The towering oak doors to Skycastle's grand hall loomed before Sif like the jaws of a beast. He adjusted the frayed collar of his coat, his calloused fingers trembling faintly—a weakness he'd last felt on the eve of lismorth, staring down the elven horde. This is worse, he decided. Battles had rules. Nobles did not.
A guard shoved the doors open. The hall beyond glittered—crystal chandeliers bathed the room in cold light, reflecting off marble floors and the Medici crest inlaid in gold. At the far end, atop a dais of obsidian, sat Duchess Benka de Medici.
She was a storm in silk. Her gown, the deep crimson of fresh blood, pooled around her like spilled wine. gold hair cascaded over one shoulder, framing a face carved from marble—high cheekbones, lips painted black, eyes the molten gold of a predator's glare. She lounged on her throne as if born to it, a half-smile playing on her lips as Sif approached.
"Ah, il Volpe," she purred, her Tuscan accent curling around the words like a cat stretching. "How… rustic you look. Like a wolf who stumbled into a cathedral."
Sif's throat tightened. He bowed stiffly, hyperaware of his mud-caked boots, the sweat-damp tunic clinging to his spine. "Your Grace."
Beside her, Conte Vittorio—a skeletal man in a velvet doublet—snorted. "A wolf? More like a stray. One wonders if he'll piss on the rugs."
Benka's laugh was a blade dragged over silk. "Silenzio, Vittorio. Even strays have uses." She leaned forward, her gaze raking Sif from boots to brow. "Tell me, caro—do you know why I summoned you?"
Sif forced his voice steady. "The Inquisitor said you lost something."
"Lost? No." She snapped her fingers. A servant hurried forward, bearing a velvet pillow. Upon it lay a sketch of a necklace—a serpent coiled around a gemstone darker than midnight. "The Lamento di Vormak. Stolen. By men who think themselves clever." Her smile sharpened. "I want it found. And I want you to do it."
Vittorio sneered. "Him? The butcher of Cannae? Let him dig latrines, not treasures."
Cannae. The word slithered into Sif's gut. He saw it again—the plains choked with elven dead, the air thick with flies and the metallic stench of blood. 55,000 souls. His victory. His curse.
Benka's heel clicked against the dais. "At Cannae, you turned a massacre into a masterpiece. I admire… efficiency." She rose, descending the steps until her perfume enveloped him—jasmine and poison. "Find the Lamento before my masquerade in two nights. Do this, and your debts to the Iron Bank dissolve. Refuse…" Her nail traced his jaw, cold as a dagger's edge. "Well. The Emperor misses his favorite trophy."
Sif swallowed. "And the thief?"
"Oh, caro." She laughed, low and throaty. "I don't want the thief. I want the necklace. The rest is confetti."
Outside, the Inquisitor Faln leaned against a sunlit column, peeling an orange. "Survived the viper's n-nest, I see."
Sif raked a hand through his hair, his heartbeat still erratic. "Next time, warn me before throwing me to wolves in silk."
Faln grinned, juice dripping down his wrist. "W-where's the fun in that? Besides—" He tossed Sif a crumpled invitation stamped with the Medici viper. "Now you get to w-wear pretty clothes. Nobles love a man who cleans up… almost human."
Sif stared at the parchment. "I'd rather wrestle the wyrm."
Faln barked a laugh. "Careful. Benka might a-arrange it.
The Pigway's filth clung to Sif's boots as they pressed deeper into the district, the Skyrout's light dissolving into a sickly haze. Flan moved ahead, his posture loose but predatory, like a wolf scenting blood. Sif finally snapped:
"Why the hell did you drag me to the Duchess?"
Flan halted, his stutter sharpening the silence. "B-because p-politics is just th-thievery with f-fancier knives." He grinned, a flash of teeth. "And you looked like you'd piss yourself if I t-took you straight here."
Before Sif could argue, Flan lunged. A scrappy teenager bolted from an alley, but Flan caught him mid-stride, slamming him against a wall. The kid thrashed, panic wild in his eyes, until Flan's teeth sank into the meat of his shoulder—not deep, but enough to freeze him.
"N-now," Flan hissed, saliva smeared on his chin, "where's the Ch-chief?"
"Split Tooth Lane! The butcher's cellar!" the kid gasped, trembling. Flan released him, flicked a coin at his feet, and wiped his mouth. "G-gratitude."
Flan turned, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and caught Sif's glare. "W-what?" he sneered, eyes glittering with challenge. "N-never s-seen a b-bargain struck?
The cellar reeked of blood and burnt herbs. Chains hung like dead serpents from the ceiling, and behind a warped desk sat Dr. Morde—a mountain of muscle and scar tissue, his voice a subterranean growl. "Flan. Still the Duchess's attack dog, I see."
Flan's smirk tightened. "S-still hiding in d-dark corners, M-morde?" He leaned on the desk, ignoring its creak. "The L-luminara necklace. Stolen. Wh-who's got it?"
Morde steepled his fingers, the gesture unnervingly delicate for a man built like a siege engine. "Not my people. But the Queen of Prustutes in Imperis… she's been shopping for trinkets. Hired Cade 'Mad Dog' Marrow." His gaze slid to Sif. "Smuggler. Pyromaniac. Ring any bells, soldier?"
Sif stiffened. Cade. The name conjured smoke and card games, the clink of stolen whiskey in a war tent. "Ace of knives, Sif! You'd lose your boots if I didn't like your face."
"Never heard of him," Sif lied.
Flan snorted. "L-liar. You p-pale like a g-ghost."
Morde chuckled. "The Queen's grudge is old. Duchess hanged her lover for poaching royal deer. Now she wants the Luminara and a spectacle. Cade's job: steal it, burn the palace down. Poetic, isn't it?"
The inn's hearth coughed ash onto the floorboards. Sif stared into his ale, Flan's boot propped on the table beside him.
"H-how'd you k-know the M-mad Dog?" Flan pressed.
Sif's jaw flexed. "We played cards. During the Elmhallow campaign. He smuggled supplies—gunpowder, medicine, whatever paid. Even rigged a colonel's dice once." He traced a scar on his palm. "Saved my unit from ambush… then charged us triple for the warning."
Flan grinned. "S-sounds like a g-gem."
Flan swirled his drink, the smirk fading. "T-tomorrow, we f-find him. B-before the Duchess's birthday turns into a f-funeral."
But as Sif stared into the fire, he wondered if Cade would greet him with a knife or a deck of cards—and which he dreaded more
"Where are you going?" Sif snapped.
"T-to b-buy a clue. S-stay out of t-trouble, pup." Flan vanished into the night, leaving Sif alone with the fire and his ghosts.
Hours bled into the dark. Sif traced the scar on his palm—a souvenir from Elmhallow, where Cade had saved his unit from ambush… then charged triple for the warning. "Business is business, soldier." The Mad Dog's grin haunted him, sharp as a blade.
When the hearth died to ash, Sif stood. Time to move.
He stepped into the alley—and froze.
A figure leaned against the wall, a cigarillo glowing in the dark. The scent of gunpowder and burnt sugar hit Sif first. Then the voice, honeyed and venomous:
"Ace of knives, Sif. Still shit at bluffing."
Cade Marrow stepped into the dim light, his grin a predator's. The Mad Dog had found him first