The Help

The world was soft when John awoke.

A warmth pressed against his chest, arms, legs, the air thick with sweat and perfume, sheets tangled around his waist like the remnants of a battle fought in the dark.

The women draped over him stirred only slightly, their bodies glowing with the slow, satisfied ease of those who had been well-tended to.

Three of them sprawled across the bed, their bare skin a tangle of limbs, their lips curved into lazy, half-conscious smiles.

John blinked once, twice, letting the sensation settle before shifting.

It took effort. He was trapped beneath them, their bodies folded against his like vines curling around a sturdy tree. A leg thrown over his thigh. An arm across his stomach. A head nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

He shifted again, gently, brushing a knuckle across the shoulder of the girl on his chest. “Wake up,” he murmured.

A soft whimper, followed by a stretch, a slow breath, a satisfied hum. The woman closest to him lifted her head slightly, her hair falling in dark waves over her bare shoulders. She smirked. “Leaving so soon?”

Another one stirred, pressing her lips to his collarbone, her fingers trailing lazily down his chest. “Mmm,” she sighed. “Stay longer.”

The third girl, still half-asleep, only murmured something incoherent, pressing herself against his side, breathing deeply against his skin.

John smirked, shaking his head. “As tempting as that is,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep, “I have business.”

The girls pouted in near-unison. One of them bit his shoulder playfully before finally rolling off him, stretching like a satisfied cat.

The others followed suit, shifting toward each other, their hands finding each other’s skin quickly, naturally. One kissed the other’s throat. Another nuzzled into the crook of a shoulder, and just like that, he was forgotten, replaced by the warmth they found in each other.

John lingered for a moment, watching the way they melted into each other, no words, no hesitation. He exhaled, swinging his legs over the bed, planting his feet on the wooden floor.

The air was cool against his bare skin, the night’s heat still clinging to his muscles. His armor lay scattered across the room, tossed aside in careless urgency. He moved toward it, pulling on his pants first, then his tunic, reaching for his belt.

The pouch of coin was heavy in his hand. More than enough. He turned, stepped back toward the bedside table, and left it there.

A silent thank you—a gesture of good faith.

Then, without another word, he stepped out into the morning.

The main area of the Feathered Veil was lively despite the early hour. The scent of burnt incense and warm bread hung in the air, mingling with the faint traces of last night’s perfume and wine.

Soft laughter drifted through the room, girls curled up in the laps of half-awake patrons, the remnants of pleasure and excess still clinging to the walls.

John stepped through it all, his boots silent against the polished wood, his mind already turning toward the next step.

He saw Sir Aric Thren. The Sentinel looked like a new man. The bruises still lingered, deep and dark where the worst of the beatings had left their marks, but his posture was more assertive, his movements no longer sluggish with pain. His armor had been cleaned, his face washed, his hair neatly combed back. He looked like a soldier again.

John smirked. “They take care of you?”

Aric glanced up from the mug in his hand, grinning. "Well enough," he admitted. "Though one of them wanted to keep me longer."

John chuckled, shaking his head as he dropped into the chair across from him. "She probably just felt sorry for you."

Aric snorted. "Wouldn’t be the first time a woman pitied me into her bed." He reached for a second mug, already waiting on the table, and slid it toward John. "A thank you," he said.

John took it without hesitation, lifting it slightly before taking a drink. The ale was cool, smooth, probably one of the better things the brothel had to offer.

Aric watched him over the rim of his mug, then leaned forward. "You saved my life," he said, voice lower now, serious.

John set his mug down, shrugging. "You owe me," he said simply.

Aric smiled, but there was a flicker of understanding in his expression. "That I do."

John leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting. "You promised me a route."

Aric exhaled, nodding. "I did."

He glanced around the room, then reached for a small dagger on his belt. With a practiced hand, he dragged the tip across the wooden table, carving out a rough map of the Radiant Ward. "They’ll move the shipment through the Dawnspire Causeway," he murmured. "It’s the most direct route from the temple vaults to the Celestial Spire." John watched, studying the lines, the points Aric was marking. "It’s well-guarded," Aric continued, tracing a path with the blade. "Two Sentinel platoons, flanked by priest-mages."

John’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Sounds like a shit place to hit them."

Aric smirked. "It would be," he agreed. "But here—" he tapped a point near a side street. "This is where we strike."

John tilted his head. "A **** point?"

"A bottle neck," Aric corrected. "The road narrows, forces them into a single file formation for a brief moment. We hit them there—fast, precise."

John took another slow drink of ale, eyes still on the crude map. "How long do we have?"

Aric glanced toward the window, where the sun had barely begun to rise. "Half a day," he said.

John tilted his head slightly, staring down at the crude map carved into the wooden table. "Two platoons." Even at a **** point, that was at least a hundred men.

He let the thought sit in the air, before finally saying aloud what both of them were thinking. "How the fuck are we supposed to hit them with just the two of us?"

Sir Aric exhaled through his nose, rubbing at the bruise still blooming along his jaw. "That’s a problem," he admitted.

John took another sip of ale, waiting for him to say something worthwhile.

Aric didn’t.

"Great."

They had a perfect place to hit the convoy, but no way of actually doing it without dying in the process.

Before he could voice his frustration, a familiar warmth draped across his shoulders, soft fingers traced along the nape of his neck, a body settling into his lap with a knowing ease. A woman’s voice is smooth and teasing. "You left our bed early."

He didn’t turn his head, just raised a brow slightly as she curled an arm around his shoulders, her other hand idly playing with his collar.

Sir Aric blinked at her sudden arrival, glancing toward John with an amused smirk. "And who is this?"

The girl smiled at Aric, resting her chin on John’s shoulder as she spoke. "Lucienne," she purred. "And you must be Sir Aric Thren."

Aric tilted his mug toward her. "Guilty as charged."

"Not anymore," she grinned.

John, still trapped beneath her weight, exhaled sharply. "Lucienne," he muttered. "I’m busy."

She ignored him entirely. Her eyes had already drifted toward the map carved into the table, her fingers reaching out to trace the familiar lines. "This is the Dawnspire Causeway," she murmured.

John’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You recognize it?"

Lucienne nodded absently, still studying the crude layout. "Of course," she said. "The Convoy passes through there every time the Church moves something important."

John leaned back slightly, watching her carefully. "This why you got out of bed?" she asked.

"Yeah."

She hummed, then tapped a finger on the **** point. "You’re planning on hitting a shipment?"

Neither man confirmed nor denied it. Didn’t need to.

She grinned. "You’re going to need more people."

Aric chuckled. "Funny, we were just discussing that."

Lucienne turned to John, her fingers lazily trailing down his chest. "I have a brother," she murmured. "And for the right coin, he can help."

John’s brow furrowed. "And how exactly can he help?"

Lucienne smirked. "He has friends," she said. "Men who do work for money. Even dangerous work."

John exchanged a glance with Aric. "Mercenaries?" Aric asked.

Lucienne shrugged. "Something like that."

John tilted his head. "How do you know about the package?"

Lucienne laughed softly, shifting in his lap so she was straddling him, her arms curling loosely around his neck. "You’re cute when you pretend I’m stupid," she whispered.

Then, brushing her lips against his ear, she added, "My job brings me loose tongues, darling."

Lucienne leaned in, pressing a deep kiss against his lips. It was slow, teasing, playful, but there was an edge of something else underneath.

When she finally pulled back, she smirked down at him. "I’ll tell you where to find him," she murmured. "But you owe me."

John smirked right back. "You’re already paid," he said.

She laughed. "Not for this," she whispered.

John walked the streets alone, his hood low, his pace unhurried. Sir Aric had stayed behind—too well-known, too easy to spot. His infamy was a noose, and the city was already tightening the rope.

The Sentinels were everywhere. They marched in heavier numbers, their armor catching the pale morning light, boots hammering against the cobbled streets.

John kept his head down, watching from beneath the shadow of his hood.

They were questioning citizens, shaking them down with barely veiled threats. Others kicked in doors, searching for a man who had already disappeared. They were lashing out, hoping fear and **** would make up for their failure.

It wouldn’t. Not this time.

The tavern Lucienne had spoken of sat on the edge of the merchant quarter, a place where coin and crime met in equal measure.

It was called The Split Coin, an old stone-and-wood building, its doors half-rotted, its sign hanging by a single chain. Inside, the air was thick with ale and sweat, the scent of roasted meat barely strong enough to cover the stink of unwashed bodies.

Men gathered around dice games, others hunched over cheap drinks, their voices low, their laughter sharp and bitter.

John stepped in, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light, scanning the room. He moved toward the counter, slipping a coin onto the wood. The barkeep, an old man with a crooked nose and an apron stained with grease, pocketed it without comment. John leaned in slightly. "I’m looking for Lucienne’s brother."

The barkeep grunted. Jerked his head toward the back corner.

John followed his gaze. At a round table sat a man in his late twenties, his dark hair half-tied back, his clothes too fine for a tavern this cheap.

He was leaning back in his chair, one boot propped up on the table, a lopsided grin on his lips. But the grin didn’t match his eyes.

Because he was surrounded.

Four thugs loomed over him, their hands resting on belt-knives, their postures tense and waiting.

John moved closer, slow and silent. He could hear the conversation now.

"Now, now," Lucienne’s brother drawled, his voice smooth, playful, his hands raised in mock surrender. "Let’s all be reasonable men."

The largest thug, a scarred brute with a broken nose, cracked his knuckles loudly. "You owe us."

Lucienne’s brother sighed, shaking his head. "I don’t owe you. I owe Ronan. And last I checked, Ronan isn’t here."

One of the smaller thugs spat. "Ronan wants his coin."

"Ronan will get his coin," he promised. "Just not today."

The men closed in. "You think you can talk your way out of this?"

Lucienne’s brother smirked. "It’s worked before."

The big one cracked his jaw. "Not this time."

He raised his fist—And John stepped forward. The motion was quiet but impossible to ignore. The thugs turned, their postures stiffening, their hands tightening around their weapons.

John tilted his head. "I’d rethink that," he said.

His golden eyes flicked over them, his voice calm, even.

The biggest one frowned. "And who the fuck are you?"

"A man who doesn’t like wasting time."

"This isn’t your fight."

John smirked slightly. "It is now."

The big one exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Fine," he muttered.

He turned to Lucienne’s brother, jabbing a finger toward his chest. "Next time, we take it out of your hide."

Lucienne’s brother smiled easily. "I look forward to it."

The thugs left. John watched them go. Then turned back to the man still lounging in his chair.

Lucienne’s brother grinned. "I like you already." Lucienne’s brother leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw with amusement. He gestured toward the bartender, signaling for another drink, then turned back toward John, extending a hand. "Cassian Varne," he introduced himself.

John took the offered hand, shaking it once before leaning forward slightly. "Cassian, I have a job for you."

Cassian’s grin widened. "Well, that depends," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "Am I going to like this job?"

"Probably not."

Cassian laughed. "Then it pays well, doesn’t it?"

John smirked. "That’s why I’m here."

"What kind of job?" he asked, tone more careful now.

John leaned slightly over the table, lowering his voice. "I need bodies for something," he said simply.

Cassian raised a brow. "That’s vague."

John exhaled sharply. "Because vague keeps your head on your shoulders if this all goes to shit."

Cassian smirked again, but didn’t argue. "Alright," he said. "How many bodies?"

"As many as you can get before nightfall."

Cassian let out a low whistle. "That’s soon."

"You’re good at what you do, aren’t you?"

Cassian’s grin turned wolfish. "I am."

"Then prove it."

Cassian drummed his fingers against the table, thinking. "I’ve got a few men already in the city," he said. "Others might take some convincing. Depends on the risk."

John tilted his head slightly. "The risk is high. The payday is higher."

Cassian hummed. "And what’s the payday?"

John leaned back slightly. "Enough to make you forget the risk."

Cassian laughed. "Now you’re speaking my language."

He reached for his ale, took a slow sip. "Alright, my friend," he said, smiling. "You’ve got yourself some bodies."