A layer of liquid steel covers my body. Memories of my father flood into my mind. It’s the same magic we would cast together when he was alive. But I can’t dwell on that now. Dozens of furious mercenaries stand in front of me on the street in front of the Blood Coins. The orange light from the torches on sconces illuminates their faces, and they’re like an army of ravenous wolves with their teeth bared. I had grown up around them, but I didn’t know them. They’re foreign to me now. And it’s abundantly clear now:

  They’re not loyal to me. They’re loyal to my father.

  “Death magic!” one yells.

  “Necromancer! Zane is a necromancer!”

  I hold up my hands. “I’m not. I don’t know how this is happening.”

  “He was sent off for wizarding and came back with death magic! Kill him! Else the inquisition will hunt us all.” The sound of steel unsheathing from many scabbards echoed off the cobblestone.

  “Stop!”

  The mob freezes in place. Uncle Thorne stands next to me, his hand hovering just above my shoulder. His eyes open wide, white saucers embedded in a furious frame of flesh. Nobody knows what spell we cast together, not even us, but if it’s anything like what Thorne and father could do, they can’t dare, but their spearpoints and blades are still pointed right at me. Not that they could do much with my layer of armor shimmering across my skin.

  Thorne yells, "The severance pay is in the vault! Leave now, and I'll sign your release papers with full pay. Attack him, and you get nothing but ash."

  “Come on. We’ll find work with one of the other guilds.” Weapons reentered their scabbards, and the Blood Coin warriors dispersed.

  “Uncle. We are finished.” I allow the spell to subside. The steel layers pool into small droplets on my skin, then evaporate into the air as acrid-smelling wisps.

  “The vault is empty, kid. Better that they leave us now in fear than in the future in anger because we’re broke. I’ll have to get a loan for the severance payments, but being in debt is better than being dead.” There is wisdom in his words. “Besides. We’re not completely done.” Thorne gestures to where the crowd was a moment ago.

  One giant silhouette stands next to a tiny one. Almost comical in juxtaposition.

  “I’m with you, boss!” Ulfgar. Of course. “Unless you are actually a necromancer. In which case, I will kill you!” Not reassuring.

  “I will kill you regardless!” Nimue. The small ‘wizard’.

  “It’s a start,” I say.

  “It will be better this way,” Uncle says. “You can recruit a new force that’s loyal to you and not to the ghost of your father or to nonexistent gold and silver.”

  “Sure,” I say. The economics race through my head. How will we get large contracts with just four? No, three. Okay, three and a half to our name? We can’t. This will be an incredibly slow build. But I suppose if I have anything now, it’s time. No wizarding. Nothing else for me to be but this.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Now that they’re capable of casting spells, we pry the memorial discs from the wall in front of the Blood Coins building and put them into safer storage: the vault. The once-empty vault now has shelves along the walls we’ve pulled in from other parts of the building. The bronze discs, each adorned with the image of a deceased Blood Coin mercenary, line the shelves.

  Uncle Thorne picks one up and stares at the sculpted face depicted on the front. “Krengar. I remember him well. When we would cast together, we would grow to ten feet tall.” He closes his eyes, and his mouth moves silently. “Now? Nothing.” Thorne places the disc back on the shelf.

  I run my hand along a shelf, feeling the rough splinters of wood on my fingertips, then, on top of each disc, the grooves of the faces, the smooth lettering of the names. Each disc felt warm or electric, with magical energy flowing from each. “Can you cast from each?” Uncle asks. I nod in reply. Many of these people I never met, or I was just a little kid. I’d never tested our magic, and trying would be dangerous.

  Some of these discs are decades old, and it remains a mystery why I can use them as if the other person were still alive, while others can’t. “Was my father ever able to do this?”

  Before Thorne can reply, a small person answers, “Maybe you are a necromancer.” Nimue stands at the vault’s entrance. It’s disconcerting how stealthy she is.

  “We don’t incorporate remains into making these bronze discs, do we, Uncle?” I ask.

  Thorne shakes his head, no, with a look of disgust.

  The air fills with a crisp, burning scent, like a stack of paper just thrown into a fireplace. “Malakar,” Uncle Thorne says.

  “Damn, this is a sad sight.” This voice doesn’t come to my ears; it invades my head, vibrating through my very bones. A tall, slender figure stands in the corner of the vault examining the bare floors. The burning smell is stronger now.

  I’d heard stories of Malakar, but none prepared me for the reality. He is as alien as they claimed. More so. Malakar stands tall and slender, and a hand with blue skin erupts from the sleeve of a bright white suit. A long finger with an obsidian nail trails across the vault’s wall, lifting a sample of dust to his face. Malakar’s face shifts to disgust. His eyes, endless pools of dark void, sit atop high cheekbones and a jawline sharp enough to slice flesh. Two small black horns poke through a wide-brimmed hat.

  Nimue fled the room.

  “I have that effect.” He begins inspecting the bronze discs on the shelves. The most alien aspect of Malakar’s presence, even more than the strange clothes, blue skin, and horns, is his lighting. He doesn’t glow, per se. The vault is dim, but he seems lit by an otherworldly source, like an actor in the spotlight on stage, though no such torch exists here.

  “My condolences. I have heard of your father’s passing. He was a great man. I assure you, he is not in the worst part of hell.”

  “Thanks. I guess.”

  “I have returned with several contracts, but it doesn’t appear we are in a position to accept many of them anymore. I have one that I thought the Blood Coins might assign to a newer member as a test. Are you ready?”

  As if I have a choice.

  Malakar negotiates and enforces Blood Coins contracts with clients. He is some sort of demon or devil, summoned through the magic of my Uncle and father long ago. We either fulfill the contract's objectives, or Malakar ends our lives. It’s part of the brand of the guild.

  Bound by Blood. Sealed by Steel.

  “Ready as ever. What’s the job?”