The shabby tavern reeked of fetid ale, dripping beef tallow, and too many unwashed bodies. Near the Wild Reach, hygiene was more suggestion than requirement, and The Frozen Fang attracted the sort of clientele who considered bathing an annual inconvenience at best.
Shadows and cobwebs coated the corners of the great room, and a crumbling hearth yawned cold and empty along one wall. The muddle of dubious conversations drowned out the scuttling of insects across the grimy floors, even as a mangy dog lurked around the tables hunting for scraps.
Vaskel sat in the corner, nursing his third tankard of something that claimed to be ale. His horns had not reached full-length, marking him as barely past fifty. Orc’s blood, he was practically an adolescent by hellkin standards. Infernal creatures didn’t live as long as elves, but it wasn’t unusual for them to notch a few hundred years under their belts. It also wasn’t unusual for them to frequent places like The Frozen Fang, where the law had less of a hold and their kind wasn’t such an oddity.
The crew he’d joined two months ago sprawled around a scarred wooden table in various states of intoxication. They weren’t the noble band of adventurers he’d dreamed of joining when he’d left the sulfur peaks of his homeland. These were mercenaries, pure and simple, and not even very good ones. They took the jobs others wouldn’t touch, asked no questions, and split the gold evenly. It wasn’t honorable work, but it paid well, and payment meant survival.
“Another round?” The purr of Marina’s voice cut through his brooding thoughts.
She stood beside their table, having appeared without warning, a trait that made Vaskel’s tail twitch nervously. Marina was powerful, confident, and devastatingly seductive, everything Vaskel aspired to be. Her crimson horns curved back from her forehead in elegant spirals, signaling that she had passed the age of maturity, and her eyes were a hypnotic shade of violet.
“Always,” growled Thork, their orc leader, already deep in his cups.
The one-eyed dwarf, who made the last member of their foursome, belched instead of answering, staggering to his feet and ambling off to bed, leaving only Vaskel, Thork, and Marina in the tavern’s smoky common room.
Marina signaled the barkeep with a languid gesture, and a barmaid appeared with foam-topped tankards as if by magic. It could have been magic, knowing Marina. She had abilities that went beyond the natural hellkin talents and powers that made even hardened mercenaries step carefully around her.
Thork lasted another two rounds before his head hit the table with a resounding thunk, snores following immediately after.Marina watched him with amused contempt, then turned her piercing gaze on Vaskel.
“Still awake, little brother?” She always called him that, though they shared no blood. It was a hellkin custom, with older ones often taking the younger under wing, teaching them the ways of their kind in a world that feared and misused them.
“Still thinking,” Vaskel corrected, though the ale had made his thoughts pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.
“Dangerous habit in our line of work.” She moved to sit beside him, close enough that he could smell the cinnamon and sulfur scent that hewed to her skin. “What troubles you?”
Vaskel hesitated, then the ale made him honest. “The job today. We were supposed to retrieve stolen goods, but those weren’t thieves we killed. They were just people trying to protect their possessions.”
Marina’s laugh was like breaking glass. “Oh, sweet little brother. Still clinging to notions of good and evil? There’s only survival and power in this world. Everything else is a pretty story told to children.”
“But—”
“You want to survive, don’t you?” She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. “You want to become powerful enough that no one can ever hurt you, use you, punish you for simply being you?”
The words hit too close to home. Too many had automatically viewed Vaskel as evil for him not to feel the impact of what she said. Here, at least, he was earning his keep, building areputation, and becoming someone who mattered. Even if the methods made him uneasy.
“Of course,” he admitted, the words rasping from his tight jaw.
Marina pulled back enough to study his face, and something calculating flickered in her expression. “You know, I could help with that. Give you an edge that would make you invaluable to any crew. Maybe even let you lead your own one day.”
Vaskel’s breath snagged in his chest. “What kind of edge?”
“The same one I have.” She held up a hand, and light seemed to dance around her fingers despite the tavern’s shadows. “The ability to sense danger before it arrives. To know when someone means you harm, when a situation is about to go sideways, when death is reaching for you with icy fingers.”
It sounded too good to be true, which in Vaskel’s limited experience meant it probably was. “What’s the cost?”
Marina smiled, and this time it reached her eyes, making them glow with inner fire. “Clever boy. There’s always a cost, isn’t there?” She traced a finger along his arm, leaving a trail of warmth that seemed to sink beneath his skin. “Just a simple bind that will link us together and allow my powers to flow to you. Think of it as insurance.”
“Insurance?”
“That you won’t use the gift against me, of course.” Her tone was light, teasing. “And perhaps, one day, far in the future, I might need a favor. Something small. Probably nothing at all. I might never even collect.”
Vaskel knew he should ask more questions. Should demand specifics. Should probably run from the tavern and never lookback. But the ale made him bold, and the heady promise of power made him lightheaded, and Marina’s presence made him want to prove himself.
“How does it work?” he asked.
Marina’s smile widened. “Just give me your hand and say that you agree. That’s all. It’s as simple as breathing.”
She extended her hand, palm up, waiting. In the dim tavern light, her crimson skin seemed to glow as if illuminated from within.
