The gilded chambers of the mayor’s residence stirred awake under the touch of the first morning rays. The room, filled with luxurious furniture and expensive works of art, gleamed in the light. Among the paintings adorning the walls of the city leader’s domain, Elro cherished most the one hanging above his bed. The portrait of his most beloved person in the world was crafted with traces of gold, silver, and platinum, and the crown depicted on the head was encrusted with real sapphires and aquamarines.
After last night’s feast, he could have lounged in bed until noon. But his sweet slumber was interrupted by the persistent staff, who came to clean up the mess their lord had left behind.
“Get lost, you idiots… Let me… sleep…” the mayor grumbled, half-asleep.
Following the maids into the room was Elro’s advisor: a tall, lanky man who always carried a notebook and sported a bushy mustache under his nose. He was a soft-spoken, timid, and skittish individual. Before delivering any news to the city’s head, he carefully chose his words and weighed every action. And upon learning what had happened at the prison, the right-hand man was utterly speechless.
“Sir, w-wake up… I h-have i-important n-news for you…”
He spoke so quietly that Elro didn’t even stir.
“Sir!”
“You get lost too… I don’t wanna see anyone…”
The advisor’s gaze fell on the striking painting above the mayor’s bed. Plump cheeks, bulging eyes, small ears, and a smug smile—Elro looked no worse in person than he did on the canvas.
Finally, the man mustered the courage to speak the bitter truth:
“Sir! The Sinful has escaped from prison with the help of an accomplice! The city guard is on high alert and combing every street and alley!”
The mayor jolted upright, his eyes wide open.
“Did I hear that right? Say it again!”
The mustached advisor nervously scratched at the hair under his nose and turned pale.
“What do you mean, escaped?”
“Well, y-you see…”
“No, I don’t see! Do you take me for a fool? Why didn’t anyone think to beef up security before the criminal got away? And who’s his accomplice?”
The staff, busy cleaning, froze in anticipation of something bad.
“You gave them the day off yourself and… His friend… He… Took out all our…” the advisor stammered timidly.
The head of Bell-Row flew into a rage. He began screaming hysterically, cursing, and hurling empty wine bottles at everyone in the room. His subordinates hurriedly fled, postponing their tasks for later.
“Find him and bring him back, or I’ll have every last one of you who failed me drawn and quartered! Starting with you!” he roared.
The advisor dropped his notebook and backed away in fear, leaving the lord alone.
***
The creaky door barely budged as it swung open, revealing two figures carefully concealed under thick cloaks at the threshold of a tavern called “Scorpion’s Sting.” Strangers looking to avoid prying eyes often frequented such places, especially at night.
Taverns were primary haunts for revelers, thieves, and mercenaries. Some came to enjoy cheap booze, others to chat with like-minded folks, and some to test their strength. Each dive had its own rules and customs. Lawlessness and chaos reigned only in rare cases.
“Scorpion’s Sting” was an unassuming joint, indistinguishable from the other buildings in Bell-Row, especially after the recent theft of its wooden sign depicting the desert creature it was named after. When you stepped inside, don’t be alarmed if, instead of fancy paintings or taxidermied animals on the walls, you saw countless oddly shaped stains, or if, instead of beautiful bardic melodies, you heard incoherent cursing and relentless shouting that made your ears wilt.
Behind the bar counter, to the right of the entrance, stood the ever-present bartender, Boll, who managed both the liquor and the establishment. Whenever patrons walked in, the old man always broke into a wide grin. He was a kind soul and rarely got angry. But if he did, a favorite blade always lay ready under his workspace for such occasions.
The pitch-black sword Memorium was forged by unknown hands and enchanted by unknown magic. Perhaps the reason for its mystique was its peculiar property: when this weapon killed someone, everyone who knew the victim forgot they ever existed, as if they’d never been born into this world.
Before it came into Boll’s possession, the sword had claimed hundreds of lives, possibly including wealthy merchants, renowned wizards, or even kings. But since no one remembers them anymore, there’s no point in telling their stories.
Pushing past drunken nobodies, the pair headed to a table in the far corner of the tavern, under the stairs. It was the only spot that couldn’t be seen from the entrance.
“Hope no one tailed us…” Miroen said with concern.
“After a getaway that flashy, it’ll take them a while to get their bearings!” Hertz assured him.
A waitress approached the travelers. The young woman, with a rather elegant figure, flashed a friendly smile and waited expectantly.
“What’ll you be having?” she asked, twirling a light auburn curl around her slender finger.
“Two mugs of ale, something to snack on, and… your name, please,” the swordsman said with a grin.
“Well, aren’t you smooth!” she replied with emphasis. “I’m Sue, and unfortunately, I’m already… taken.”
“Sorry, did I mishear you?” the fugitive asked, twitching nervously.
“Guys, what, are you new to Rahas? This is a land of endless possibilities! We don’t have those dumb stereotypes or restrictions here. If that’s all, I’ll be back with your order,” she said before walking off.
“Heh, tough luck, buddy!”
“Pfft, just a minor setback. Better luck next time.”
After a while, the waitress returned. Balancing plates and mugs with ease, she set them on the table and went back to her duties. The guys shed their bulky hoods. They looked worn out and exhausted.
“To reunions?” Hertz asked, holding up a heavy mug of ale.
“More than that—to unusual reunions!” Miroen replied with a smile.
After a few sips, the friends relaxed and started chatting.
“What brings you to Bell-Row?” the fugitive asked.
“I’m a free man. I go wherever I please.”
“And yet…?”
“I’m looking for work, doesn’t matter what kind. Last gig I had was running an errand for some noble, but he stiffed me on the payment.”
“Huh, why’s that?” the brown-eyed man asked, surprised.
“He didn’t like how I handled his, let’s say, competitor. He wanted the guy to stay out of his business—so I broke his nose.”
Miroen let out a quiet chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Simple and rough as a penny. Same old Hertz.”
His friend furrowed his brow.
“Go to hell.”
“Alright, alright. Ever thought about joining a guild? The odds of a client ripping you off are way lower than if you’re taking jobs without the backing of the ‘honest’ banner.”
“Are you serious? Tell me, when’s the last time you were in Corvel? Let me let you in on a little secret—there’s not a single guild in this region. And if there is, they’re damn good at hiding from the families. Besides, I don’t like working in a team, let alone splitting the reward.”
Miroen took a few sips from his wooden mug.
“Two years ago, I visited Laguna[1], and I heard about a funny incident. Some guy around my age got caught peeping on naked girls, and on top of that, he beat the snot out of every guard who tried to kick him out. Gray eyes, round face, black leather armor, and a long sword slung across his back. Ring any bells?”
Hertz turned red and practically burst with embarrassment. Miroen didn’t need words to know exactly where his friend wanted to tell him to go. The two burst into laughter at the same time, loud enough to draw the attention of nearby solitary drunks.
“How’s your dad doing?”
Hertz let out a heavy sigh and looked away.
“He passed away ten years ago. Later, I left the village and started wandering. After the Calinghem family came to power, Lanslight became their vassal. That’s when awful things started happening—stuff I don’t even wanna think about.”
“Calinghems, huh…”
Miroen sank into thought. He was more than just familiar with that family by reputation. Unpleasant memories surfaced in his mind.
“You know, Miro, I’d love to help them, but I’m not all-powerful. Going head-to-head with one of the most influential families in Corvel is like tying a rope around your neck and hanging yourself from a willow tree.”
“I get it, and I’m not blaming you for anything.”
“Maybe you could tell me what happened… back then…”
The fugitive flinched and gripped the handle of his beer mug tightly.
“Sorry, but I don’t wanna talk about it with anyone. Not even you.”
They fell silent abruptly, each lost in their own thoughts. Then, suddenly, Hertz decided to change the subject.
“Judging by the wanted posters with a bounty on your head in every town in Rahas, your life’s a lot more eventful than mine.”
The young man took a few sips of ale before responding.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly brag about every mercenary out there wanting to get rich off my death. Have you heard what they call me in ‘high society’ circles?”
“Nope,” his friend replied curtly.
“‘The Collector.’ They call me that because I gather weapons with unique magical properties from all over the continent. Get the gist?”
“Sure, I guess. So, what are you looking for in this dump?”
“A scythe.”
Hertz nearly choked on his snack.
“What the hell do you need that for? You’re not a farmer harvesting crops.”
The young man chuckled softly.
“You think only swords and daggers get enchanted in this world? With this weapon, you could burn entire villages and cities to ash! It’s brimming with unimaginable fiery power!”
The gray-eyed wanderer was taken aback by the enthusiasm and madness in his childhood friend’s voice. He remembered how, as young boys, they loved hunting animals, fishing, and messing around with the local kids. Only now did Hertz fully realize that those carefree days were gone, existing only in his memories.
“And that’s why you ended up in prison?”
“Yeah,” the young man nodded.
“I’m guessing you’ll land back there again, ‘cause you won’t stop until you get what you want, right?”
He nodded again.
“Damn it, what’ve you turned into? The Miroen I knew was a shy, quiet dreamer; a guy curious about the lives of ordinary folks, without titles or dowries; someone who tried not to dwell on his lineage and didn’t act all high and mighty. What, now you’re ready to kill for some rare knife or axe?”
His companion answered immediately, without hesitation.
“Let me remind you, the world used to be just as colorful for both of us. Only I’ve seen the ugly underbelly of life, and you, apparently, haven’t yet. What makes you think I should’ve stayed the same as I was? After what happened fifteen years ago, I was left completely alone. All this time, I’ve been a loner, and I plan to stay that way until I die. I’m endlessly grateful you helped me escape, but I didn’t ask for it. Just like I’m not asking for help to get what I want.”
Miroen stood up to leave, but things didn’t go as planned. The front door crashed to the floor with a thunderous bang, drawing the attention of every patron. Several silhouettes clad in heavy armor appeared in the doorway.
“Them again… I hate guards,” Hertz whispered, peeking out from the corner.
“Listen…” Miroen said, a spark of excitement in his voice. “You were complaining about not having work.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll give you ten gold coins if you take them down without a weapon.”
The wanderer perked up instantly, a glint of interest in his eyes. Hertz was never picky about jobs. But he got real satisfaction only when it came to a fight. His friend’s offer seemed too tempting, and before agreeing, he started looking for a catch.
“You don’t have that kind of money.”
The fugitive seemed to have anticipated this. A pouch tossed onto the table jingled greedily with coins.
Among the guards who disrupted the quiet, peaceful atmosphere of the tavern emerged the squad leader. The man spoke loudly and gruffly, as befitted a captain.
“Hey, bartender! Heard about the incident that went down last night?”
“Nope,” Boll replied calmly, not looking up from wiping an empty mug.
“Well, I’ll fill you in! One of the most wanted criminals in Rahas, nicknamed ‘The Sinful,’ escaped justice, and not alone! Word is, those two were spotted right here at ‘Scorpion’s Sting’!”
“Don’t know who you’re talking about. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Especially after what you did to my door…”
The squad commander was outraged by such insolence and let out a curse.
“What??? Do you even know who we are? The mayor will have your—”
“Life never teaches you guys a thing…” Hertz interrupted.
Enemy swords slid from their sheaths with a sharp ring. The wanderer, determined to teach these clumsy fighters a lesson once again, accepted the terms of the deal. Shedding his cloak, he grabbed a chair and hurled it toward the doorway. The wooden frame shattered with a crack as it smashed into the head of one of the law enforcers.
Before his gray eyes, the glint of cold blades flickered, eager to pierce his body and spill his blood. But he was quicker than ever. The desire to overpower his opponents bare-handed consumed him entirely. He shoved them, punched their faces, bashed their heads together, and even threw dishes. The patrons watching the brawl stood slack-jawed, unsure where to hide to avoid getting caught in the wanderer’s crossfire.
The bar counter was splattered with crimson hues as blood and wine mingled together. Injured guards stumbled out of the tavern one by one, clutching their battered heads and groaning. The realization that they’d been tossed around like stray dogs wouldn’t sink in for a while. The last man to test his luck in the fight was their commander.
The imposing man didn’t lose hope of taking Hertz down. His swordsmanship stood out sharply from that of his subordinates. A powerful swing, a different stance, and at least some ability to anticipate his opponent’s moves. The wanderer kept dodging and retreating, waiting for the right moment. Miroen began to wonder if he should step in.
“Come here, you lousy vermin!”
Those words enraged Hertz. Slipping behind his enemy, he hoisted a massive round table and, with a furious yell, brought it crashing down on the armored man. Applause erupted from all sides. They had nothing to counter the “demon fox.”
Boll, whose face showed no emotion, let out a heavy sigh.
“You owe me for this,” the tavern owner said. “Now get out of here before you cause even more trouble.”
Hertz nodded. Once again, they had to flee, hiding their exhausted faces under thick fabric. And the crowd of onlookers, gathered to watch the traveling circus, conveniently provided the perfect cover for the friends to evade justice.
[1] Laguna – a territory of hot springs located in the southwest of the Taioki region.