Jack walked through Lundun, the bustling capital of the Kingdom of Merciar, in search of a temple where he could choose his class. With an estimated population exceeding three hundred thousand, Lundun was, in his eyes, the most beautiful city on the continent—perhaps even in the world—and the undisputed pinnacle of magical technology and innovation.

  “I love this city,” he said with a smile as he walked through the city of his childhood.

  Everywhere he looked, the city bore testament to the wonders of modern magic fused with aether-powered ingenuity. An elegant convergence of aethercraft and engineering. In the distance, towering brass-and-stone watchtowers stood sentinel over the skyline, each crowned with enormous aether-powered cannons that gleamed like molten bronze in the early morning light.

  Rumour held they could bring down a grown dragon in a single volley. If dragons still roamed the skies, it would make for an impressive display. Aether-conductive copper veins spiralled down the towers like ivy, glowing with blue light drawn from the city’s central aether crystal housed deep beneath the Crystal Spire. The aether crystal, the size of a family home, was powerful enough to protect the city from almost any threat.

  Dancing from one colourful stall to the next, Jack revelled in the textures of fine silks, the tang of oil and ozone in the air, and the chorus of tinkling bells and aether-steam hisses that formed Lundun’s soundtrack. Then, by chance, he came across a weapon seller, a middle-aged woman sharpening a dagger.

  The way she ran the blade across the whetstone made Jack stop. The slow, deliberate sound echoed in his bones. A memory stirred. Though the dagger was unremarkable, its hilt worn and scarred, something about the way the blade slid over the whetstone stirred a deep sense of longing.

  This wasn’t about the dagger. It was about what it meant. Ever since deciding to use a poisoned drow dagger to assassinate Greaves, he had kept a blade by his side. A decade ago, he’d started with a cheap dagger that was adequate for hunting rabbits and deer while he saved for a real drow weapon. Instinctively, he placed his hand where his drow blade had rested. “I miss my dagger,” he murmured, feeling naked and vulnerable without it.

  Most of the merchant’s wares were of low quality, but a few stood out as good stock. Jack tested the weight of various weapons in his hands while keeping a watchful eye on the merchant as she continued sharpening the old blade on a whetstone.

  Jack wanted that dagger. He was no assassin, but he needed it; his fingers itched to hold it.

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  This was no drow assassin’s dagger. Drow blades sold for hundreds of gold, and this weapon bore notable damage to the handle. It looked as though a dog had used it as a chew toy. However, the blade itself appeared solid despite a subtle red tarnish. There was no doubt the weapon would make a worthy companion for someone with limited coin.

  Jack studied the merchant. She wore fine clothing that had seen better days. Her dress showed signs of damage, poorly mended, and the fraying, colourful awnings above her stall suggested she’d fallen on hard times.

  Forgetting that this was likely a death dream, he smiled. He’d always enjoyed haggling with merchants. A dance of wits and words that transformed an everyday transaction into a veritable performance. I think I can get a good deal here.

  He’d need one. As a sixteen-year-old without a job, his pockets weren’t overflowing with gold. He had less than 40 silver, money he’d saved to buy scribe resources after becoming a Novice Scribe. He estimated the blade was worth at least 70 silver; without the damage, it would be worth several gold.

  The merchant finished sharpening the blade, sheathed it, and placed the dagger in front of him like an offering. Some merchant-related classes had skills that allowed them to gain insight into a customer’s desires.

  Jack frowned. Has she noticed my interest? He unsheathed the weapon and waved the sharpened dagger in the air as though testing it in battle. Everything felt right. His need for revenge surged like an unstoppable tide, pulling at his fate. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as though he were back in the alley, waiting for his enemy to pass within striking distance. His hand tightened around the dagger’s hilt, ready to bury it in Greaves’ fat gut while staring into the scumbag’s eyes as he died.

  I need it. Jack imagined the blade slicing through the murderous Viscount’s neck, the bastard’s crimson blood flowing into the gutter where it belonged.

  Justice. Revenge. Vengeance. Balance restored.

  The merchant’s eyes moved to the dagger Jack clutched in his hand and gave a vicious smile, her perfect teeth gleaming, her canines sharp as dagger blades.

  Pulling himself back from the edge, Jack considered his coin. I need it. But will I have enough? He grinned as he devised a cunning plan. “Shame about the damage. How much for the defective weapon?” he asked the merchant, discarding the blade as though it were rubbish before picking up another dagger he had no interest in.

  The merchant clenched her fists and glared at Jack with disdain as he discarded the dagger. “That’s an excellent assassin’s weapon, boy.” She scratched her chin, her gaze piercing him as though she were peering into his soul. “You lack the keen eye of a true assassin. How disappointing.”

  Jack winced at the memory of Greaves saying something similar while torturing him for information.

  The merchant shook her head. “This is no ordinary blade. It once belonged to a Master Assassin; a real one.” Retrieving the dagger from its resting place, she unsheathed it and ran her thumb along its sharp edge. “50 silver, including the history of the weapon, boy.”

  Jack noticed the merchant’s eyes flash red for a moment. Is she using a skill on me?

  It wasn’t illegal for merchants to use non-combat skills on customers. There were no known merchant skills that could force a sale. Though a merchant could nudge them in a preferred direction.