Aaron Felhorn was gone. Only Haern existed now, a man who had rejected everything Thren believed in.

  I have no son, he had told the Watcher then, showing no sign that he noticed the resemblance. Acting as if Haern was the stranger he truly had become.

  But now a new game was afoot, and Thren had a role to play. They were no longer alone upon the rooftops.

  “Halt!” he shouted, feigning surprise. “By the gods, put down your weapons!”

  Thren’s men immediately halted. It was instinctive to them at this point, to never question an order. Thren had been proud of that loyalty, but no longer. Not after the humiliations he had suffered. Not after the power of his guild had been proven a lie. This thing he commanded, it was a shambling corpse pretending at life. It had to end.

  Haern ran a hand through his sweat-soaked golden hair. “I have kept my face hidden for a long time,” he said, his voice no longer a whisper. “I feel it right you know the truth before you die.”

  Several members of Thren’s guild recognized Aaron from when he was a boy, and they spat or offered curses. Thren stood perfectly still, as if his blood was ice, as if his heart were not pounding a thunderous rhythm and his broken pride did not seek, even now, to best him in battle.

  He had tried that already. And failed.

  “You were to be our savior,” Thren said, pulling back his own hood. Let all present hear and know the goal he had envisioned, and that his son had rejected. “Every man and woman would have quaked at the sound of your name.”

  “I am Haern, Watcher of the King. Men do quake at my name, but only those who deal in shadows and death.” He bowed low. “You have hurt those I love and I will not risk their harm for my sake again. Look upon my face, all of you. Those who see my face must die. May Ashhur take pity on your souls before casting you to Karak’s abyss.”

  Karak? Ashhur? Thren had never spoken of gods and their desires to his son. That was the doing of others, a poison dripping from the lips of the gullible and the weak. He’d put an arrow through a priestess who once tried to teach Aaron to pray. Perhaps that was one of many errors he had made that led to the path his son now walked.

  Thren let his shoulders droop. There was no falseness to this pronouncement. The truth was the strongest cover for any and all lies.

  “You have been dead to me for seven years,” he told the man who had been Aaron. “Nothing has changed. Those loyal to my name, slay this man, and receive the highest honor I may bestow. I will call you son, and my heir, to replace he whom you slay.”

  And with that pronouncement, Thren executed the Spider Guild.

  The Watcher could not be beaten.

  “Such a shame, my son,” Thren said as the bloodshed erupted. The twenty died, ripped apart by both the skill of his son and the savage fury of the half-orc brute at his side. Thren pulled out a whistle from his pocket. Everything would end this day, every shred of his guild. This legacy of his, it would coalesce into one single, glorious night. The world would be made simple.

  The Spider Guild, brought to ruin by its beloved heir. The father, slain by the son. There was a purity to it that would echo, that would last.

  “You are a beauty to behold, a beauty that must be broken beneath my heel,” he said, and blew the whistle. Curtains fell from the sides of the rooms, revealing the last men and women loyal to his name.

  “Crush them,” Thren shouted, ordering them to their deaths for a promise that could never be. “Bring forth the time of the thief once more!”

  The time of the thief. The time before the Watcher, when the guilds had warred against one another and stolen whatever they possessed the strength to take. The weak had been broken and the strong elevated to rule. The proper way, worth the cost, worth the infighting and wars within the underworld.

  It was at the start of one such war Aaron had slain his older brother, Randith, to become Thren’s next heir. The Spider Guild was now a pathetic fraction of the strength it had been back then. It could wage no such wars, but the thieves barreling into the chaos that was the Eschaton Mercenaries did not understand. The losses had been slow and steady, the work of the Watcher, masterfully bleeding dry the guilds he had devoted his life to conquering.

  Blood flowed, swords clashing, the might of the half-orc more impressive than Thren first thought. The brute smashed aside his opponents as if they were children and he a rampaging bull. Into the chaos he created, Haern followed, picking apart weaknesses, punishing every errant step and every unstable footfall in the wake of the berserking warrior.

  The slaughter was everything Thren expected, but then a blue portal ripped open and out stepped Tarlak Eschaton, yellow-robed wizard and leader of the strange mercenary band that had adopted his wayward son. A nearby thief flung a pair of daggers, one for the chest, one for the throat, hoping to surprise him. A wise move, but the wizard was ready. A snap of his fingers and a shield encased him. The meager steel struck the shield and bounced harmlessly to the side.

  “How rude, those could have hurt.” Tarlak said, glaring at the man. Energy crackled across his hands, the beginnings of a spell. “Just like you hurt my sister.”

  Fire and lightning blasted through the grand headquarters. Smoke mixed with the smell of blood and burning meat. Thren frowned. Too many foes. The Watcher needed this honor. The half-orc had diluted matters already, and now Tarlak was here to kill with his magic.

  Thren grabbed a bow from the wall and steadily aimed. It seemed he would need to guide matters, and if he were honest with himself, there was satisfaction to be found in taking the life of one who had corrupted his son.

  One smooth draw, and the bowstring locked taut. Despite the chaos of battle, the clashing of swords, and the spread of fire (gods, the wizard seemed to love his fire), he trusted his aim. He let the arrow fly. His son screamed, but he was too far, too engaged with slaughtering the guild members he should be leading. The arrow shot straight for the wizard’s heart.

  And then the damn half-orc stepped in the way. The arrow punched into his dark leather armor, but the overly-muscled freak did not seem to care. He roared like a savage animal and pointed with his swords. The challenge amused Thren more than anything. A bit of life flooded into his veins.

  As always, he would ensure matters ran their proper course. The half-orc was a problem, and so the half-orc would die.

  “Come, orc,” he said, drawing his own swords. “I yearn to kill this night.”

  Haern tried to follow, but too many members of Thren’s guild surrounded him. The half-orc crossed the space between them, his swords pulled back for a dual slash. All his might and momentum pooled into a fearsome strike that would break any man who tried to block.

  Which is why Thren didn’t. He kept perfectly still, the slightest smile on his face, until those swords came slamming down. He slid aside at the last moment, his own blades sweeping horizontally to parry. His foe continued onward, trying to ram him with his shoulder. Momentum was with him, but the angle was wrong, and Thren worsened it by twisting his body, all his weight carefully balanced on his toes like a dancer.

  The half-orc raced past him, off balance and swords out of position. Thren spun and slashed him twice, thin cuts across the arm and neck. Certainly not enough to kill someone who could shrug off an arrow to the chest as if it were nothing. They squared off again, and this time his foe tried to fight him in test of skill, his swords weaving, striking and blocking simultaneously with their every hit.

  Thren recognized each and every one. How could he not, when his son was the brute’s teacher?

  Indignation lit a fire in Thren’s veins, hotter than the flames the maniacal wizard had set across the headquarters’ curtains. An heir. His son was creating an heir. Perhaps he knew it, perhaps he did not, but it didn’t matter. The skills were passed on, and to what? A wretched bastard child of some orc, more muscle than sense?

  Thren blasted each and every hit aside. He made a mockery of the half-orc’s defenses. The Spider Guild would die, yes, but this insult would die with it. Blood flowed across dark leather as Thren dissected the half-orc’s every move, every counter. No feint worked. No block was fast enough. The injuries rapidly grew more numerous, a thin gash across the cheek, multiple cuts along the arms, a vicious line along the stomach. None lethal. Just enough to bleed, to weaken. Softening him up for the killing blow.

  At last the half-orc’s confidence was broken. He abandoned any attack to instead defend, and Thren went on the offensive. He lashed twice with his right hand sword, pulled back, and then feinted with his other. His foe fell for the feint, left hand sweeping to block a hit that was not coming. Thren shot forward, vaulting into the air. His heel led, striking the half-orc’s face and crushing the cartilage of his nose. Blood splattered, and the half-orc gasped. His legs wobbled, the pain of the fight finally registering.

  “Miserable,” Thren muttered as he landed. No more games. His sword pulled back, hesitated the slightest moment to ensure the half-orc mistimed the parry, and then thrust straight for the bastard’s eye.

  Haern parried away the fatal thrust.

  Careless, Thren thought as his son’s foot smacked the left side of his neck. He rolled with it to soften the blow, came up to one knee, and slashed. Again, a misjudgment. His son was too fast, too prepared. He was already in the air, leaping over the blade. His knees struck Thren’s shoulders, slamming him to the ground. Thren gasped as two sabers pressed against his throat.

  The leader of the dying Spider Guild met the eyes of his son, and he saw turmoil in them, but nothing like when they last crossed swords. They had already waged their battle. They had already given each other everything in the shadow of the Darkhand’s carnage.

  “You abandoned us, now you come to murder us, murder your own father,” Thren said. One final lie, so that doubt would live on within his son. Their rain-swept duel upon the rooftops, forever shrouded in mystery. “I would not have tried killing the Watcher if I had known it was you.”

  Haern flinched, but then something cold and hard entered those blue eyes of his. No, there was no doubt, no confusion. Thren gave his son too little credit, for he refused to believe the lie. Yet there was something else, something he did not expect. Something akin to hate, or abandonment.

  “You were a wretched father,” Haern whispered into Thren’s ear. “And I was not your son. I was your assassin, nothing more. Now, I am your better.”

  He yanked both blades viciously to either side. Thren felt the pain, felt the warmth of his blood flow, but he did not look away. Those words haunted him.

  I was your assassin, nothing more.

  Aaron Felhorn was meant to be so much more than assassin. An heir to a legacy. The culmination of a lifetime of blood, sweat, and tears. The lessons of the Darkhand, the brutality of Veldaren’s streets, the wisdom of tutors, the pride of kings, all for him, just him.

  Whatever doubt Thren had felt, he let it die. This, this was the fate he deserved, if his son believed so little in him. His hatred, he could bear. His fury, let it burn. But such contempt? Such horrid understanding of those gifts? No, Thren had failed the Spider Guild, failed where it mattered most.

  Let it die.

  Blood trickled, and he gasped for breath, but no air would come. His head went light. The fire burned so hot around him. The world darkened, but he could not close his eyes. His body turned cold, his limbs stiff and unresponsive. The blood turned brittle against his flesh. But he could not close his eyes. He could not close his eyes.

  A blue portal opened above Thren, swirling with strange stars and light. Aeng stepped out, and he immediately muttered a curse.

  “You said you’d be killed, not the whole building set to flame.”

  He leaned closer and pressed his hand against Thren’s throat. The sensation entered Thren’s brain from a far distance, as if his every limb were asleep.

  “Got you good, didn’t he? Two cuts across the throat. Be glad for the fire, I suppose. If he stuck around, he’d have noticed you hadn’t bled near enough.”

  Aeng grabbed Thren’s heel, turned, and dragged him into the portal.

  “Let’s get you somewhere more pleasant, shall we?”

  Thren could not argue. He could not move. He felt nothing, not even the pain. His mind was a fly, buzzing around a glass jar. If only he could look around. If only he could shift his view, or his body would respond

  The panic will be the worst, Aeng had warned him, and Thren focused on that as they passed through the portal. His mind was his strongest weapon. It would not break, not here, not now.

  They reappeared in the same warehouse in which they had first met, Aeng dragging Thren across chalk lines he’d carefully drawn hours prior. The wizard had a bag of supplies waiting, and Thren heard him rummage through it. Thren’s gaze remained locked on the ceiling. His eyes, they were so dry, even the numbness of his mind could not fully prevent their aching, cracking pain.

  Aeng’s face reappeared in view. He held a needle and thread in his hands.

  “Most in my trade tend to be awful with their hands,” Aeng said. “But luckily for you, sewing is a skill I have honed rather well, given my…preferred specializations. They’ll scar, that is unavoidable, but you’ll at least have a neck.” He whistled as he dug the needle into the stiff flesh. “The Watcher really wanted you dead. I’d take that as a compliment, if I were you. It takes a lot of skill to get someone to hate you that much.”

  And I was not your son…

  Time crawled along as Aeng sealed the first of the wounds. At the second, he studied and poked at the cut for an interminable amount of time.

  “He cut your windpipe,” Aeng said eventually. “Deep, too, real deep. I’m going to have to sew it back together. It’s going to hurt like the Abyss for months, I’d wager, until your skin finally heals and gets rid of the thread. No getting around this, though, unless you want to choke on your own blood.”

  Get on with it, Thren wished he could tell him, but his lips would not move, nor could he draw breath to say the words, given the shape of his body.

  The needle pierced into his throat, deeper, stranger. The sensation of every tug and pull was a nightmare. His mind rebelled, manifesting agony, the idea of nails scraping on glass becoming something close to physical sensation.

  Yet it wasn’t true pain. Pain would have been preferable. Damn it all, if only he could close his eyes, or ask the wizard to cover them with a cloth. He could see the needle after every pull, see it slick with blood, see the thread tightening, tightening…

  And then it was over. Aeng snipped the thread and started one anew.

  “All right,” he said. “Second cut, same as the first.”

  This stitching was far easier to bear. Thren endured, now finding it almost comforting. He’d been stitched and bandaged many times before. He knew intimately the interplay of needle, thread, and flesh. His current predicament was simply…odder.

  Once that was done, Aeng vanished from Thren’s view. More rummaging in his bag, then back again, this time holding strips of pale gray cloth. He looped the cloth around and around Thren’s neck, covering the freshly stitched wounds. Once done, he settled onto his knees and put his hands atop Thren’s chest.

  “I will not lie,” he said. “My spell put a halt to your every motor and biological function the moment you suffered your fatal wound. In more layman’s terms, think of it like freezing your body in ice. However, it is time for you to thaw. If you’ve ever warmed up a limb after frostbite, you have an idea as to what you should expect. If you have not, well…”

  Aeng laughed.

  “It won’t be something you’re likely to forget anytime soon.”

  Warmth spread throughout Thren’s body, radiating out from the wizard’s hand.

  “Oh, and given the shape of your throat…don’t scream.”

  Thren pulsed and thrashed on the floor, but as requested kept his teeth clenched tightly shut. He bit his tongue at one point, adding blood to an already blood-soaked mouth and throat, but he did not scream. The pain, he could bear. All new lives upon Dezrel were born in blood and pain.

  After several minutes, he felt the worst of it ease, and he was able to breathe at a steady pace.

  “Not bad,” Aeng said, stepping away. “Of the three others I’ve done this for, two died during the reawakening.”

  A fact you did not share beforehand, Thren thought, but dared not speak. His throat felt aflame. Even the trickle of air from his light inhalations brought torturous sensations. He sat up, gingerly stretched his frighteningly tight muscles, and then struggled to his feet. Aeng helped him with that, holding his arm as he swayed in the center of the dark warehouse.

  Once it was clear Thren could stand on his own, the wizard stepped aside and observed him.

  “Alive and well,” he said. His grin spread ear to ear. “Just like I knew you would be. This is so exciting. The implications of biological functions, of stasis…I mean, the fact your soul remained within your body alone is a fascinating idea. I might need to find a priest of Karak, Ashhur, or even an elf of Celestia, to—”

  Thren hit Aeng square in the mouth, ending the ramble. Aeng staggered backwards until hitting the wall of crates. He touched his lips, glanced at his fingers, saw blood on them.

  “All right,” he said. “I probably deserve that.”

  Thren lumbered over to the other side, where he’d stored a rucksack full of supplies, multiple changes of clothes, and enough coin to live comfortably for the rest of his life. The first thing, though, was his cloak. It had to go. He removed it and held it aloft, staring at the gray fabric.

  The Spider Guild was gone. Truly gone. Its legacy ended in death at the hands of the Watcher. Thinking on it, knowing it done, he expected to feel sorrow or fury, but instead he felt…nothing. Emptiness.

  He dropped the cloak to the floor, along with the rest of his bloodstained and smoke-stained clothes, and dressed in an outfit from the rucksack—a plain white shirt and brown trousers. Once dressed, he hoisted the pack over his shoulder and turned, shocked by how tired he already felt. Aeng was right. This would take so much longer to heal from than he expected.