The door creaked open, spilling a rectangle of pale light into the gloom of the tavern. Conversation faltered mid-sentence, tankards stilled halfway to lips. One by one, heads turned toward the figure stepping in from the night.
A hush settled like dust.
The stranger paused on the threshold, the shadows clinging to him until the firelight caught his face. Amber eyes gleamed—predatory, unsettling in their intensity. A few men muttered curses under their breath, others shifted uneasily on their stools. One woman crossed herself, dragging her child closer.
Whispers fluttered at the edges of the room.
Another one again. Curseborn.Omen-walker.
He moved forward without haste, letting the door close behind him, the echo sharp as a hammerfall. His expression was unreadable, lips neither sneering nor smiling. He carried himself with the quiet poise of someone long accustomed to stares—and just as long accustomed to ignoring them.
The tavern's lanterns caught the strands of his hair: ash-gray, unnatural, a color that needed no name for the people to recoil. A man at the bar turned his face away as though sight alone could invite misfortune. Another spat on the floor, muttering something about curses.
The young man did not flinch. Let them cling to their fears, to their old tales of gray locks marking death's favor. Superstition had dogged him since childhood; by now it felt less like a wound and more like a callus. Still, as the silence thickened around him and the whispers crawled louder, a bitter thought stirred at the back of his mind: how quickly humanity chose fear over reason, as though suspicion were easier to drink than ale.
He walked deeper into the dim-lit room, the tavern air pressing down like a storm waiting to break. Smoke from the hearth curled thick in the rafters, stinging the eyes and carrying the sour tang of spilled ale. Boots scraped against floorboards as men leaned away from his passing, leaving a hollow circle of space around the windowside table where he chose to sit.
Ithan slid onto the bench, back to the wall, gaze resting on the room's shadows. He noticed the way the other patrons kept their distance, eyes flicking toward him and then darting away. He didn't mind. Solitude was a habit that sat comfortably on his shoulders.
A barmaid approached, hips swaying with practiced ease, balancing a tray in her hand. Her dress—once brown, now patterned with faint stains of broth and wine—spoke of long days and careless customers. Yet she offered him a smile, warm and unguarded, the kind that softened the hard lines of the room. For an instant, he was reminded of his Aunt Martha—her hands flour-dusted, her laugh chasing away the silence of his childhood home after his mother's passing.
"What can I get for you?" she asked, her voice carrying a kindness rarely aimed his way.
"A drink and some soup," Ithan said, his tone steady but hoarse from the road.
"Is that all?" she pressed, tilting her head, studying him as though she saw something the others refused to.
"And some bread," he added after a pause. His hunger was sharper than he wanted to admit; the miles he'd walked had carved hollows into his stomach.
From behind the bar, the barkeep—a mountain of a man with forearms like stone pillars—kept his eyes pinned on Ithan, silent as a watchman. Ithan pretended not to notice.
He let his thoughts wander instead, out beyond the tavern walls. Orpheus was nothing like Ravenstone. Here, cobbled streets wove between stone buildings, traders hawked wares in louder voices, and coin changed hands more freely. Yet beneath the polish, the same flaw remained: too few blades and too little will to guard against the shadows that slipped into human lives.
That was why he was here. The mayor's letter had been desperate, ink smudged with urgency—children gone missing, their names whispered in fear. Unlike most superstitions, this mystery had a face. A Lamia. The old stories painted them as half-woman, half-serpent, hunters of innocence who fed on the flesh of the young.
The barmaid returned with a steaming bowl, a hunk of bread, and a cup that sloshed amber at the rim. She set them down gently, as though placing an offering.
"There you are," she said.
The bread was rough-crusted, the broth thin, but to Ithan it smelled like comfort after the dust of the road. He wrapped his hands around the bowl, the warmth seeping into his fingers as the tavern's murmurs drifted back to life around him.
Ithan had just torn a piece of bread when the shuffle of boots drew up beside his table. He didn't bother to look at them right away; their smell—cheap spirits and sweat soured by arrogance—told him enough. When he finally lifted his gaze, three faces leered back at him, oily with confidence, the kind of men who fed off fear. His gut turned sour before they'd even opened their mouths.
"Just wait till I'm done eating," Ithan said flatly.
He broke the bread clean in half, shoved one piece into his mouth, and chewed hard, daring them to speak over the crunch. Then he lifted the bowl, steam curling into his face, and drank deep, ignoring the burn on his tongue. By the time the soup was gone, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, swallowed the second chunk of bread, and tipped back the drink in one gulp.
The tavern had gone quiet again. A few patrons leaned forward in their seats, waiting.
Ithan set the cup down with a dull thud. The food sat heavy in his stomach, unfinished satisfaction gnawing at him. His temper flared hotter than it had when they first approached.
"Now," he said, turning to them with a slow smile that wasn't a smile at all, "where were we?"
The men stiffened under his stare. They had seen the color of his hair, the amber glint of his eyes, and thought they'd make sport of him—just another Curseborn to spit on. They hadn't expected resistance.
"You wanted to fuck with me, didn't you?" Ithan's voice was quiet, but the words carried, sharp as a blade.
He moved. One heartbeat, he was seated; the next, he was in the man's face. His fist cracked against the first thug's nose with a wet crunch, sending him reeling backward into a table. Cups clattered, someone cursed.
Before the second could react, Ithan dipped low, legs sweeping across the floorboards. The man went down hard, breath leaving him in a grunt. Ithan's fist followed, dropping like a hammer onto his jaw, snapping his head against the floorboards.
The third man barely raised his hands before Ithan's knuckles found his gut. Air rushed out of him in a strangled gasp as he folded, crashing to his knees.
In the silence that followed, the only sound was the groan of the first man trying to crawl out from under an overturned chair.
Ithan straightened, rolling his shoulders as though nothing more strenuous than a stretch. His amber eyes swept across the tavern. The room avoided his gaze, patrons pretending to be deeply fascinated by their drinks.
"Lesson's simple," Ithan said, brushing crumbs from his lap. His voice carried just enough edge to silence the last of the whispers. "Don't fuck with me."
He dropped a couple of drachma on the table—metal clinking sharply against the wood—and pushed back his chair. No one stopped him. No one even looked up as he crossed the room. The tavern door shut behind him with a low groan, cutting the crowd off from him as if the whole place exhaled in relief.
The street outside greeted him with a softer world. Orphene breathed music and color into the night. Strings and flutes rose from a pair of bards seated on a fountain's edge, their tunes skipping over the cobblestones like bright water. Lanterns swung from iron hooks, their glass panes tinted in hues of red and green, spilling warm light onto the plastered walls.
People lingered in clusters, smiling, clapping along to the rhythm. Lovers leaned close to each other beneath balconies draped with ivy. Children darted between legs, chasing each other with laughter that rang louder than the bards' melody. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and honeyed wine.
It struck him how serene it looked, how the joy of the crowd had the strength to cover the cracks beneath. They didn't know, or didn't want to know, about the children gone missing. Or perhaps they preferred to forget while music filled the square.
Ithan's eyes moved to the guards patrolling the street. They wore dark-green cloaks over polished cuirasses, marching in pairs with a crispness foreign to the shabby militias of Ravenstone. Spears gleamed beneath the torchlight, and their boots fell in time with the music, almost as though even order itself had been rehearsed.
The people here dressed as sharply as their keepers. Silk tunics, neatly tied sashes, boots without the dust of the road. No patched rags, no half-torn cloaks, no faces dulled by hunger.
Ithan slowed, letting the sounds and colors wash over him. This was not Ravenstone. Not the villages tucked close to the Ashen Fields, where decay crept in like mold. Orphene was alive, polished, a place that looked away from the darkness pressing at its borders.
And that, Ithan thought, was exactly why he had been called here.
****
Ithan arrived at the mayor's building as the last notes of a bard's tune faded behind him. The structure rose higher than the surrounding shops, its stone walls scrubbed clean and trimmed with banners bearing the crest of Orphene—a golden lyre over a silver field. Oil lamps lined the entrance, their flames steady in the night air, casting the façade in an amber glow.
Two guards flanked the wrought-iron gate. Their helms caught the light, their spears crossed to bar his way as he approached. Both men looked him over, eyes narrowing at the weight of his armor and the worn travel gear strapped across his back. Their silence was not the polite sort; it was measuring, suspicious.
Ithan had seen that look often enough. In Ravenstone, it had been villagers muttering under their breath. Here, in Orphene, it was professionals, trained men who didn't know what to make of a mercenary walking into their mayor's hall unannounced.
He stopped a few paces short, reached into his cloak, and drew out the folded form. The parchment was creased from travel, its seal cracked but intact, the inked letters of the mayor's office still visible under the lantern glow.
Wordlessly, he held it out.
The taller guard took it, eyes flicking across the page as his lips moved soundlessly, reading. The other leaned just enough to catch sight of the text, his expression shifting from suspicion to something closer to resignation.
"A contract," the tall one muttered at last. "He's the one the mayor called for."
The shorter guard grunted, lowering his spear, though his gaze lingered on Ithan's gray hair and amber eyes. The old unease was there—the superstition clinging even in a city polished like Orphene.
"You'll be watched," the shorter guard said, his tone edged but not hostile. "Follow the path straight in. Don't wander."
The gate swung open with a groan of iron, and Ithan stepped inside, boots striking against stone that rang cleaner, sharper, than any road he had walked in weeks.
The courtyard beyond the gate stretched wide and orderly, a paved path cutting through hedges trimmed into neat squares. Lanterns burned atop wrought-iron posts, casting light across a fountain at the center where water spilled from the mouth of a marble nymph. The air here was different—quieter, heavier—carrying the scent of polished stone and damp greenery.
Ithan's boots echoed as he crossed to the hall itself. The building loomed above him, its double doors of dark oak banded with iron. Carvings of laurels and lions curled across the surface, symbols of dignity and power.
Inside, warmth hit him at once. The hall smelled faintly of wax and parchment, the glow of chandeliers spilling down on polished marble floors. Walls were draped with crimson banners embroidered in gold thread, while statues of past magistrates watched from alcoves, their eyes cut in pale stone that seemed too alive.
A handful of clerks moved briskly between desks piled with scrolls, their quills scratching as they murmured to one another. Their steps faltered when they caught sight of Ithan. The gray hair. The armor. He felt the weight of their stares settle on him, though none spoke.
"Here," said the guard who had trailed him in, gesturing toward a raised dais at the far end of the hall. A figure sat there in a high-backed chair carved with the same laurel motif as the doors. The mayor—draped in a blue sash over his formal robes—looked up from the parchment he was reading. His face was long, lined with both age and worry, his fingers tapping the wood as though he'd been waiting.
"So," the mayor said, his voice carrying through the chamber with practiced authority. "The mercenary answers the call at last." His eyes lingered on Ithan's hair, just as the guards' had. "You'll forgive the scrutiny. Orphene doesn't often deal with your kind."
Ithan's lips curved in a faint smirk. He held the parchment aloft. "You did call for me."
The mayor's gaze sharpened, his tone turning grave. "And for good reason. If you're as capable as they say, then you'll soon see why Orphene can't afford to look the other way. The missing children… it is no longer rumor."
The clerk nearest the dais shifted uneasily at the words.
The mayor rose from his chair, the blue sash falling against his robes as he came down the steps of the dais. His hands clasped behind his back, but Ithan noted the tightness in his grip, the way his knuckles whitened as though he were holding himself together.
"You should understand, mercenary," he began, his tone measured, "Orphene is not some backwater village that panics at shadows. We are a city of trade, of culture. What happens here ripples across the Iron March. Our coffers, our reputation, even the Imperium's gaze—these are at stake."
He paced as he spoke, his words carrying the rhythm of a man used to the senate chamber. Yet beneath the polish, his voice wavered.
"The children," he continued, quieter now, "are not merely missing. They are being taken. Five in the past two months. Three more this last fortnight. Each from respectable households. Families that can raise their voices in court. If we fail them, whispers will turn into accusations—against me, against Orphene's ability to govern itself."
He paused, glancing toward one of the clerks who shifted nervously under the weight of his gaze.
"We sent patrols into the districts where the vanishings occurred. They found nothing. No forced doors, no footprints, no blood. Only one clue—" His voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "—a trail of scales, slick as oil, left behind near the last child's window. Too large for any snake known to us. Too deliberate in their placement."
He stopped pacing, turning back to Ithan, eyes tired and sunken. "Our scholars searched the archives. They came to one conclusion. A Lamia." The word left his mouth like a curse.
At once, the room shifted. A few clerks muttered a prayer, another crossed himself. The guard nearest the door spat quietly onto the marble as though to ward off ill fortune.
"You know the old tales," the mayor said, more urgently now. "Half-woman, half-serpent. They charm, they stalk, they devour. Mothers tell the stories to keep their children close at night. But this is no story. It has made its nest somewhere in the city. We believe it strikes only when the moon is at its peak, and always near water. Each child was taken from homes by the canals."
His voice cracked slightly, and for a heartbeat the mask of authority fell away. He looked less like a politician, more like a weary father.
"I've ordered silence in the streets," he confessed. "The people think it's thieves, or some cult. Better that than panic. But every night the fear grows. Every morning another family wonders if their child will be next."
The mayor took a breath, steadying himself, and straightened his sash once more. "That is why we sent for you. We need someone outside our chain of command, someone who does not answer to council or coin-purse. You are here because others would not come." His eyes flicked once more to Ithan's gray hair. "Perhaps because you have nothing left to lose."
Silence stretched in the hall. The fire in the sconces crackled softly, filling the space where the mayor's words still lingered. Ithan let the silence hang, his amber eyes fixed on the mayor. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, even—stripped of heat, but edged with steel.
"So that's how it is," he said. "Five gone before, and the council sat on their hands. It wasn't until a name with coin behind it lost their child that suddenly Orphene remembers the word urgent."
The mayor stiffened, but Ithan didn't relent. He stepped forward, closing the space between them until the chandeliers threw their light across the ash-gray of his hair.
"Tell me," Ithan went on, "how many of those first families were craftsmen? Dock workers? Laborers from the slums near the walls?" His tone never rose, but the weight of it pressed on every clerk and guard in the chamber. "You buried their cries under paperwork, didn't you? Easy to ignore the poor. Easy to pretend their children ran off. Until the wrong household banged on your doors."
A flush crept into the mayor's cheeks. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, swallowing hard.
"You think I don't know how cities like this work?" Ithan said, his gaze unblinking. "I've walked streets where no banners hang, where no polished guard marches. Places the law pretends not to see until the stench gets too thick to cover. Ravenstone. Hollow Vale. Now Orphene."
He let the words linger, then leaned back slightly, his arms folding across his chest.
"You hired me to kill a Lamia. I'll do it. But I won't play along with your theater. The families you ignored—they deserve more than silence bought with coin and fear. When I find it, when I cut its head from its body, you're going to tell this city what it really was. Every word of it."
The mayor's face flickered between indignation and unease. His clerks looked down at their parchment, as though the marble floor might swallow them whole if they met Ithan's eyes.
For a long moment, the hall seemed to hold its breath. The mayor's jaw tightened. He drew himself up, tugging his sash back into place as though the fabric could shield him.
"You think governance is so simple?" His voice rose, brittle under the strain. "You think I wanted this silence? If word spread too soon, before we had answers, the markets would have collapsed. The council would have torn me apart for inciting panic. Merchants would flee, trade would dry up, and every soul in Orphene would starve while fear rotted the streets."
He turned, pacing once more, his hands working behind his back. "I had to be cautious. I had to protect what I could. Yes, the poor were the first to suffer—but had I acted without proof, it would have been more than their children lost. It would have been the whole city."
The mayor stopped, facing Ithan again. His face was flushed now, his voice raw. "So do not stand there, mercenary, and lecture me on duty. I bear the weight of thousands. You bear only your own sword."
Ithan's expression didn't change. He simply held the man's gaze, cold and steady, until the mayor's words faltered. The silence pressed heavier than any rebuke, filling the space between them like a blade laid bare.
The mayor's shoulders sagged. His eyes slipped away, finding no strength in the marble statues or the crimson banners. For a moment, he looked older than his years, the practiced mask of authority cracking at the edges.
"You're right," he admitted, voice quieter now. "We should have acted sooner. Those first children… their families deserved better. Perhaps their lives might have been spared if we had not waited."
He lifted his head, though his eyes no longer met Ithan's. "If you bring back proof, if you end this thing, I will speak. I will tell the people what it was, no matter how the council rages. Orphene will know the truth."
The admission hung heavy in the chamber, a rare fissure in a politician's wall of excuses.
Ithan gave a short nod, nothing more, then turned slightly as though the matter were settled. His amber eyes caught the mayor's once more, holding them like a promise—or a threat.
"See that you do," he said.