Page 2 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

Shade tilts his head, listening to the sound fade. “Some things never change.”

“No,” I agree. “They don’t.”

“Wolf.” His voice is softer now. “If I don’t come back—”

“You’ll come back.”

“—tell Kitty she still owes me twenty silver from that card game.”

For a moment we just stand there in this narrow stone room like the scared children we both once were.

“Stay alive, Wolf,” he says quietly. “Don’t let them put you in the ground.”

“Same to you.”

Then he’s gone, slipping through the door like a shadow.

The sanctum feels larger without him in it. I’m alone now. The walls seem to press closer in his absence.

I stand there for a moment, breathing in the stale air. The sound of approaching footsteps snaps me back. Heavy with a slight drag on the left.

Carver.

I smell him before he rounds the corner. He carries the constant stench of dried blood, a scent that seems to have soaked into his skin. I despise looking at his long modified metallic hands. They’re proof he enjoys his work a little too much. His Grimsbane mask is a grotesque thing, a human face twisted in an endless scream. He carved it himself from the skull of his first kill.

“Well, well. Heard you’re one strike away from joining the underground entertainment.”

My teeth grind together at the jibe.

“I’m still armed, Carver. You’re not that stupid,” I say without turning around.

He laughs. The grating sound makes my skin crawl. “All that bite won’t help you when you’re screaming in the dark. You know what they do to failures, don’t you? The Judges don’t just lock you up. They make you useful.”

I fucking know that.

The guild wastes nothing. Failed assassins become practice dummies for the initiates, for as long as they last in the crypts. The failures learn what it means to be truly broken.

“Maybe I’ll volunteer to be your handler,” Carver continues, moving closer. I can hear the smile in his voice.

My hand moves to my blade before I can think. The motion is smooth like everything the guild taught me. But my grip trembles.

When did that start?

“Nervous?” He’s close enough now that I can see the fresh blood under his fingernails. “You should be. Word is, your next assignment is already picked out. Something special for the walking failure.”

“Move along, Carver,” I say quietly.

He’s already walking away, cackling. “Better hope it’s not a kill order, Wolf. Would hate to see you join the chorus downstairs.”

His laughter echoes through the tunnels long after he disappears around the corner. I force myself to breathe and unclench my fist from around my blade. The trembling won’t stop.

I need to move. The tunnels of the guild stretch out in every direction, a labyrinth carved into the bedrock beneath Tiamat. My boots echo on stone as I walk to the Contemplation Room.

When you’re summoned here, the guild has already decided your fate. You just don’t know what it is yet.

The chamber is isolated from the rest of the sanctum. I settle on one of the stone benches, the one facing the iron door. This space is carved from the same black stone as the rest of the sanctum. There are no windows or decorations. Its walls are lined with black glass that reflects your image back at you from every angle.

Hundreds of masked figures stare back at me from the darkness. They all wear my face. I have to look away. I count my breaths and wait for my name to be called from the iron door.