“A wig,” Thren said, tossing the skull back into the shallow grave. “What is it you hide, Widow? Who are you really?”
Still, he had a few clues now, however meager. Standing, he kicked dirt into the grave until the body was covered, then looked back to Veldaren. Her lanterns were starting to twinkle into existence one by one. There was a time when Thren had considered Veldaren his city, all his. How far had he fallen to be outside it, digging up a poor woman’s corpse, while the rest of the guilds and Trifect plotted and maneuvered? Hands clenched into fists, he stabbed the trowel into the earth to serve as a burial marker. Alone he walked toward the road.
Veldaren would be his city again. He swore it. Once he had his vengeance, once he knew who was out there pulling the strings of puppets, he would retake his city brick by brick.
My city.
The thought put a grim smile on his face. For a while he’d accepted that the city was no longer his, but his son’s. That was over. The rumors of the Watcher’s survival meant nothing to him. He’d started them, playing the sham in a failed attempt to shame Grayson in the eyes of the underworld. But Victor’s arrival had shifted things beyond his control, had made it so Grayson needed to only watch as Thren’s guild was broken.
Darkness settled across the land as he walked his path. He’d take it all back. He’d rebuild, fight for it with every last measure of his skill. He would find victory. And if he couldn’t, then he’d burn it all to the ground.
My city, thought Thren.
My city...
Or ashes and rubble.
25
Victor stepped inside his makeshift home and let out a sigh of relief. Another day over, another twelve gone to the executioner’s blade. The light was fading as the sun dipped below the walls of the city, but inside was well lit, and crowded with families still seeking refuge from the vengeance of the thief guilds.
“Where’s your guard?” Sef asked, sitting at the bar where Victor joined him. “You did have a guard, right?”
“What business of yours is that?” Victor asked, accepting the drink Sef slid over to him.
“My business is to keep you alive, and to kill the rats of Veldaren. So far, I think I’m doing better at one than the other.”
Victor shrugged.
“The streets have grown calmer. You know that.”
Sef rolled his eyes.
“So no escort, then?” At Victor’s chuckle, Sef shook his head. “Going to get your damn self killed, Victor. I thought you’d learned better.”
“Can’t help it. I am no helpless child.”
Sef stroked at his beard, a habit Victor recognized well. It meant Sef was growing frustrated with him.
“Our foes aren’t so helpless, either. But if you want to go about trusting only your sword arm, then go right ahead.”
Victor stood, patted Sef on the shoulder.
“You know the gods have a better fate for me than dying to some soulless vagabond. Stay safe on your patrols tonight.”
Sef grunted.
“Thought you said the city had grown calmer.”
Victor grinned at him as he headed for the stairs.
“Did I? But my advisors insist the world is still a dangerous place, and I feel it best to listen.”
“Bastard.”
Victor waved without looking. At the top of the stairs were the two guards watching his room, to ensure no one entered during his absence. Victor nodded at them, then waited for his door to be unlocked.
“Sleep well, milord,” said one as he pushed the door wide.
“That’s the hope.”
As Victor removed his armor, he glanced at the far wall, which was now plain and bare wood, without painting or decoration. The carpenters he’d hired had rebuilt it at an impressive pace, repairing the gaping hole Tarlak’s spell had left. Victor chuckled. Next time, he’d make sure he learned all the details of any spells that that wizard placed for his protection. He’d expected a few planks to fall loose, or some magical porthole of sorts to open up. When the wall had exploded out as if a dragon let loose its rage against it, he’d nearly soiled his armor. Of course, it was his own fault for expecting subtlety from a wizard who dressed in bright yellow.
After checking underneath his bed, Victor climbed in, lay down, and tried to sleep. Try as he might, sleep would not come. Tossing and turning, he felt time crawling along. The sounds from the tavern below quieted as those under his protection settled in, as well. That helped, but only a little. Sleep had grown steadily rarer during his time in Veldaren. The faces of the men who died that day flashed before his eyes, and he remembered them all, joining the ghostly choir that wailed in his nightmares. They all had something different to say, some plea or explanation when they knelt before the chopping block. It was as if they could never admit they’d done their wrongs for themselves, to satisfy their own greed and lust. They cried of children, mothers, families, debts, mistakes made, and long forgotten histories they always insisted they regretted.