Signor Zampa gripped my arm firmly and guided me through the inn with surprising urgency. Around us, the soft hum of conversation wove through the room, punctuated by laughter and the occasional clink of glasses against wood.
We navigated between crowded tables, drawing a few curious glances, until Zampa finally stopped and gestured for me to sit across from him at an empty table tucked in a shadowed corner.
I lowered myself into the seat, unsure what to say, tension tightening my spine. I parted my lips to speak, but Zampa raised a finger to his lips.Not yet.
I obeyed.
Moments later, a stout tavernkeeper approached, dressed in a knee-length wool tunic, hose, and worn leather shoes. His steps were uneven, with a slight limp in his gait.
“What’ll it be, Signor Zampa?” he asked, wiping his hands on a stained apron.
“Two tankards of mead, if you please.”
The man nodded and shuffled off, boots scuffing against the timber floor.
“Wait,” Zampa murmured, his voice barely audible, “until he returns.”
When the tavernkeeper reappeared, he dropped the tankards onto the table with a dull thud. Zampa produced a few coins and flicked them toward him without a word. The man grunted, nodded, and hobbled away, leaving us in a hushed bubble of privacy.
We each lifted our tankards. The mead was sweet, its warmth spreading through my chest. My parched throat welcomed it.
Zampa set his cup down, then leaned forward. His voice dropped to a whisper—low, grave, controlled.
“You say Balthazar is trying to kill you?”
The frail man I’d followed down the cobblestone street was gone.
In his place now sat someone else entirely—shoulders squared, gaze sharpened, voice like tempered steel. There was power beneath the surface of him, old and coiled, and in that moment, I understood why he had survived so long.
“Yes,” I answered, my voice trembling enough to sound convincing. Then I told him my story—carefully constructed, each word chosen precisely. I painted myself as the victim of a cruel, unrelenting man—a hunted woman, desperate and afraid.
Oh, I was good at this now.
Thisperformance.
Every day, my lies became more fluid, more persuasive. The truth was a luxury I could no longer afford.
When I finished, Zampa was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, “And how can I help?”
“I’ve been advised to entrust the blade to you,” I said. “I can’t keep it. It’s how Balthazar will find me. It’s a beacon... and I need it gone.”
I reached into my satchel and pulled the dagger free from its sheath. The golden inlays on the stone hilt shimmered under the tavern’s low lamplight. Slowly, deliberately, I slid it across the table to him.
Zampa’s eyes darted left and right, scanning the room. Then, cautiously, he picked it up.
He ran his fingers along the blade’s edge—not carelessly, but with reverence. It was clear he understood the importance of what he held.
“This,” he murmured, “is no ordinary weapon.”
He looked up, locking eyes with me.
“This ispower—raw and ancient. More than I can fully comprehend. You’re asking me to carry something that could alter fate itself.”
I didn’t respond.
What could I say?
For a brief, desperate moment, I considered offering myself—using seduction, submission, anything to tip the scales in my favor. But the thought of that bargain with a much older man turned my stomach. So, I waited, every muscle in my body coiled tight, watching his face for a sign. Anything.
