The Job

They hung like broken dolls against the stone.

The Pillars of the Condemned stretched out before them, a graveyard where the dead still breathed. Towering monoliths of cracked granite lined the path, each one bearing the weight of suffering.

Men and women hung from iron spikes, their wrists and ankles nailed deep into the stone. Some were already dead, their flesh picked clean by crows, their bones stripped of identity. Others still clung to life, their bodies withered by thirst, their voices long since spent on pleas that no one would answer.

The stench of rot mixed with the dry dust of the road, coating John’s tongue with the taste of salt and decay.

The man beside him kept walking, unbothered by the sight. If he had anything to say about the crucified, he kept it to himself.

John wasn’t a good man. He had seen people gutted like cattle, and had stepped over corpses left in the sun to swell and burst.

But this was different.

"This is an abomination."

The voice came again. It coiled through his skull like a thread pulled through the fabric, soft and frayed but undeniably there.

"This is not justice. This is not order. This is cruelty, dressed in the robes of faith."

John slowed his pace, as he thought about the words. The voice was not mortal. That much he knew. It carried something older, deeper, something that did not belong to the filth of Vessun’s Rest or the rotting carcass of the Empire.

John swallowed, trusting his mind to respond. "Who are you?"

He knew that it had heard him. There was a weight in the silence, an acknowledgment, even if it did not give him what he wanted.

The man beside him finally noticed his hesitation. “Something wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Keep walking.”

The stranger studied him for a moment longer but said nothing.

Together, they continued through the forest of the damned, past the groaning bodies, past the hollow-eyed men gasping their last breaths, past the kingdom’s legacy carved in suffering.

The air was thicker here, heavier. The smell of **** and dust still clung to John’s nose as they stepped through the low archway of a crumbling stone structure.

The place had once been a temple, or perhaps a courthouse, a place where men had knelt before gods or kings to beg for mercy.

Inside, the only light came from a single brazier, its flames burning low, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. The room was wide but empty, save for a simple wooden table, a few battered chairs, and a figure standing near the far wall. A cloaked figure.

They said nothing as John and his companion entered, did not even turn to face them. They simply stood there, hands hidden in the folds of their cloak, their posture too still to be comfortable.

John immediately disliked them. He had been in enough pitiless backrooms and hushed war councils to know the type. The ones who stood in shadows, whispering to the men who held knives.

The stranger beside him, however, was unfazed.

“It occurs to me,” he said, “that I have not properly introduced myself.”

He straightened, gave a mock bow, then spread his arms in a flourish of theatrical arrogance.

“I am Vaelin Dhoras of House Dhoras, son of Lord Saevin Dhoras, rightful heir to the Silver Seat of Vel’Dranir, keeper of—”

John held up a hand.

Vaelin blinked, mid-sentence.

There was a pause.

A long one.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s skip the pleasantries.” He gestured toward the cloaked figure but did not introduce them.

“The job is simple,” he continued. “But its importance cannot be overstated.”

John rolled his shoulders. “That’s what they all say.”

“This one is different.” Vaelin’s voice shifted slightly, losing its arrogance and settling into something sharper, more deliberate. “This is the first step toward understanding who you are. What you are.”

John felt his jaw tighten. “I know what I am.”

Vaelin shook his head. “You only think you do.”

“Tell me about the job,” he said, voice flat.

Vaelin nodded.

“There is a shipment arriving in Varethis within the next three days. It is being transported through the Radiant Ward, under heavy guard. It was meant for the Church of the Eternal Empress.”

John arched a brow. “What’s in it?”

“That,” Vaelin said, “is what we need you to find out.”

The cloaked figure shifted slightly, but still did not speak as John scratched at his stubbled jaw, thinking about the church shipment. It would be heavily guarded.

John leaned against the wooden table, arms crossed, his eyes never leaving Vaelin. “A Church shipment, heavily guarded,” he said, voice dry. “That’s a lot of moving pieces. You have any leads, or are you just hoping I’ll wander into a patrol and start asking politely?”

Vaelin smirked. “You wound me, John. Do I look like a man who doesn’t come prepared?”

John gave him a long, hard look. “Yes.”

Vaelin sighed. “Alright, fair. But for this, we do have someone.” He turned slightly, glancing toward the cloaked figure, as if expecting them to speak. They did not. Instead, Vaelin rolled his shoulders and continued. “We had an informant in the Argent Sentinels,” he said.

That got John’s attention. The Argent Sentinels—the holy knights of the Church, the ones who enforced doctrine with sword and fire. Most of them were fanatics draped in silver and blood, but every order had its cracks.

“You had,” John repeated. “Past tense?”

Vaelin exhaled. “He stopped responding.”

John grunted. “Dead?”

“Possible,” Vaelin admitted. “Or he realized that betraying the Church is a fast way to find himself nailed to a pillar. Either way, you should check on him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sir Aric Thren.”

John rolled the name around in his head. He didn’t know it, but that wasn’t surprising. He had kept his distance from the Church and its pet knights since arriving in Varethis.

Vaelin took a step closer, his voice lowering slightly.

“He was the one who leaked information about the shipment to us,” he said. “If he’s still alive, he’ll know where it’s coming from and how to get close.”

John nodded once. “Where was he last seen?”

Vaelin glanced at the cloaked figure again. This time, they shifted slightly, but still said nothing. “Last sighting was two days ago,” Vaelin said. “In the Lower Sprawl, just outside the Radiant Ward.”

Vaelin studied him for a moment longer, then said, “And what about you?”

John frowned. “What about me?”

“How do you plan on entering the city?”

John shook his head. “You think I have a plan?”

“I was hoping.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll get in.” John pushed off the table, adjusting the belt at his waist, making sure his blades sat comfortably at his sides.

“I’ll see you in three days,” he said.

Vaelin nodded, though there was a flicker of doubt in his expression. “Try not to die before then,” he said.

John smirked. “You’re not paying me enough for that.” He turned, heading toward the door, his steps quiet against the stone.

The city loomed ahead, black stone and flickering torchlight, its great walls rising from the earth like the bones of a long-dead god. John walked with his head low, steps slow, thoughts tangled.

Three days.

That’s how long he had before Vaelin expected him back with something useful.

He had snuck into fortresses, war camps, even a noble’s estate once for a dally with his wife.. But Varethis was different. The city gates were tightly watched, the Radiant Ward even more so. The Sentinels were paranoid bastards, and the Inquisition had eyes in every alley.

There were ways in, of course. Always were.

The river was one option—a slow, quiet entry, but too risky. The sewers beneath the lower city had collapsed years ago, leaving only a handful of tunnels still navigable—he didn’t know them, and he wasn’t about to crawl through shit just to find out.

Which left the simplest way in.

Through the front door.

The Argent Ring was the noble district, the part of the city where merchant-lords and minor aristocrats hoarded their wealth while the rest of the empire starved. The men who lived there had coin, power, and no sense of restraint. And sometimes, they liked to fuck the girls in places like The Cinder House.

Girls who were sent back to the brothel bruised, bloody, and broken.

It wasn’t the first time John had heard Lirianne curse about it. The men who came slumming in Vessun’s Rest weren’t satisfied unless they ruined something. If he could find one who needed an escort home—drunken, half-conscious, needing someone to drag him back to his mansion like a dog—then he could slip into the city unnoticed.

It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was good enough.

He’d talk to Lirianne. She always knew which nobles had their cocks in the dirt.

He let the thought settle, then focused on the road ahead. The Cinder House wasn’t far now—

"I… see."

John froze. The voice had returned. This time, it did not speak in sorrow or condemnation. This time, it was curious.

"I… see. Or perhaps… I only think I do."

It was softer now, uncertain, like the breath of someone waking from a long sleep

John let out a slow breath.

"You again."

"Strange. My words have reached someone. I did not think they would."

The voice sounded almost startled. John narrowed his eyes, but kept walking.

"You don’t know who you’re speaking to?" he asked, testing.

A pause.

"No… not yet. My memory is… frayed."

That wasn’t a comforting answer.

John adjusted the grip on his sword hilt, not out of fear but habit.

"I’ve hunted ghosts before," he muttered. "And I know how to break a possession. If you think you’re going to crawl inside my skull and wear me like a second skin, I’ll rip you out."

The voice was silent for a long moment.

Then, soft amusement.

"I am no spirit, no shade of the dead."

"Then what are you?"

A longer pause.

"I… do not remember."

John didn’t like that answer either. Memory loss was the first lie every ghost told.

"Convenient," he muttered.

The voice did not argue. It did not threaten, beg, or wail, as spirits often did.

It simply waited.

Watching.

Listening.

"You have no name?" he asked.

A faint ache pressed against the back of his skull.

"I once did."

John exhaled through his nose. "And you don’t remember it?"

"No."

"Then I don’t see how this conversation helps either of us."

The voice was silent. This time, he could feel it thinking. And then, just before it faded again, it whispered. "Perhaps you are right."

And just like that, it was gone.

John exhaled, slow and steady. His head was quiet again.

He kept walking. The brothel was just ahead. And Lirianne had a noble to sell him.

The Cinder House was alive. The smell hit John first—sweet perfume masking sweat, the tang of spilled wine, and the thicker scent of bodies pressed together behind thin wooden walls.

The girls were already watching him as he stepped inside, lounging in doorways, perched on tables, sprawled across half-dressed men who had already drunk themselves into compliance.

“Back already?” The voice came from his left, where a slender redhead with a wicked smirk trailed painted nails across his arm as he passed.

“Thought you were too busy killing fools to enjoy yourself,” she teased.

“Who says I can’t do both?” John murmured, letting her fingers linger for a heartbeat before he pulled away.

Another girl—dark curls, honeyed skin, a loose wrap slipping just enough off her shoulder to keep attention—stepped into his path, running a lazy hand over his chest. “You smell like blood,” she murmured, voice thick with invitation.

John smirked. “I’ll bathe when I’m dead.”

She chuckled. “Well, if you want help before then…”

He slid past her, shaking his head.

The Cinder House girls knew him well enough. He fucked when he felt like it, drank when the mood took him, and never paid a coin for talk.

Most nights, they let him be. Some nights, they let him fuck for free.

But tonight wasn’t one of those nights. Tonight, he had work to do.

He spotted Lirianne easily, standing behind the barrel-wood counter, pouring wine for a rat-faced merchant who was already too deep in his cups. She caught his approach immediately, dark eyes flicking up, sharp as ever. “Everything go alright?” she asked, voice smooth.

John nodded once.

“Good,” she muttered. “Then maybe you can finally wash the filth off before you sit on my chairs.”

John grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Need your help with something.”

Lirianne arched a brow. “That’s new.”

John jerked his head toward the back rooms.

She studied him for half a heartbeat longer than necessary, then sighed and set the bottle down. “Fine. Follow.”

The back rooms of The Cinder House were darker, quieter, filled with the distant murmur of moans and laughter behind shuttered doors.

Lirianne led him into one of the empty side rooms, pulling the curtain closed behind them. The space was small, a low wooden table and a single oil lamp casting soft shadows across the walls.

She crossed her arms. “Well?”

John ran a hand through his dark, sweat-matted hair, rolling his shoulders as he spoke. “I need a way into the city.”

Lirianne’s expression didn’t change.

“Not just into the slums,” he clarified. “The noble quarter.”

That made her tilt her head slightly. “You going soft on me, John?” she asked. “Decided you’d rather drown in silk than dirt?”

“Nothing soft about it,” he said. “Just business.”

Lirianne sighed. “And what makes you think I can help?”

John leaned against the wooden frame, crossing his arms. “Because you know who the nobles fuck.”

She smirked. “I know a lot of things.”

“You know which ones pay for bruises,” he said, voice flat.

Lirianne’s smirk faded. She exhaled slowly, running a hand over her jaw. “…You looking for a favor, or are you willing to get your hands dirty?”

John shrugged. “I don’t work for free.”

Lirianne studied him a moment longer, then tapped a nail against the table. “Fine,” she muttered. “There’s a merchant lord—fat, disgusting pig of a man. Likes to spend his nights with one of the younger girls, the kind he thinks won’t fight back.” She rolled her shoulders. “He’s due for a visit soon.”

John nodded once. “I’ll be ready.”

Lirianne eyed him, her gaze flickering just slightly. “Who hired you?”

John said nothing.

She huffed a breath, shaking her head. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t care.” She stepped forward, patting his cheek lightly, smirking again. “Just try not to get yourself killed before you pay your tab.”

John grinned. “I’ll add it to my list of priorities.”

Lirianne chuckled. “That list’s getting long.”

“Still shorter than yours.”