In a flash of memory, Jack recalled the dozen combat spell scrolls he’d created with the assistance of elven mages. He’d brought them as an emergency measure should his assassination plan falter; half a dozen [Fireball] and half a dozen [Frost Breath] spell scrolls remained out of reach in his backpack, wedged between him and the wall.

  In his torment, he cursed his own idiocy. Why did I leave them in my pack? Gods, how could I be so damn stupid?

  Jack should’ve carried at least one spell scroll in his free hand. He’d known full well that a noble like Greaves would possess enchanted items to absorb these two common mage spells. He could see a few brass pins adorning the Viscount’s fine-tailored suit, each inscribed with protective runes. However, a single [Fireball] would’ve made for the perfect distraction while he sank the poisoned drow blade into the Viscount’s soft gut.

  The enchanted drow blade had been his trump card; even a single nick from the poisoned dagger would have killed the Viscount. It would’ve punched through those protective items with ease. His blind confidence in the almost unstoppable drow blade and poison left no room for contingency plans.

  Greaves twisted the drow blade in Jack’s gut. “Stay with me,” the old noble said in a quiet, almost friendly voice. “Can’t have you falling asleep halfway through the show, now, can we?”

  Jack whimpered as the razor-edged blade twisted once more, sending fire through his intestines. He tried to remain silent, to grit his teeth and deny his killer the pleasure, but the agony was too much. A pitiful moan escaped. Clenching his jaw, a single thought rose above the pain. I won’t speak. But he groaned again when the blade cut deeper. It felt like his organs were being shredded and boiled. His insides no longer belonged to him; they belonged to fire and steel.

  Greaves smiled; the bastard smiled. There was a sick glow in Greaves’ eyes as he studied Jack’s suffering, as though he were admiring a beautiful piece of art. One drawn in pain and torment.

  “Pathetic,” the Viscount whispered. “Not even a hint of being Fate-touched.”

  Desperation clawed at Jack. If he could break free or trick the murdering scum into activating the scrolls in his bag. He looked around for a weapon or way to fight back, but found none. He prayed to Tyche, the Goddess of luck, chance, and fortune, for a pack of stray dogs to run by and attack Greaves. Or for a lazy resident to empty their chamber pot out of a window, thereby creating a diversion.

  The pipe dream was cut short when he recalled they were in Lundun. The capital, where the King decreed that anyone caught dumping shit from windows would face severe punishment. The court was sick of the stench of raw sewage after they’d started enjoying the use of magical toilets.

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  Jack had stalked Greaves for months, watching his every move before deciding this was the perfect location to enact his long-awaited revenge. The place where the murderer would die. Every Thursday night, like clockwork, the Viscount would pass through this narrow, shadowy alley on the way back from visiting an elven brothel. It was one of the few times he didn’t keep his two personal beastkin guards close at hand.

  One of the reasons he had chosen this spot was that there was nothing the Viscount, or now Jack, could use to fight back. He’d spent over a dozen hours in this alley, planning his revenge. It was dark, narrow, and twisting, with only one way in and one way out. Few people lived here, and no doors opened into it. There were no possible weapons here: not even a loose brick in the walls or the cobbled ground. Even the newly installed aether-powered street lanterns failed to cut through its gloom.

  A perfect location for an assassination attempt on almost any class, let alone a non-combatant like an administrator. The plan was simple. Hide in the shadows, wait for Greaves to pass, and stab the murderous mongrel in the back. He’d die like the backstabbing dog he was in life.

  Jack would avenge his family’s murder, and maybe, just maybe, the cruel nightmares would at last end.

  “Stay alert,” Greaves ordered, twisting the dagger again, drawing a broken whimper from Jack. “Who sent you?” his voice was low and menacing. “I can keep you alive for days, or end this swiftly.”

  The pain was excruciating, but Jack refused to speak, stubbornness clinging to him like a shield. Gritting his teeth, he managed muffled grunts and whimpers with each twist of the blade, blood-flecked spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

  Greaves waved the drow blade before Jack’s face again. “At least tell me who sent me this fine gift,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll be sure to thank them in person.”

  Jack groaned, his body trembling with the effort of enduring the pain, but he gave no answer. Blood trickled between clenched teeth. Salty and bitter sweat streamed down his pain-contorted and scarred face.

  Viscount Greaves smiled as he studied Jack’s torment like a sculptor admiring his finest work, taking a perverse pleasure in watching his muse struggle against the agony. “You don’t want to die from a festering stomach wound,” Greaves whispered, the words almost tender. “It means days of unrelenting torment and I can always patch you up just enough to keep you teetering at death’s edge for weeks. Even months.”

  Greaves paused as though considering the sadistic plan. “Who knows?” he mused. “Give me what I want, and I might even spare your miserable life.” The Viscount leaned closer, eyes raking over Jack’s disfigured, burn-scarred face. “I could pay a Master Healer to fix those ugly burns. Perhaps even restore your damaged eye.”

  Then, with a laugh, he added, “You look like a half-melted candle.”

  At the mention of his scars, Jack instinctively tried to raise his hood to hide the left side of his ruined face. But his arms were limp and useless.

  You’re the bastard who gave me these scars. Hatred burned in him, every fibre of his being loathing Greaves for what he’d done, for what he’d taken. Jack pleaded for divine intervention. I swear by the Gods, if he dies, I’ll do anything in return. It was the same desperate prayer that had echoed in his heart for twenty years, unanswered, and unheeded.

  A strange pulse fluttered in his abdomen as though the wounds were healing themselves.