The gaslight hissed faintly, casting grotesquely elongated shadows through the dingy tavern. Harlow, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, nursed a lukewarm ale, the bitter taste mirroring the sour mood churning in his gut.
Across the grimy table sat Gerry, his lips pursed around a smoldering cigarette, smoke curling around his eyes like vengeful wisps.
"Seven safe houses, seven damn dead ends!" Harlow growled, slamming his tankard onto the scarred wood with a force that made the ale slosh over the rim.
"Not a whisper or tale of those damned boys, not a whiff of that infernal Lillian lion heart that wench kept prattling on about."
His patience was wearing thin, Wren, had song like a bird, disclosing numerous safe houses scattered across Araya.
At first, it seemed promising and Harlow had raided them with excruciating force, but all he found were more Resistance loyalists ready to die.
By the third safe house, word had gotten out that he was coming, which only made things even more inconvenient. By the time he got to the fourth, all ten of the Resistance members inhabiting a bunker had killed themselves by ingesting a poison.
All this did was frustrate Harlow even more, his clock was ticking and his soul with it.
Gerry exhaled a plume of smoke, his sharp gaze flickering through the smoky haze. "Easy, now Harlow," he cooed, a subtle calmness edging his voice. "We'll flush them out. They really can't hide forever, besides, we already know that they're not in Araya again.."
But the doubt gnawed at Harlow like a ravenous rat.
Each failed raid felt like a notch on the Resistance tally, a mocking testament to their elusiveness. He yearned for the thrill of the chase, the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his fist, the crimson spray of victory. Instead, he was chasing shadows, his frustration festering like a boil beneath his skin.
His mind drifted back, replaying a scene from a past raid, a memory painted in shades of blood and fear.
A few days ago…
The air hung thick with the cloying scent of coal smoke and stale sweat as he barged through the rickety door of a hidden safe house. His men, hulking beasts fueled by greed and fear, followed close behind, their faces twisted into cruel masks.
A woman, young and frail, stood frozen in the center of the room, her eyes wide with terror. A child, no older than five, clung to her leg, whimpering.
Harlow felt a flicker of disgust, an unwelcome pang of conscience that he quickly choked down. This was war, and in war, mercy was a rusted blade best left sheathed.
He grabbed the woman by the throat, hoisting her against the wall with a rough grunt. "Where is she?" he rasped, his voice a rusty hinge. "Where is she hiding?"
The woman choked, her eyes pleading, but her lips remained sealed. Harlow snarled, a primal rage consuming him. He backhanded her across the face, the crack echoing through the room. The child cowered, a choked sob escaping his lips.
Suddenly, a movement from the shadows. A man, perhaps the father, lurched forward, a sharp knife glinting in his hand. Harlow reacted with the speed of a viper, twisting the woman aside and kicking the man in the chest. The knife spun harmlessly through the air, clattering to the floor.
The man crumpled, wheezing for breath. Harlow loomed over him, his shadow swallowing the room whole. He savored the man's fear, the way his eyes flickered from the knife to the child, desperate and pleading. It fueled his fury and stoked the fires of his dark lust for control.
He hated messes.
With a brutal snap, he twisted the man's neck, the sickening crack like dry twigs breaking. The woman screamed a primal howl that tore through the room, but Harlow barely registered it.
His gaze fell on the child, and for a brief, horrifying moment, a darkness within him threatened to break free.
But Gerry's sharp voice sliced through the haze. "Leave him," he spat, his eyes like chips of ice. "We are not babysitters..."
Shaking off the unwanted thoughts, Harlow wrenched his gaze back to the present. The tavern walls seemed to press in, suffocating him with the weight of his memories. He slammed his tankard down again, the ale foaming over onto the table.
"We can't continue like this," he muttered, his voice low and raw. "These raids are going nowhere. The bishop expects results and we're nothing but glorified street rats scrounging for scraps."
Gerry leaned in, his elbows leaning on the table.
"I would advise patience, my friend," he murmured.
Gerry sticks his hands in his breast pocket and pulls out an artifact wrapped in a red handkerchief sliding it across the table to Harlow.
"What is this?" Harlow said as he unwrapped the ornate-looking artifact no bigger than a stopwatch, its golden parts shimmering in the light.
"The bishop figured you'd need a boost" Gerry started to say. "You would need a shaman to perform a binding vow, but this should temporarily ease the burden on your soul, you work best when you feel your best."
The arcane artifact Gerry handed Harlow was like a bandage on a gunshot wound, a temporary pact with a lesser artifact to alleviate the backlash on one's soul.
Although Gerry wasn't particularly close to Harlow, he was displeased with how the bishop was using him to deliver his messages.
He tried opting out of working with Harlow after the bishop used his name to lie, but he found out that he couldn't escape the bishop's ploy. It's one thing with a mission looming over your head and another with a partner that could kill you if they decide to.
Harlow was disgusted that he needed this crutch and even worse that now the Church of Death knew it too. He was expendable at the end of the day, he had to deliver.
'Handing me another artifact… either the bishop is trying to get me killed faster or actually trying to give me a boost.' He thought, aware of the consequences that came with having a pact with a second artifact, lesser or not.
Harlow only nodded acknowledging that this was his final chance.
"The Resistance will make their move soon. And when they do, we'll be there, waiting. We'll crush them beneath our boots, and deliver them to Thanatos." Gerry declared.
His words, venomous and alluring, twisted a knot of hope in Harlow's gut. He craved that fire, the intoxicating heat of victory.
He would make the resistance pay and would paint the streets with their blood. But first, they had to play the waiting game, become vipers lurking in the shadows, striking with deadly precision when the time was right.
Brute force wouldn't work; he needed an elite team and he knew just where to get them.