Belin stood by his horse, his breath coming slow and measured as he prepared himself for what was to come. The wind carried the scent of damp earth and distant firewood, a reminder of the world beyond the weight of his mission. His hands clenched the reins tighter, his mind plagued by doubt. Would the mercenary keep his word? Or worse—would he betray him, handing him over to the very assassins who haunted his every step?
His heart pounded, steady yet unrelenting, and his veins throbbed with the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Deep down, a voice urged him to turn back, to abandon this reckless endeavor, but he had no choice. He needed answers, and for those, he was willing to risk it all.
Even though Alassins were known for their unwavering oaths, Belin had seen enough of the world to know that honor could be bought, and promises could be broken when the price was right. No amount of reputation would make him trust a man who lived by the sword and sold secrets to the highest bidder.
He mounted his horse, his resolve firm despite the unease that stirred within him. He had told no one of this meeting—not even Varek. He needed to do this alone, to remain unseen. He chose the longer route through the village's outskirts, where the glow of lanterns cast flickering shadows against the thatched roofs. The streets were not very crowded, save for the occasional murmur of villagers.
As he neared the heart of the village, a familiar voice called out. "Do you need any help, my lord?"
Belin's gaze flickered toward the boy he had aided days before. The child stood on the roadside, eyes bright with curiosity.
"No, thanks," Belin answered without pausing, his voice edged with distraction. He had no time for idle conversations.
The tavern loomed ahead, a den of smoke and spilled ale, where secrets exchanged hands like coin. As soon as he stepped inside, a pair of familiar figures moved toward him—the same girls who had clung to the mercenary the last time he was here.
"Here you are again," they cooed in unison, their voices sweet but laced with mischief. One of them, a woman with loose auburn curls, let her shawl slip slightly, revealing the swell of her bosom. "Have you come to collect what you missed the other day?"
Belin barely spared them a glance, his gaze sweeping across the dimly lit room in search of the one he had come to meet.
The second woman, with dark hair and sharp eyes, stepped closer, placing a hand on his chest as she leaned in. "Surely, you'd rather spend your time with us than chase after ghosts."
Still, Belin remained unmoved. But then, a thought struck him, an impulse he hadn't planned. "Do you know Ingrid Lyst?" The words left his lips before he had the chance to consider them.
The two women exchanged glances, their amusement replaced by mild irritation. "Why waste your breath on that fat, ugly girl when you have us?" the auburn-haired one scoffed before pressing a kiss to his cheek. "We are far more entertaining. And certainly more beautiful."
Belin tensed. "She is the daughter of Lord Gruhl. You would do well to show some respect."
The dark-haired woman laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. "Respect? Pity, perhaps, but never respect. She was born with everything, while we—" she gestured between herself and her companion "—had to crawl from the dirt just to survive."
Their words sat heavy in his chest, a stark reminder of the world's cruelty. He understood hardship, but their bitterness was not his burden to carry. It was not his concern. Still, a flicker of unease stirred within him—was Ingrid truly as despised as they claimed? Before he could gather his thoughts or form a reply, a shadow fell across the table, and a figure slid into the seat across from him, moving with the ease of someone who belonged in places like this.
It was the man he had been waiting for. The mercenary.
"Hush, hush, ladies," the mercenary drawled, his voice thick with amusement. "You're not his taste."
The women pouted but obeyed, slinking away to find more willing company.
Belin turned his attention to the man before him. The Alassin was as unremarkable as any cutthroat—dark leathers, worn boots, and eyes that held no allegiance but to himself.
"Sorry for the trouble," the man said with a grin before raising a hand. "Ale! Two!"
"A trouble for me, an entertainment for you," Belin replied coolly.
A serving boy placed two mugs of ale between them. The mercenary shoved one toward Belin. "Drink."
Belin took a swig, letting the bitterness wash over his tongue, but his patience wore thin. "You have a name?"
The man's grin widened. "Aye. But I prefer gold over introductions."
Belin reached into his cloak, producing a pouch of coins, and tossed it onto the table without hesitation. The mercenary caught it, weighing it in his palm, but his expression darkened.
"Where's the other half?" he asked, irritated.
"You'll have it when you've finished your job."
The mercenary sighed, shaking his head. "Always the cautious ones." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "The name you seek is Benina."
Belin frowned. "Benina? That name means nothing to me. I've never heard it before."
The mercenary took a leisurely sip of ale before continuing. "She's just a messenger. A puppet. The real power lies behind her, no one knows. Whoever ordered the hunt on you is not someone who acts carelessly."
Belin's brows furrowed, suspicion lacing his thoughts. "Are you certain?"
"As certain as a dead man's silence," the mercenary muttered. "Even the assassins after you don't know who gave the order. Only their chief and a handful of senior Alassins do. That kind of secrecy doesn't come from ordinary men."
Belin stared at the flickering candle between them, his mind spinning with possibilities. A name without a face, a trail leading to nothing but more shadows.
"Now," the mercenary said, extending his hand. "My payment."
Belin tossed the second pouch his way, the coins clinking as they landed on the table. Without sparing the mercenary another glance, he rose from his seat, his mind already racing. He had what he came for— a name—but it was little more than a thread in a tangled web. Each answer only led to more questions, and the weight of uncertainty pressed heavier on his shoulders.
Storming out from the tavern, he mounted his horse, his thoughts a tangled web of uncertainty. Who was Benina? And who lurked behind her, pulling the strings?
As he rode into the vast land, he realized that the truth he sought came at a price—one that had yet to be paid in full.