EMANO

  He wiped a hand across his handsome face, trying once more to rub away the smear of dried blood—a stain that refused to come clean no matter how hard he scrubbed. In the bronze mirror before him, his reflection stared back warped and exhausted, eyes burning with anger.

  Blood and scars were a warrior’s badge of honor, they said. This was not the kind of medal he wanted.

  Those men were weak, scared shitless and not even ready. Where's honor in slaughtering sheep?

  The smell of killing clung to him so thickly that even after two purifications with the finest incense oils of Veyra, it still lingered. Sometimes he wondered if it had already been blended into his flesh.

  Even his favored blade had not survived the battle either.

  One of his attendants presented a new bastard sword with both hands. Emano said nothing. Instead—

  SHRRRT.

  The blade flashed free of its sheath, and in the next instant, it was flying across the chamber. It struck a pillar opposite him and buried itself halfway into the wood, quivering violently.

  The attendant still held the empty scabbard in his hands, eyes unimpressed. He merely bowed his head and said calmly,

  “The Lord will not appreciate your attitude.”

  Emano slumped back, dropping his weight carelessly against the stacked crates behind him. Tilting his head, he muttered,

  “So what? What’s he going to do? Cast me aside?”

  Behind him, the sharp reek of drovar dust rose thick in the air. He forced himself to take a breath.

  The first one passed.

  The second nearly made him gag.

  Rage flared up inside him. He sprang to his feet and slammed his hand downward with crushing force.

  “All this… for this damned filth.”

  In a blur, the attendant moved.

  He slipped between Emano and the crates, crossing both forearms before him to meet the descending strike.

  Crack!

  Emano heard the sound of bone splintering.

  His hand slowed—but the force behind it did not vanish. The blow continued downward. The attendant shifted again, angling his shoulder into the path of the strike.

  Thud!

  Emano’s palm struck hard against it, the impact driving the man to one knee.

  The attendant’s arms trembled violently, but his voice didn't.

  “Your strength is truly formidable,” he said with a small bow.

  Then he added calmly,

  “However, the Lord gave strict orders that these crates must be preserved at all costs. I beg of you to temper your anger.”

  Only then did Emano draw his hand back.

  “That was my fault,” he said quietly. “Go have your injuries treated. Tell them to fetch a skilled healer. Fortunately, this place does not lack such people.”

  The man bowed and withdrew. Emano nodded in approval.

  But as he turned away, his teeth clenched.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  After everything he had endured to bring this cargo here…And he had nearly ruined it all because he could not control his temper.

  Since when did I become this reckless?

  He didn’t know. He didn’t even want to remember. It was already too late.

  The wind had shifted in an instant. Once, he had believed himself an eagle riding the storm. But in the end…he was nothing more than a dry leaf caught in the current.

  What stung the most was that all of this—the entire journey—had been just an arrangement of an outsider. Neither he nor his father was the fierce men their followers imagined—men who broke out of their cages and carved their own paths in a new land.

  They were mere pawns. Dependents, clinging to the thinnest strand of hope someone else promised.

  Sometimes he wanted to seize his father by the collar and demand an answer: why had he accepted this bargain at all? If he refused to live as a chess piece, why leap from one board only to land upon another?

  But the thought faded as quickly as it came.

  After all, he was his father’s son.

  Just like his father had been his grandfather’s.

  A miserable, cursed circle.

  It ends with me, he decided in silence.

  He could drink, gamble, and drown himself in women if he wished, but he would not have a child.

  The thought of women made him sigh. That girl he had betrayed… she truly was a good one. He did not love her, not yet—but there was nothing he could fault in her.

  A pity.

  Then again…perhaps it was better not to marry at all.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  A gentle voice sounded from behind him, pulling him back to the present.

  “Why is the young lord sighing so heavily? Is something weighing on your mind? Care to share it with me?”

  Emano turned, frowning at the newcomer.

  “What are you doing here?”

  It was the woman who had contacted his father earlier. Young. Beautiful. Yet her clothes and manner of speech carried a maturity far beyond her appearance, and there was a strange enchantment in her voice—something that made him wary rather than intrigued.

  Her gaze drifted lazily around the room. She lifted a smoking pipe to her full lips and spoke softly.

  “If I said I came to visit you… would you believe me?”

  “Say what you came to say,” Emano replied coldly. “Skip the games.”

  “Oh my,” she said, raising a hand to her ear in mock fright. “You don’t have even a trace of your father’s manners.”

  Then she let out a puff of white, flicking her fingers, and her tone shifted at once.

  “I came to inspect the goods. And frankly, I don’t like what I just saw.”

  She stepped forward and tapped lightly at the blade still embedded in the wooden pillar.

  Emano narrowed his eyes, his voice colder than before.

  “Then talk to my father. Your business is with him, not me.”

  The woman turned slowly, feigning surprise, though the pipe never left her lips.

  “Business? Of course not.” She smiled faintly. “I meant what I said. I came to visit you.”

  Her voice turned mocking. “Because what are you to speak in place of your father about business?”

  This bitch…

  His eyes darkened to a deep, blood-red glare. In the next instant, he lunged like a wolf. One hand seized the hair at the back of her head, wrenching her forward. With brutal force, he drove her face toward the blade still embedded in the pillar—until the edge hovered barely an inch from her lips.

  His other hand gripped the hilt. Slowly, steadily, he drew the sword away from the wood. The steel slid out with terrifying control, its bright edge casting cold light across the woman’s face.

  “Watch your tongue,” he said quietly. “My blade is sharper than it.”

  His grip tightened. “Maybe you’re used to being pampered by Veyran men—soft hands, soft words. Maybe you think you can joke with us the same way.”

  Finally, his voice dropped to a growl.

  “I’m not like them. And you’re pushing very close to the edge.”

  But the reaction he expected never came.

  There was no fear on her face. If anything, there was only madness. And something darker—an unsettling hatred that made no sense.

  “Oh, I see that edge,” she purred, her voice almost pleased. “This is much better.”

  Then, deliberately, she ran her tongue along the sharp blade right in front of her mouth. Sharper were her eyes, meeting his with disdain.

  “It’s not the first time someone has grabbed my hair and shoved my face against something I didn’t want. And it’s not the first time someone has threatened me into silence.”

  Her gaze hardened. “No, you’re not very special. They all did the same.”

  She then tapped the stem of her pipe lightly against the sword’s edge, her voice softened again.

  “Though the timing is different. This time… we might still be able to cooperate.”

  Emano slowly released her.

  That damned temper again, he cursed inwardly. And this woman… what the hell?

  He drove the sword point-first into the floor, then turned and dropped onto a crate of drovar dust. However foul the smell was, it was still easier to bear than standing too close to her.

  “So,” he said flatly, “what exactly is the problem?”

  The woman moved to another crate across from him. She pressed her ear against the side and tapped the wood with her knuckles. The sound that came back was dull, heavy as rock.

  “Your shipment is short by three wagons compared to the agreement,” she said. “According to the information I received, they disappeared somewhere in the north, near Dubas.”

  Emano drew in a slow breath. Of course, the woman meant trouble.

  He gestured broadly around the enormous warehouse, where crates were stacked in towering rows.

  “Three wagons?” he scoffed. “Compared to all this, that’s a grain of sand. You’re not planning to make a scene over something so small, are you?”

  She shook her head.

  “This isn’t about surplus or shortage. It’s about secrecy. What happens if someone discovers it?”

  Emano tilted his chin.

  “The lost shipment was under your Royal Treasury’s watch, wasn’t it?” he sneered. “You made the promises. And now you’re trying to push the blame onto us?”

  His voice hardened.

  “We lost the escort man as well. What about that?”

  The woman waved a dismissive hand.

  “Oh, don’t lump all of us together,” she said lightly. “This is merely a business arrangement.”

  She continued calmly,

  “We did find the body of your escort near the border. But compared to where the missing cargo vanished… It’s quite far away.”

  She paused, studying his reaction.

  “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Emano wasn’t stupid. He understood perfectly—but he was still weighing his answer. The woman didn’t wait.

  “It means someone followed you. And caught up, even.”

  She tilted her head.

  “Any idea who?”

  Emano inhaled slowly.

  “Most likely the shadowrooks.”

  “I thought you bragged that your men were elites,” the woman said lazily. She sat on a crate and crossed her feet as if it were a chair. “Able to take on five opponents each. And yet they died without anyone noticing?”

  “They are elites,” Emano replied. “But so are the shadowrooks. Silent tracking and assassination are their specialties.”

  His eyes narrowed. “My man was poisoned, wasn't he?”

  The woman tipped her head back and glanced toward the ceiling, thinking for a moment before shaking it slightly.

  “I don’t remember the details. No one mentioned poison.” She paused. “Some bones were broken, I think. When they found him, his hand was still gripping his weapon.”

  A faint shrug. “Stubborn way to die. Worthy of a warrior, I suppose.”

  Emano frowned. Now that was strange. Shadowrooks these days fought openly?

  Unless…

  He forced the thought aside and said curtly,

  “Enough rambling. Whatever the case, this is still business. You should discuss it with my father.”

  He had not even finished raising his hand to dismiss her when she lifted hers first, smiling faintly.

  “Relax. That was just a notice.”

  Her eyes glinted.

  “This is the matter I came to discuss with you.”

  She flung a black token across the room. It landed neatly on a crate, right beside him.

  “With me?” Emano frowned, but didn't pick it up. “Go on.”

  The woman propped her head on one hand, elbow resting against the crate. The sharp stench of drovar dust seemed to bother her not at all.

  “I think I understand your mood,” she said lightly. “Why you’re always so irritable.”

  What the hell is she talking about?

  Her gaze lingered on him. “Living under your father’s shadow all your life must be suffocating, isn’t it?”

  Then she tilted her head.

  “What would you think… about standing on your own?”

  Emano felt a tremor run through him.

  That was something buried deep inside him—the quiet wish he had never spoken aloud. But hearing those words come from her mouth did not feel like understanding.

  It felt like a warning.

  How could she see that? Do other people see that, too? Does my father?

  Should I kill her right now?

  Yet, he found his hand moving to the black token instead. "What's this?"

  “A token,” she replied. “For the leader of Niendruk. With it, the men and the wealth of the Hound Castle are yours.”

  Emano drew a sharp breath, steadying his voice.

  “I already have my own men.”

  “Do you?” she said lightly. “Or are they your father’s men?”

  Emano swallowed hard, forcing his temper down. His fingers traced the intricate carving of a lion’s head etched into the crystal token.

  At last, he said stiffly,

  “If you think you can tempt me with this and make me betray my father—”

  The woman burst into laughter.

  “Betray?” she repeated. “No. We’re all in the same boat, dear. No one is being cast overboard.”

  She stepped closer, the playful tone fading from her voice.

  “I think you misunderstand. From the beginning to the end, the one we partnered with in this affair would always be your father. Only he can represent the power we chose to work with.”

  Her eyes flicked toward him.

  “But during the course of the operation, you displayed a rather impressive ability. The name belongs to your father, perhaps—but the head and the hands behind it are yours. My master found that… intriguing."

  Her smile returned on her beautiful lips. “And he likes capable allies. Who knows—on the next venture, the one we end up working with…”

  She gently folded his fingers around the token.

  “…might very well be you.”

  Her hand stayed there for a moment.

  “Keep it. It’s only a gift. No one expects anything from you in return. I promise.”

  She then turned and walked away.

  It took Emano a moment to come back to himself. By the time he found his voice, she was already standing at the doorway.

  “Wait,” he called out. “You… what’s your name?”

  The woman did not turn back. She only raised a hand and pointed upward.

  “Call me... Celestine.”