A Way In

The girl’s fingers traced lazy circles across his chest.

Her nails were short, clean, her hands soft despite the hard life. John sat in the dim glow of The Cinder House, one arm draped over a body that smelled of sweet oils and cheap wine, the other resting on the hilt of his dagger.

The girl—Marra, he thought her name was—had coiled herself into his lap, all silk and slow, idle movements. She wasn’t working, not really. Not for him.

He had paid for the day, paid well, and when she’d asked what for, he had tossed in a little extra for silence. She didn’t ask again.

Instead, she toyed with him, fingers trailing across his collarbone, the ghost of a smirk on her plump lips. “Strange, this,” she murmured.

John arched a brow.

“Most men pay me to talk,” she continued, voice soft, laced with amusement. “Or moan, or scream.” She tilted her head. “You’re just paying me to sit on you?”

John smirked. “For now.”

Her laugh was low and knowing, but she didn’t press further. She leaned in, her breath warm against his neck, lips grazing his ear. “You watching for someone?” she whispered.

John exhaled slowly. His eyes stayed on the door.

The Cinder House was full tonight, the scent of burnt oil and incense thick in the air. The other girls moved between men, draped across laps, fingers sliding over coin purses and collarbones with equal precision.

Marra’s hands slid lower, brushing across his stomach, playing her part well. Smart girl.

Then, the door swung open, and he walked in.

The fat merchant was wrapped in rags, his tunic stained, his pants loose and patched in places where no honest tailor would work. But it was all a lie, a poor man’s disguise.

John could smell money.

It was in the way he moved, the way he held his gut with pride instead of shame, the way his hands were too clean, his fingernails polished and well-trimmed despite the filth on his clothes.

No one in Vessun’s Rest wore rags that neatly. He belonged to the Argent Ring, even if he tried to look like he didn’t, and even the dumbest whore could see it.

The room shifted subtly, eyes peeling toward him, the way wolves watch a stag that has wandered too far from the herd. The merchant didn’t notice. He was already sweating, breathing heavy from nothing but the effort of walking, his beady little eyes searching the room.

John didn’t move. Didn’t shift, didn’t tense.

Marra, to her credit, kept her hands moving, kept her mouth against his throat, playing a game.

The merchant spotted his prize. A girl—young, too young—standing near the back, her arms crossed, her body braced as if she knew what was coming.

John felt something curl in his gut. Marra’s fingers tightened on his arm as the fat merchant waddled toward the girl.

Her usual teasing was gone now, her posture stiff, lips curled into something that was not quite a snarl. “I hate that pig,” she muttered, her voice low enough for only him to hear.

John glanced at her.

She was still playing her part, draped half over him, her mouth close to his neck. But her body was rigid, her nails digging into his forearm.

“What does he do?” John asked.

Marra didn’t look at him. “Takes her upstairs,” she murmured. “Always the same room, the one near the back.” She exhaled, slow and bitter. “He likes them young. Likes when they cry.”

Marra’s voice was low, venomous. “I want to cut his cock off myself.”

John’s eyes never left the merchant, but he spoke soft and steady. “You won’t have to.”

Marra turned her head slightly, her lips brushing against his jaw as she whispered. “You have a plan.”

It wasn’t a question.

John nodded.

She exhaled, tension leaving her body just slightly.

Her fingers relaxed against his chest. Then, she tilted her head back to look at him. “Thank you,” she said, simply.

John said nothing. It wasn’t for thanks. It wasn’t for morality, or righteousness, or honor. It was just business.

He shifted, readying to stand. Marra’s hand snapped to his wrist, holding him back. And then, before he could question it—She kissed him.

Not a tease, not a passing brush of lips. A real kiss, deep and slow, her mouth soft, warm, her fingers threading lightly into his hair.

When she pulled away, her lips were curved just slightly. “A reward,” she murmured.

John huffed a breath, but there was no real annoyance behind it. He stood, rolling his shoulders. It was time. He took a step forward and coughed three times.

A man across the room looked up, met his gaze, and gave a single nod, and without another word, the man lurched to his feet and burst into the room.

Steel flashed.

The fat merchant barely had time to react before a knife was at his throat. The girls screamed, shrank away.

The merchant let out a high, pathetic yelp, his hands shaking as he tried to raise them. “P-please! Take whatever you want!” he stammered, his voice wet with panic.

The “robber” bared his teeth. “Oh, I will.”

He grabbed the merchant’s purse, ripped it from his belt.

There was real fear in the man’s eyes now. He stank of sweat, his body quivering like a pig waiting for slaughter. “P-please—”

The door slammed open and John stepped in.

He moved fast, his blade already in hand, his expression a mask of anger and urgency.

“Hey!” he barked.

The robber turned, eyes wide, lips parted in mock surprise.

John lunged. Their blades clashed, a fast exchange of steel-on-steel, a practiced struggle that was all for show.

The merchant stumbled back, wide-eyed, watching the fight unfold with pure, terrified awe. John pushed forward, striking hard enough that the “robber” grunted and stumbled.

A heartbeat later, the robber cursed, turned, and bolted out the door. John watched him go, sheathing his blade with just enough frustration to look convincing.

He turned to the merchant.

The fat man was still shaking, sweat pooling in the folds of his neck, his eyes darting between John and the door.

“Your welcome,” John said. Flat. Uninterested.

The merchant swallowed hard. “…Yes,” he said, voice still shaking.

John gave him a slow, calculating look. “You owe me.”

The merchant hesitated, then nodded. “Anything,” he breathed. He stood there, trembling like a kicked dog, his beady little eyes darting between John and the door, as if expecting the “robber” to come rushing back in at any moment.

John let the silence stretch.

Let the fat bastard feel it.

The longer he waited, the deeper the fear would settle in—and men like this, men who had never held a blade, never fought for anything but the last piece of meat on their plate, made their worst decisions when they were afraid.

John finally sighed. “That was close,” he muttered.

The merchant nodded frantically, his chins wobbling with the movement. “Yes, yes, close—too close—!”

He wiped at his greasy brow, sucking in air like a man who had run miles instead of standing still.

John exhaled again, slower this time, tilting his head as if just now considering something. “You shouldn’t go back alone,” he said, voice low, thoughtful.

The merchant blinked. “Wh—what?”

John gestured toward the door. “That bastard might still be out there,” he said. “Might have friends. Might be waiting for you to leave.”

The merchant visibly paled. “But—I—I have guards at the gates—”

John shrugged. “Gates are far from here. And you’ll have to walk through half the slums to get there.”

The merchant’s breath quickened. John watched him sweat.

“I’m no charity,” John said, tone bored, measured. “But if you need an escort… I’m available.”

The merchant blinked, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “You—you’d do that?”

John made a face, as if ****. “I don’t like unfinished business,” he muttered.

He paused.

Then, as if reluctantly considering it, he added, “For the right price, I might be willing to save it again.”

The merchant visibly sagged in relief. “Yes, yes—of course, I’ll pay—”

He turned toward the door, nodding for the merchant to follow. The fat man waddled after him, still muttering about thieves, robbers, gods, and gold.

John led him out into the night, toward the city gates. John kept his hood low, his face half-hidden in shadow, his pace steady but unhurried as he followed the merchant toward the outer gate.

The fat bastard walked fast for a man his size, his thick legs straining beneath his own weight, his breath wheezing with every step. The encounter at the brothel had shaken him—good.

The outer gate of Varethis loomed ahead, massive iron-bound doors set into towering stone walls. The guards stood at their posts, torches burning against the cold night air, their armor catching the firelight in dull, muted glints.

The merchant hesitated as they approached, wiping sweat from his pale brow, composing himself.

John remained two steps behind him, his posture loose but watchful, his hand resting near his belt, close enough to a blade if needed.

One of the gate guards, a tall man with a crooked nose and tired eyes, spotted them first. He sighed. “Gods, not you again.”

The merchant **** a smile, stepping forward. “Captain Darnel, always a pleasure.”

The guard didn’t return the sentiment. He gave the merchant a once-over, taking in the rumpled clothes, the missing purse, the sweat-slick face. “What happened?”

The merchant cleared his throat. “I was robbed, Darnel.”

Darnel blinked slowly, then exhaled through his nose, looking far too unsurprised.

The merchant straightened, trying to regain dignity he never had. “A vicious attack, I tell you! I barely escaped with my life—”

Darnel grunted. “Whores overcharge you again?”

The merchant scowled. “That is slander, Captain. Slander. I was ambushed!"

Darnel looked at John then, his eyes narrowing. “And him?”

John remained still, unreadable. Before he could answer, the merchant jumped in.

“This man saved me,” he declared, loud, self-important. “If not for his intervention, I would be gutted in the filth of Vessun’s Rest.”

Darnel grunted again, unconvinced. His eyes flickered back to John, his gaze sharp.

“Looks like a sellsword,” he muttered.

“Of course he is!” the merchant huffed. “You expect me to travel back alone?”

Darnel’s brows knitted. “Strange choice,” he said, still watching John. “Most whores have muscle of their own. And you’ve never brought back an escort before.”

The merchant frowned. “You calling me a liar?”

Darnel sighed deeply. He didn’t believe him, that much was clear. But he also didn’t care enough to argue.

“You know the rules,” he said. “If he’s with you, he’s your responsibility.”

The merchant nodded, eagerly. “Of course. Completely. Yes.”

Darnel’s eyes lingered on John a second longer. John met his gaze, saying nothing.

“Go on, then.”

The gates groaned open. John stepped forward, his steps soundless, his hood still low over his face.

He and the merchant passed through.

The merchant’s house was as fat as he was. A sprawling estate, nestled between lesser noble homes in the Argent Ring, its walls too high for a merchant, its doors too gilded for a man who claimed to be humble.

“You must be rewarded,” the merchant declared, dramatically clutching his chest like a woman swooning at a minstrel’s ballad.

John said nothing.

The merchant didn’t wait for permission. He waddled to a side table, snatched up a heavy pouch, and shoved it into John’s hand.

It was full, heavier than he expected. Silver. Maybe a few gold suns buried at the bottom.

The merchant smiled, too pleased with himself. “Come visit if you ever need work. A man of your skills is always useful.”

John took the pouch. Didn’t smile. Didn’t bow in thanks. Just let the silence stretch long enough to make the merchant sweat.

The merchant moved to close the door. John caught the edge before it shut. The merchant flinched.

John leaned in, his voice low, calm, and sharp enough to draw blood. “If I ever see you in Vessun’s Rest again,” he said, “I won’t be around.”

The merchant swallowed hard. “I—”

John’s golden eyes held him there, pinned like an insect beneath glass.

The fat man nodded quickly, swallowing his nerves. “I—I understand.”

John let go of the door. It shut with a dull thud.

He stood there a moment, then turned, tucking the pouch into his belt.

The job was done. Now, it was time to move.

Varethis spread before him, its streets woven with torchlight and shadow, its people moving like fleas on a dying dog.

John walked the lower streets, hood still up, eyes drifting across the filth and finery in equal measure. The Argent Ring was better kept than the outer slums, but even here, he could see the rot in the walls, the way the stone cracked, the way noblemen walked in silk while beggars knelt in the mud.

"This city is broken."

The voice again. This time, less sorrowful. More… observant.

"They still live, still move as though nothing is wrong."

"That’s what people do," John muttered, mentally answering without hesitation.

"Even as their empire falls?"

"Especially then."

The voice was silent for a moment.

"You see what they do not."

"I see what people would rather ignore."

The voice was quiet again, thinking.

John kept walking, navigating the twisting alleys, the side streets, the places where guards rarely glanced.

"Stop."

John stiffened. "What?"

"There," the voice whispered.

His head turned, following an unseen pull. A small vendor’s stall, nestled between two crumbling buildings, lit by a single flickering lantern.

It sold… sweet treats. Simple things—honeyed pastries, sugar-dusted almonds, darkened fruits soaked in spiced syrup.

Nothing strange. Nothing important.

“Why?" John asked.

The voice hesitated. “I don’t know. But I am drawn to it," she murmured.

John sighed, stepping forward.

The vendor looked up, blinking at him as he approached. “You buying or just standing there?” the man grunted.

John tossed a copper onto the wooden counter.

The vendor nodded, plucked a honeyed almond, and handed it to him.

John turned it over in his fingers. It was nothing special.

"You can’t eat," he said in his head.

"No."

John popped the almond into his mouth. The sweetness bloomed, sticky, thick, clinging to his tongue. He chewed. Swallowed. The voice hummed. It was a soft sound, barely there, but… pleased. Without another word, she disappeared.

John stood there a moment longer. Then he sighed, turned, and walked away.

The Argent Sentinels were easy enough to track—heavily armored, swords polished, faith like a disease in their eyes. They moved in pairs, hooded priests walking between them, their voices low, chanting words that had long since lost meaning.

He kept his distance, blending into the shifting crowds, his hood low, his steps light. He was just another shadow in a city drowning in them.

Ahead, the streets tightened, winding toward an open courtyard of blackened stone. It was here that Sir Aric Thren had last been seen. It was here that he had vanished.

And now, as John stepped closer, he could see why. The Sentinels were thickest here, lined like statues, unmoving, watchful. The priesthood stood among them, their robes hanging like funeral shrouds, their golden masks catching the lantern light.

And before them, on the stone steps of an old temple, a line of sinners knelt. Their hands were bound, their heads bowed. They had been beaten, bloodied, whipped raw. And still, the priests spoke. "Confess your doubt."

The words were sharp, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. "Confess, and the Empress may forgive."

A man wept, shaking his head. "I—I do not doubt," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. "I am loyal—"

The nearest Sentinel struck him across the mouth, sending him sprawling into the dust. "Lies."

Another voice. The high priest among them.

A man draped in white and gold, his mask shaped into the serene face of a goddess, his hands folded as if in prayer. He took one slow step forward, his robes dragging through the dirt, untainted. "Doubt is a plague. A rot. A wound in the body of the Empire."

His head tilted, mask reflecting the flickering torches. "If you do not believe with your heart, your hands will believe for you." He turned to a nearby Sentinel, nodding once. The soldier moved without hesitation. A sword flashed. A hand was severed. The man screamed.

The crowd shifted, murmuring, eyes averting. But no one stepped forward. No one dared.

"No." The voice inside him trembled. "No, no, no—stop them—please—"

John exhaled slowly. "I can't."

"You must."

"I am one man."

"They are hurting them."

"They always have."

Silence. A deep, wounded silence.

A new prisoner was being dragged forward. Bloodied. Lashed. His white Sentinel tabard stained with red.

Sir Aric Thren.