"Voryn."
"Voryn?"
"Voryn!"
Dorian's arms flare from his sides with bewildered amusement. He scans the weathered face of the cabin and pauses when his eyes spot his wash bucket brimming with water. He cracks into a grin as he bends over to fetch it, hauling it almost shoulder height with a ready grip. And with a sharp jerking motion, a cascade of water slaps Voryn's face, drenching him and his bedding. Dorian takes a deft retreat as Voryn whips out a dagger from his under pillow and hurls himself out of the bolted-down cot in a drunken-like rage.
Dorian jabs up the bucket to shield his face. With a hard thud, the blade is embedded on the other side and Dorian drops it away to inspect the dagger protruding from the centre of the splintered wood.
"Surprisingly precise," Dorian remarks.
"If it was, you would be without an eye."
Dorian snorts a laugh as he lowers the half-filled bucket on the planked floor. "Well, I know better than to wake the beast whilst it slumbers."
Voryn stumbles back until he plops back on the cot, only to drop on the opposite side with his head resting on the foot of the bed and his feet on the soaked end, unbothered. Dropping his dagger beside his face alike to a child cradling his toy near.
"Get your drunken arse up. We have work to do."
"If that work does not involve a grog flask. It will not involve me."
Dorian raises his brows, almost challengingly. "The payout is triple our last contract."
Voryn snaps one eye open. "Now that may involve me."
"Whilst you slept the day away. I met with a potential patron. And the contract is like every other, high risk but even higher reward." Dorian takes him in with a cursory skim before he turns to make his way out of the cabin. "You know where I'll be, bathe and meet me there."
Voryn gestures to his muscled chest, still glistening from water droplets. "Thought I already did."
Voryn does what he must to cleanse himself from the odor that clings to him still. He meets his reflection in a musty mirror and a memory flashes—sharp, unwelcome—and he averts his gaze as if burned.
His eyes fall on his grog flask, discarded and forgotten on the floor. He nearly dives for it, only to find it bone dry. Frustration coils hot in his chest, and before he can think, the flask is airborne, clanging against the wall with a hollow thud.
With a steadying breath, he leaves his armor and weaponry behind. Dressed simply in a loose blouse, breeches, and cavalier boots, he departs.
The short passages to the captain's bureau seem longer than usual, each step echoing faintly in the ship's quiet. The ship bobs from a light jostle from the sea that makes Voryn stagger into the wall, stirring an uncomfortable churn in his gut. He spares himself a moment, breathing deeply before he resumes. When he enters, the bureau is empty save for Dorian, his hefty self anchored behind the ornamental writing table with his massive forearms set on the surface. Sunlight pours in through the grand window behind him, casting long shadows across an array of documents. Voryn squints against the glare that ignites a throb in his head and catches sight of the docks sprawling below.
On the desk, an atlas lies open alongside what appears to be blueprints—a schematic of some kind. From Voryn's vantage point, the intricate lines and marks form the unmistakable outline of a fortress, a model prototype for something grand and ominous. Dorian observes him as Voryn drops himself on the opposite seat, the glaring light igniting a throb in his head as he settles his elbow on the arm of the chair so his hand can massage his forehead, a futile attempt to nurse the growing ache.
"It happened again?" Dorian questions.
Voryn's eyes flick up with his hand still planted on his forehead.
"You drink heavily, but not as much as when you remember. Then you drink until you remember no more."
Slouched towards one side, Voryn straightens back up and drops his hand on the arm.
"You complain about my drinking like a wife would."
"No complaint, only concern, my love," he says with a throat laugh that rumbles from his belly. Then his expression grows unnaturally serious. "If you wish, we can forsake this endeavor altogether. We still have yet to visit your villa on the coast of Ravencliff."
"And what purpose would that serve?"
"Clear your mind," Dorian says solemnly. "You cannot outrun what remains bound to your spirit."
Voryn drops against his seat, inclining his chin and exposing his throat as he stares down at him. "Who is it that seeks our services?"
Dorian's lips curve into a tight smile, a subtle acknowledgment of the diversion. "A high lord from the province of Gravesher," he begins, his tone measured, "descended from a long line of historians and explorers. He's amassed a remarkable collection of relics from the olden days, an enviable hoard save for one glaring absence. A prized artifact he considers his birthright, stolen—or so he claims—when an anonymous buyer secured it in a private bid before it ever reached the auction block."
Voryn arches a brow. "And he wants us to steal it back?"
Dorian quirks his beetle-black brows. "Precisely. The high lord believes he already knows who. According to him, there's only one other in the province wealthy enough to outbid him. And he has done meticulous work" He sets a thick hand on a stack of parchment. "This dossier contains weeks' worth of intelligence—everything we'd need to plan an infiltration of what is, by all accounts, an impenetrable fortress."
A flicker of unease unfolding in Voryn's gut, his intuition prickling. "That sounds too easy."
"Easy in theory, perhaps. But there's a reason why the high lord is offering such an extravagant sum." Dorian swivels the blueprint toward him, unfurling another parchment filled with spidery handwriting and detailed notes.
"The fortress is a masterpiece of defense," Dorian continues, "It's near impossible—and I don't use that word lightly—to breach. Every entry point is covered. The high walls are sheer, the lower paths fortified, and the airspace patrolled. It's a vault, and they've made certain nothing goes in or out without their say."
Voryn leans forward, the haze of a hangover barely fading as his eyes trace the intricate schematics. Layer upon layer of defenses sprawl across the blueprint—a labyrinth of guarded corridors and watchful sentries stationed at every corner.
He exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Then it's decided." His voice is resolute. "If we can't infiltrate the fortress, we'll make them bring us in."
Dorian meets him with a blank stare, his brow furrowing briefly before understanding dawns.
"The highlands," Voryn begins, his tone clipped, "eight or nine winters ago—"
"When we faked our deaths and let them haul our 'corpses' inside," Dorian interrupts with a bark of laughter, the memory evidently still amusing. "Creative, I'll grant you, but I doubt that trick will serve us here."
"It won't," Voryn agrees, his voice steady but grim. "The same approach rarely yields the same results. This time, the gambit will be far more daring... and bloody."
Dorian's laughter dies, his gaze sharpening as it locks onto Voryn's. "You've never been fond of bloody work," he observes carefully.
Voryn shrugs, feigning indifference. "Part of the job description," he says flatly, though the words sit heavy on his tongue. The truth weighs far more.
His life is a patchwork of loss and violence, a tapestry woven with the dark threads of tragedy. Pain is all he's ever known—how to endure it and how to inflict it. Death shaped his destiny, carving out a legacy steeped in blood.
And yet, even as a man unbound by laws, living outside their reach, Voryn clings to one principle: he will do whatever it takes to protect his reputation as a prolific mercenary—steal, smuggle, guard—but there is one line he will not cross.
He refuses to take assassination jobs.
He will kill anyone who stands in his way, but he will not end a life at another's command—never again.