Page 9 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

The first one goes for a frontal approach. The second circles left. The third is already falling to the ground.

I did not see Garrett move. One moment he’s standing by the fountain, the next he’s driven the pommel of his knife into the third assailant’s throat. The attacker drops, gasping like a beached fish, both hands clutching his ruined windpipe.

“Really?” Garrett sounds more disappointed than angry. “In broad daylight?”

The first attacker draws his blade. Garrett catches his wrist mid-swing and twists it without hesitation. The sword clatters to the cobblestones. He follows with a sharp headbutt and the attacker screams, blood streaming from his shattered nose.

The second one is already running. Smart.

Garrett looks at the two groaning on the ground. He nudges one with his boot. “Tell whoever sent you that next time, they should send someone competent.”

He steps over them and continues on his way, finishing his apple. I notice he doesn’t check to see if they’re seriously injured or call for city guards. He simply leaves them there like discarded trash. The contrast between this casual violence and his earlier gentleness with the townsfolk is jarring.

I follow him silently as he winds through narrower streets. He stops at a small shrine tucked into an alcove between buildings. I recognize the symbols carved into stone. It belongs to Kvatosh, the god of war.

Shade worships the same god. Kvatosh is the most popular of the seventy-seven gods in the elven pantheon, the one warriors pray to before battle and thank after victory. Being half-werewolf and half-elf, I never bothered with any of them. Prayers seemed useless when survival came down to skill and luck, not divine intervention.

But I know what training in Kvatosh’s temple means. A warrior can be called accomplished if they last a year inside the shrine. Shade spent twenty-three years there. I remember when he went in, barely my age at the time. When he emerged, I’d grown into adulthood and he was still a child in appearance. Time works differently in the realm of the gods.

Garrett trained under Kvatosh for sixty-nine years according to the file. Sixty-nine years of combat, meditation, and divine testing. No wonder those three amateurs didn’t stand a chance.

He pulls off his gauntlets and produces a coin, placing it carefully among the flowers already adorning the shrine. His lips move in silent prayer. I can’t make out the words, but his expression is peaceful. Whatever he’s asking for or thanking Kvatosh for, he believes it will be heard.

When he finishes, he retrieves his gauntlets and moves on. But he’s left something behind besides the coin. I wait until he’s turned the corner, then slip from the shadows to examine the shrine more closely. Nestled among the flowers sits a small wooden carving.

A wolf.

I pick it up, turning it over in my hand. The work is skilled, every detail rendered with care. The fur has been carved to show individual strands. The eyes hold a lifelike quality that makes me uncomfortable. It fits perfectly in my palm.

Why would he leave a wolf carving at the shrine? My heart twists with unease. I shouldn’t keep it. It’s an offering to a god, and stealing from shrines tends to bring bad luck.

I tuck it inside my vest anyway.

By the time he reaches his destination, the sun is already bleeding orange and purple across the sky. The tavern is called The Fool’s Heart, tucked in a rough district where nobles don’t venture after dark. Nobody would expect to find the Commander of the Valorian here. But Garrett frequents places like this. Over the past four days of surveillance, I’ve watched him slip in and out of similar establishments in the company of lords and ladies.

I find a vantage point across the street, settling in for what will probably be a long wait. The roof of an abandoned cooperage gives me a clear view through the tavern’s grimy windows. I can make out Garrett at a corner table, his back to the wall. Three people join him within minutes, fellow Valorian officers by their bearings.

They talk for hours. Garrett buys round after round, but I notice he barely touches his own drink. His mug sits full in front of him while he laughs and tells stories. The others grow looser with each refill. Every so often Garrett’s eyes flick to the windows and the door, a brief assessment before returning to his companions.

He knows he’s vulnerable in the tavern.

Anyone could walk in and slit his throat while he’s distracted. Either Garrett just doesn’t care, or he knows exactly what he’s doing. Maybe he’s purposely placing himself as bait, drawing out whoever wants him dead this month.

One of the officers says something that makes the whole table roar with laughter. Garrett’s smile looks sincere, but I’ve been watching him long enough to see the calculation behind it.

He’s performing.

The evening stretches on. Candles are lit inside the tavern as darkness settles over the district. I shift position, working out the stiffness in my legs. The cooperage roof smells of old wood and bird droppings. Not the worst surveillance point I’ve endured.

It’s well past midnight when Garrett finally leaves. A dark-haired woman walks beside him, laughing at something he said. Her hand rests on his arm with familiar ease. They part ways at the corner with a lingering touch and she disappears into the night, her footsteps fading down a side street.

Garrett watches her go. Then he turns and heads straight toward the safety of Elvarstyne Keep. The moon hangs low in the sky.

At this hour the city sheds its skin and transforms into something hungrier. This is when the capital shows its teeth. Cutthroats and worse things prowl these alleys. But Garrett walks through the dark streets like he’s taking a garden stroll. His scarlet cape billows behind him in the night breeze. Then he starts humming.

The balls on this guy.

He turns down a narrow side street and stops near a wall, clearly intending to relieve himself. I hang back, giving him privacy while keeping watch. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks twice and falls silent.