"This way," he said, leading her to the backroom, his mind racing.
Weak aura. Full of openings.
But he couldn’t be too hasty.
Either she was a decoy, or she was far more dangerous than she appeared. Either way, he’d play along—for now.
As the door shut behind them, his fingers brushed the hidden dagger at his wrist.
Let’s see what this "commission" truly is.
Those cold, needle-like pupils were locked onto his, unblinking. The air thickened, the dim light of the backroom seeming to warp around her silhouette. His breath caught in his throat.
Her voice was the last thing he heard before the world dissolved into static.
(Who knows how long later...)
Suddenly, the man’s vision cleared in jagged increments—first the cobblestones beneath his feet, then the distant murmur of voices, then the biting chill against his skin.
People pointed at him, while some whispered to each other, the others laughed openly.
A child giggled. "Mama, look, that man has the same underwear as me!"
"S-Shush! Don’t look at that pervert!"
His head snapped down.
Bare legs. Bare arms.
The only thing preserving the last shreds of his dignity was a pair of childish undergarments, the kind meant for toddlers, patterned with ridiculous yellow ducks.
For a single, horrifying second, his mind blanked.
Then the laughter hit him.
A crowd had gathered, their fingers pointed, their mouths stretched in mocking grins. Whispers slithered through the air like snakes:
"Look at this pervert!"
"Hah! Those tiny ducks!"
"Someone call the guards!"
His face burned. His pulse roared in his ears. But years of training clamped down on the panic—he forced his breathing steady, his expression neutral.
This is an illusion. A trick. It has to be.
But the cobblestones were real beneath his feet. The jeers were real in his ears. The humiliation was—
A merchant’s stall nearby had a folded robe hanging unattended.
In one fluid motion, he snatched it, swirled it around himself, and bolted.
Behind him, shouts erupted.
(Dark Alley – Minutes Later)
"Stop! In the name of the City Guard!"
Boots pounded against stone. Light flickered against the alley walls as the guards scanned the area, their relic—a brass compass etched with detection runes—whirring uselessly in their captain’s hand.
"Tch. Got away." The captain spat. "Spread out. He can’t have gone far."
The guards dispersed, their footsteps fading into the night.
From the darkness, the red-haired man emerged, now clad in sleek black noble’s attire, his expression thunderous.
"Damn it all!" he hissed, flexing his fingers.
What the hell was that?
He pressed his palms against his temples, his nails digging into his scalp.
Why the hell was he outside? And like that?
One moment, he’d been in the backroom with... with...
A sharp pain lanced through his skull.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to remember.
"Wait... no. I remember going down..." His lips twisted.
He went into the underground room again. The Warden had called a second time—interrupting him right as he was about to close the shop—and issued a new directive. Another special commission, apparently related to the first one. He was ordered to complete both missions together.
He’d returned to the shop afterward, already recalibrating his plan.
A shelf had collapsed. Vials shattered—glass, powder, fumes. Alchemical reagents.
He’d barely had time to react before his vision swam and everything—
Another lance of pain drilled into his skull, sharp enough to make him stagger against the alley wall. He tasted copper in his mouth, his tongue bitten through in the momentary spike of agony.
He slammed a fist into the bricks beside him.
"Am I really that clumsy? That careless?!" he snarled through gritted teeth. He was a Warden’s Hand—not some greenhorn apprentice. There was no way he would trip and let a damn shelf of mislabeled potions collapse on him.
Another wave of pain seared through his thoughts, and he gasped, bracing himself against the alley wall.
F-Forget it. Those damn potions must have messed up my memories.
Whatever had happened, it didn’t matter now.
He had two missions to complete.
And his life depended on it.
"Hoo." The red-haired man straightened his coat, smoothing the fine black fabric with practiced ease. The earlier humiliation still burned at the edges of his thoughts, but he shoved it aside.
The Warden had given him two commissions now—the original target (that damn boy who’d somehow killed Vex) and this new one. The second mission was... larger in scale. More delicate. It would take time.
But surely the Warden would understand if he delayed slightly, right? After all, it wasn’t every day one was ordered to orchestrate an incident in a big town.
He exhaled through his nose.
A cold prickle ran down his spine as he recalled those violet eyes—how they’d stared into him, through him, as if he were nothing more than a tool to be used and discarded.
Do not ask questions you are not meant to ask.
As long as it led to promotion, he’d do it. The Black Star Circle was within reach.
With that thought, he melted into the crowd, his noble’s attire granting him effortless anonymity. The earlier humiliation—the laughter, the ducks, the guards—was already fading, buried beneath the urgency of his mission.
The veiled woman watched him go, her emerald hair stirring in the evening breeze.
For a long moment, she stood motionless, her gaze tracking his figure until it vanished around a distant corner.
"Sorry, sweetie," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the wind. "This is all necessary. And for your own good."
"You can’t blame me..."
Her fingers brushed the edge of her veil, as if contemplating lifting it—then stopped.
With a sigh, she turned.