With his hand gripping his new dagger, Jack melted into the crowd, shadowing Baron Greaves and his two beastkin guards. He was no assassin, but years of hard-earned experience guided his steps, allowing him to move unseen through the streets, his quarry unaware they were being stalked.

  Despite his earlier failure to strike Greaves down, he found a strange, almost comforting reassurance in having the blade at his side. It was a false comfort, yet one he clung to nonetheless. Even the damage along the weapon’s handle seemed fitting. The dagger was scarred, as he was, but still capable of fulfilling its purpose.

  As the Baron strolled away from the library, Jack’s thoughts turned dark. He pictured closing the distance, driving the blade home. “I could end it now; get my revenge,” he muttered under his breath, his mind running through the angles, the footwork, and the moment to strike. He didn’t care that killing the Baron would result in his own death; vengeance and justice were more important.

  But then a wave of dread surged over him, cold and suffocating. His muscles locked, and his breath caught. In that instant, he was no longer the one moving but a distant observer, a disembodied spectator witnessing himself from somewhere far removed.

  He saw his own body step forward, dagger in hand, ready to strike. The vision splintered into jagged flashes. A beastkin guard’s sword swung in a brutal arc. His own head separated from his shoulders. Another flash revealed the Baron’s mild look of curiosity, as though Jack’s death warranted little notice. Another flash, and his severed head hit the ground with a dull thud. The disjointed vision faded with Greaves smiling as Jack’s headless body crumpled to the ground.

  “What the fuck was that?” Jack spluttered, the cold dread ebbing away as sweat slicked his back. Trembling, he leaned against a nearby wall. “What the hell was I thinking?” His fingers tightened on the dagger’s hilt. He’s got two guards; I’m unprepared… My family!

  Reality bit down hard. He recalled the countless preparations he’d made to kill Greaves. Pain-filled months of dagger training in the forest. Over a decade spent crafting spell scrolls for elven mages just to afford a drow-forged blade. And yet, despite all of that, an old man had disarmed him in seconds.

  Thankful for the strange vision, Jack exhaled and shook his head in resignation. His eyes were still locked on the Baron as the noble wandered further away. “I should get my class and go home to enjoy time with my family.” He’d been so caught up in his obsession for revenge that he’d forgotten that his family was alive; he had something to live for.

  Yet, despite his rational mind urging him to choose his class and go home, he couldn’t tear himself away from stalking the man he despised most in the world. His obsession had returned to following the cold-blooded killer as if it were second nature.

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  His heart raced as he shadowed the Baron along the city’s main promenade, zig-zagging through the throng of market-goers and clockwork kiosks belching scented spent aether-steam into the air.

  He watched, dismayed, as the greedy Baron stopped to chat with merchants, casually helping himself to free samples of their wares as though the entire city owed him tribute. The vendors didn’t seem to mind the noble helping himself, and the few he attempted to pay waved him away.

  Jack looked on with revulsion as he witnessed the entitled noble stuffing his face at nearly every food stall he passed. When he worked at the Royal Library, it wasn’t unusual for Greaves to take five breaks a day just to eat. He’s on his early morning break.

  Without a care in the world, Baron Greaves enjoyed a wrap filled with meat and grilled vegetables; Jack had moved close enough to see what he was eating.

  The middle-aged Baron had paused to watch one of the street entertainers, a gnome whose accordion unfolded into a mechanical serpent that belched aether-steam in time to his melody. He flicked the gnome a silver coin—an extravagant tip—before continuing on his way.

  Clenching the handle of his dagger, Jack again considered striking. Damn it. I’ll fail again. He recalled the earlier feeling of dread and the strange vision of him losing his head, literally. Taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to control his raging anger and sense of powerlessness, he continued to follow.

  The grim reality of what would happen to his family if he were caught trying to kill a noble calmed his hatred enough not to act rashly. He couldn’t risk his entire family being executed. “No. I-I’ll,” his voice was shaky with impotence. So, he continued to follow with hate-filled eyes as his hand itched to sink the blade into any part of the Baron.

  As the minutes passed, Greaves veered away from the main city streets and into Lundun’s more unsavoury quarters. The district was officially called Grimesby, but to the locals, it was Grime City.

  Unlike the well-kept avenues of the capital, this slum was a patchwork of corroded pipework, soot-blackened walls, and flickering signage powered by spluttering, low-grade aether conduits. Only the main thoroughfares were lit by aether lanterns; once dusk fell, the side streets plunged into darkness, where crime thrived like mould in a damp cellar.

  Jack followed with his confusion mounting as Greaves and his guards entered one of the city’s larger slave markets. The stench of unwashed slaves, bodily waste, and despair hung heavy in the air. The smell assaulted his nostrils.

  Why would he visit a slave market? In all the months he’d shadowed Greaves, the man had shown no interest in the flesh trade. Yet the Baron moved with purpose, suggesting this was more than a casual detour.

  They stopped at a modest operation, less showy but still doing brisk business. Greaves leaned in to speak with the slaver in charge, a sickly-looking white-haired drow who carried an aether-powered slave prod at his side.

  The auctions were already well underway; guttural shouts of bidding rang through the market, punctuated by bursts of aether-steam from overhead vents and the rattling chains of new acquisitions being hauled into place. The cobbled streets reverberated with the clatter of cart wheels, and the general clamour of commerce drowned out Greaves’ voice.

  Jack strained to hear over the noise of the busy slave market, but it was useless. He threaded his way through the crowd, dodging elbows and jostling shoulders, using the commotion as cover. Shouts echoed around him, bartering calls rang out, and the sizzle of a nearby aether grill added to the noise.