switchbacks leading up to the castle gate.

They were always hell to climb and Grim bemoaned his lack of wings every time he faced them. Bleakridge castle was built on a prominent cliff at the very edge of the city and it towered over the docks leading to the Meridian Bay. Foamy white water lapped at the cliffs it sat upon and seagulls circled the coast, looking for easy prey. As Grim climbed the switchbacks he could see the bay laid out before him. Fishing boats lined the coast as far as the eye could see and large merchant vessels lay docked in the maze of piers. He soon surpassed the height of all but the tallest buildings in the city and he could see the wooden roofs stretch for miles in every direction. The cathedral alone stood above the rest. Its stone and marble spires pierced the sky, glittering gold in the sunlight.

A cold breeze washed over Grim, prickling his skin. The chill felt good as he began to sweat. His legs burned, and he gasped for breath as he finally reached the outer gates of the fortress. He waved up at the gatehouse. The men inside immediately recognized him and raised the portcullis. Grim crossed the threshold with mild trepidation as he eyed the wrought iron spikes above his head. Soon the ordeal was behind him, and he found himself in the keep courtyard.

The doors to the keep proper were in sight and Grim picked up the pace, trying to not attract attention to himself. He didn’t want anybody asking questions about what he’d been doing or where he’d been. He covered the tear in his sleeve with a hand, trying to hide his wound and thanked the Goddess that his dark clothing hid the blood well.

“Hoy! Bastard!” Grim shuddered, knowing his luck had run out. He recognized the voice as Captain Edgar.

Edgar was an asshole.

Grim sighed, having made it almost halfway across the courtyard without incident. He turned to face the man as the captain approached. Edgar was dressed in a simple shirt and breeches, seeming oblivious to the chill air. He swaggered as he approached, wrinkling his nose as he caught a waft of Grim’s stench. “Damn, you smell like the Reaper’s ass. What’d you do? Sleep in a sty last night? Couldn’t find a decent lass so you settled for a sow?”

Grim narrowed his eyes at the man. “I tried your mother first, but the line was too long.”

Edgar smirked at that. Grim hated that smirk and wanted to knock it off the man’s face. Preferably with his fist. Instead, he smirked in return. Edgar took a step closer, invading Grim’s personal space. Grim could smell the whiskey on his breath. “You’re cute you know that? Do you know what else is cute?”

“Puppies?” Grim interjected.

Edgar let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes. Puppies. That’s what I was about to fucking say.”

Grim gave him a doubtful look, noticing the man’s sleep deprived eyes and bedraggled appearance. “You were looking for me last night, weren’t you?” he asked with a sinking feeling.

“All. Night. Long,” he said, clipping off each word. “I only just conceded defeat and came back to the castle. I remove my armor and come out of the barracks only to see your sorry ass. Believe me when I say I’ll be seeing you in the practice yard later.” Grim swallowed hard, finding his future bleak. Edgar rested a hand on the axe at his hip. “The Earl’s looking for you.” He shouldered Grim as he walked past. “Good luck,” he muttered.

“Asshole,” Grim muttered, thankful the man didn’t seem to care enough to ask questions. He rushed to cover the remaining ground to the keep’s entrance and slipped between the thick iron doors.

The door led into long narrow chamber filled with narrow slits in the wall and ceiling. The Earl affectionately called them murder holes and Grim couldn’t fault the name. He heard several guardsmen chatting through the walls and had no doubt there was a vat of boiling oil above him, waiting to be dumped.

Grim walked faster.

The next set of iron doors were closed and Grim cursed under his breath. He braced himself against the door and pushed with all his strength. The heavy door creaked open, squealing on its hinges. These vault-like doors were great for defense but also hell to open alone. After a long moment spent heaving, he had the door open wide enough to slip through and enter the small room beyond. A pair of guardsmen were leaning against the far wall a few feet away, giving Grim a pair of shit-eating grins.

“Thanks for the help,” Grim muttered, walking by. The guards chuckled behind him in response.

Between the guards was the door to the great hall, and on either side of the door were two hallways stretching to the wings of the castle.  Grim wanted to avoid the Earl, so he sure as hell wasn't going to the great hall. Grim went right. He wanted to at least get a change of clothes before the Earl chastised him. The castle soon became a twisting maze of torchlit halls. The lack of windows mixed with the stone walls gave the halls a subterranean feel. Dozens of castle servants passed by, going about their daily business with a sense of efficiency. He passed maids, porters, guards, butlers, and more than a few noble guests. Grim was a little embarrassed by how little reaction they gave to his bedraggled appearance. The castle staff generally gave him a nod or a brief greeting whereas the noble guests ignored him or shot disdainful looks. He supposed him looking like shit wasn’t that uncommon a sight.

He soon reached a stairwell and ascended the steps to the third floor which housed the higher ranked servants. A single guard wandered the halls but ignored Grim as he walked past. Grim found his door, pushing it open.

The room was little more than a glorified closet, just big enough to hold a bed, a chest, a wash basin and him. Grim pulled the door shut behind him and started to remove his ruined clothing. He decided he’d burn it later. He peeled his shirt off his back, the blood sticking to his skin. The feeling twisted his gut in revulsion.

He dunked his hands into the cool water of the wash basin and watched as lines of red seeped from his skin. He grabbed a cloth and began to scrub, keeping a tight lid on the emotions roiling inside him. He hoped to god that Lissa and her family could keep their mouths shut because he was a dead man otherwise. He splashed water on his face, removing most of the grime and looked at his reflection as the water started to settle.

He looked like hell. His eyes were dull, and his face looked like somebody used it as an anvil. Rough, unkempt stubble grew across his face and neck, giving him a haggard appearance. He ran his hand over it, feeling the bristles as they prickled his fingers. He could still hear the wheezing of the dying man on the floor, the feeling of warm blood cascading over his back. A choked sob escaped his lips. He mastered his emotions, putting on the façade he'd grown so used to wearing. Then he thought of Lissa. She called him a good man.

He stared at his reflection, failing to see what she saw. Grim sighed as he walked to his chest of clothes and opened it. He took out a fresh set and put them on. As he pulled on his final boot, he ran a hand through his hair, staring at the closed door. He should really go face the Earl. It was the right thing to do.

Instead, he bent over and reached for the bottle of whiskey he’d hidden under the bed. He tapped a finger against the glass of the bottle. He licked his lips. There was time to be a good man tomorrow.