Epilogue:
The coastal air was thick with the scent of salt and blooming jasmine, a far cry from the soot of Belvart or the oppressive moon of Gutard. On a high terrace overlooking the Southern Sea, the trio—accompanied by Bob—watched the sun dip toward the water. It was a true sunset, gold melting into a deep, bruised purple that reflected off the gentle waves.
A messenger hawk, weary from its flight across the mountain range, landed with a sharp clack on the stone railing. It carried a small, travel-worn cylinder, and a scrap of parchment sealed with a messy smear of dwarven beard-wax and a very expensive silk ribbon.
Arthor reached for it, but with a slight, knowing smile, he handed it directly to Sheng. "From the peaks," the Knight said quietly. "Let's see if the mountain still stands."
Sheng broke the seal. He read the letter in silence, his eyes scanning Orthox's messy handwriting. It had been Two weeks after the "Laughter at the Inn,"
The Contents:
"To the Skinny Shadow-Cat and his Babysitters,
First off, the city is fine. The 'attack' was just a bunch of over-eager mountain trolls who thought they could bypass the toll. Richard and I handled it before dinner. Richard fought with a sword in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other—it was a bit much, honestly.
But here's the real news: Sylvia came to the tavern yesterday. She didn't come to complain. She came to ask why the 'Legendary Assassin' was too shy to ask for her number himself. She said she found the 'Dwarf-on-the-Table' incident 'refreshingly chaotic.' >
Richard told her you were too busy 'fighting a secret war' to visit, which was a nice touch. She left a note. It's a CG number, Sheng. But it's not hers. It's for a private line that leads to the Elven Intelligence Network. She says if you want the real number, you have to win it back by actually being professional next time.
P.S. Richard has started charging people five silver coins to hear the 'true story' of your rejection. You owe us. Big time.
— Orthox"
It turns out the backfire might have actually opened a door Sheng thought was permanently slammed shut!
When he reached the part about Sylvia's 'refreshingly chaotic' reaction and the hidden Intelligence number, his hand trembled—just a fraction.
"Well?" Elvric asked, leaning over with a cup of chilled wine. "Are we still the most wanted men in the North, or has the world moved on to a new scandal?"
Sheng let out a long, slow breath, the tension that had lived in his shoulders for weeks finally evaporating into the sea breeze.
"The commotion has died down," Sheng said, his voice steady for the first time. "Orthox says the city is at peace. But more importantly... I herd that the rumors have shifted. It seems the 'Shadow of the War' was too boring a lead for the gossips."
"And?" Arthor prompted.
"And," Sheng continued, a genuine smirk playing on his lips, "the story being told in the taverns now isn't about an assassin. It's about a 'maniacal, drunkard dwarf' who got so upset over a bad batch of ale that he stood on a table and started shouting random names at the ceiling until someone threw a chair at him."
Elvric burst into a fit of giggles. "A drunkard dwarf? Oh, Orthox will be thrilled. He's gone from a war hero to a cautionary tale for tavern-keepers."
"The best part," Sheng added, looking at the hidden CG number on the parchment, "is that they don't remember me. To the public, I was just a name shouted by a madman. I'm back in the shadows, where I belong."
Bob beamed, patting Sheng on the arm. "See? I told you. People only remember the loudest part of the story. And a dwarf on a table is very, very loud."
Sheng crumpled the letter and tucked it into his belt. He looked out at the horizon. The task had failed, his reputation had been dragged through the mud, and he had been humiliated in front of a kingdom. But as he sat there with his brothers, watching the stars begin to blink into existence over a peaceful sea, he realized he hadn't lost anything that mattered.
The "Assassin's Task" was over. The holiday, finally, had begun.
THE END.
Based on a real life incident.
To the 'Assassin'—"
"May this record serve as a permanent backup for the memories you've might have conveniently 'deleted.' You might be a King-Slayer in the history books, but in this tavern, you'll always be the guy who sent a dwarf to do a lover's job."
— Lovingly compiled by The Mage (with 'accurate' commentary by the Knight).