The loudest table in the tavern roared with laughter—the seven men in gaudy, jewel-toned vests and far too many rings. Their clothes looked expensive if you didn’t know what real noble fabrics looked like. Nythir did. Which meant he knew these men were the kind of rich that came from bad decisions and worse morals.
Every guild worth its salt had rules that mattered more than contracts, and one of them was simple. You did not endanger an informant. Tavern owners, brokers, and bartenders like Luna were the lifeblood of cities like Stonehaven. They heard everything. Names, routes, rumors, and mistakes whispered after too much drink. Anyone who treated an informant as disposable quickly found themselves without work, allies, or warning when trouble came knocking.
Karl’s type eventually showed up in every trade hub. Men who followed caravans and festivals, flashing coins just real enough to pass casual inspection. They borrowed influence, borrowed names, and borrowed patience from people who could not afford to lose either. Stonehaven tolerated a lot, but it remembered everything. Karl had already crossed the invisible line. He just did not know it yet.
Nythir already knew how this would end. Karl would not be thrown out tonight. That would be messy and public. Instead, the problem would be handled quietly, with witnesses forgetting details and debts being settled through the proper channels.Jobs like this rarely came with formal postings. They came with looks, favors, and sunrise meetings.
He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the bitter taste linger on his tongue as he watched them.
“It’s not unusual to see new faces in Stonehaven,” he said, mostly to himself.
Essie would fit in perfectly in a town built at the center of a popular crossroads. New faces came and went as often as the rising and setting sun—and Luna would remember every single one of them, no matter how brief their stay.
Vorrik followed his gaze and winced. “They’re dressed like a peacock with no sense of color.”
Luna sashayed over to the rowdy table, hips swaying in a way that made half the tavern turn their heads.
“Oh my,” she purred, leaning forward just enough for the men’s gazes to drop exactly where she wanted them. “More shots already? Karl, might I interest you in one of my moreexclusivedrinks? On the house, of course.”
The man in the center—Karl, apparently—laughed and slapped her on the backside. “If you insist, sweetheart.”
Luna’s professional smile didn’t falter, but a muscle jumped in her jaw.
Nythir’s grip tightened around his mug.
It was not the slap alone that sealed Karl’s fate. It was the confidence in it. The assumption that nothing would happen. Nythir had seen that look before, usually right before someone learned how badly they had misjudged the room. Karl was no longer just a nuisance. He was a problem.
Problems like Karl rarely needed killing. That was crude. Inefficient. Most were dealt with through pressure, exposure, or removal from profitable routes. A broken reputation lasted longer than a broken bone. By morning, Karl would either begone from Stonehaven or valuable to someone else. Either way, Luna would be compensated.
“Barkeep,” Nythir called.
In guild circles, titles mattered. “Barkeep” was not an insult or a role. It was a signal. It meant business could be discussed without drawing attention, and that the speaker understood the rules of discretion. It told the listener that whatever followed would be handled professionally, with debts remembered and favors repaid.
“I’ll be right there,” she sang back, setting the tray of shots down in front of Karl and his companions. She laughed at something one of them said, head tilted, fingers resting lightly on his arm. To anyone else, she looked entirely charmed.
To Nythir, she looked like a woman cataloguing her enemies.
She glided back to the bar, grabbed Vorrik’s mug, and turned the tap. Froth bubbled up—but the scent hit Nythir first.
Water.
No bitterness. No amber hue. Just Stonehaven well water.
“This is wa—” Vorrik began.
Luna stabbed a fork into the bar an inch from his hand, never losing her smile.
“If Sable does not get here soon,” she said through gritted teeth, her voice pitched low enough that only they could hear over the din, “I am going to cut off that gremlin’s hands and feed them to him.”
Her eyes flicked toward Karl’s table.
“Which gremlin?” Vorrik asked, yanking his hand back and visibly reconsidering his life choices.
“The one who thinks my ass is public property,” she said brightly—then louder, seamlessly cheerful, “Here you are, sir!” as she slid the fake beer back to him.
Nythir almost pitied Karl.
Almost.
