Chapter 1 - The Call to Service

Sunlight crawled through the window and hit me square in the face. I squinted, my head pounding from last night's wine. Felix was draped across my chest like a blonde blanket, dead to the world. His breath tickled my neck, and despite feeling like I'd been trampled by a horse, I grinned.

The sheets were twisted around us like we'd been wrestling. Which, come to think of it, we had been.

"Morning," Felix mumbled against my collarbone. His hand wandered south, wrapping around me with zero hesitation.

I groaned. "Felix, I can barely feel my legs."

"Liar." His grip tightened, and damn him, he was right. My body snapped to attention like a soldier at roll call.

He chuckled, that low sound that always got to me. "Besides, when has that ever stopped you?"

Before I could come up with a witty response, someone hammered on the door. BANG BANG BANG.

"You've got to be shitting me," I muttered, rolling out of bed. The cold air hit my naked ass like a punishment.

Felix laughed. "Duty calls."

I stumbled to the door, snatched the envelope from the floor, and dove back under the covers. The Guild's seal glared at me from the parchment. I cracked it open.

New assignment. Report immediately. - M.B.

"Well?" Felix asked, already knowing the answer from my face.

"Marcus wants to see me." I crumpled the letter and tossed it aside. "Probably some noble's lost their precious whatever and needs the famous Samuel Thornwood to find it."

Felix's arms tightened around me. "You'll come back."

"Always do." I kissed him, tasting sleep and whatever came next. "Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone."

"No promises."

---

I strapped on my leather armor, checking the buckles twice. Old habits. Felix watched from the bed like a blonde wet dream, sheet strategically draped across his hips but leaving nothing to the imagination.

"You could always stay," he said, stretching in a way that made every muscle in his lean body flex. The little show-off knew exactly what he was doing.

"And miss Marcus lecturing me about responsibility? Tempting, but I'd rather keep my balls attached." I grabbed my belt, trying not to stare at the way the morning light played across Felix's chest.

Felix smirked and let the sheet slip lower. "Your loss. I was planning to spend the day practicing my oral techniques."

My mouth went dry. "You're evil."

"You love it." He threw a pillow at me. "Now get out of here before I change my mind about letting you leave."

I caught the pillow and tossed it back. "Keep that thought warm for me."

"Among other things," he purred, and fuck me if that didn't make me want to climb right back into bed with him.

The Crooked Nail leaned against the exterior wall like a drunk looking for support. I stepped into the street, breathing in fresh bread and horse shit, Ashbourne's signature morning perfume.

The lower tiers were already bustling. A woman waved at me from her bakery window. I blew her a kiss and kept walking, Felix's promise echoing in my head.

People moved with purpose here. A guy tried to sell me boots that looked suspiciously like mine. I declined with a laugh and a suggestion about where he could stick his merchandise.

I knew these streets the way most people knew their prayers: by heart and without thinking. Every shortcut, every friendly face, every place to hide when things went sideways. Lily called out from her shop, surrounded by bundles of wildflowers that smelled like a meadow had exploded. I stopped for a kiss that tasted like sugar and mischief.

"Come by when you get back," she whispered, pressing a sprig of something purple into my hand. "I'll have something sweet waiting for you. And don't think I haven't noticed that new belt. Stolen?"

"Gifted," I corrected. "By someone with excellent taste."

She laughed, sharp and knowing. "That's what they all say. Go on, before Blackthorn sends someone less charming."

As I climbed toward the upper levels, the air got cleaner and the people got stuffier. Rich folks with sticks up their asses and more money than sense. The buildings shifted from crooked timber to polished stone, every window gleaming like it had something to prove.

The Guild Hall squatted in the city center like a stone monument to organized chaos. The sword-and-quill emblem over the door looked like it was judging my life choices. Fair enough. I'd made some questionable ones.

Inside, the place hit me with a wall of smoke, sweat, and barely contained violence. Adventurers clustered around boards full of bounties and contracts, arguing over who deserved what. The clang of someone testing a blade on a practice dummy rang through the hall like a bell nobody asked for.

"Samuel!" Tom the blacksmith grabbed my shoulder with hands that could crush walnuts. Soot streaked his arms up to the elbows, and he smelled like hot iron and hard work. "Still breaking hearts and taking names?"

"You know it." I clapped his shoulder back. "Forge treating you well?"

He grinned, showing teeth that had seen better days. "Can't complain. Made a set of throwing knives last week that'd make your eyes water. Stop by sometime, I'll show you."

I worked my way through the crowd, trading nods and promises with familiar faces. Mara the half-elf rogue gave me a wink as she cleaned her daggers, and I caught the smell of oiled steel and leather before the crowd swallowed her up.

Marcus's office waited at the end of a hallway lined with maps of places I'd love to explore. Every one of those maps was a place I hadn't been yet, and that thought alone was enough to keep my feet moving.

I stopped outside his door and knocked three times.

*

The office reeked of tobacco and old wood, the kind of smell that stuck to your clothes for days. Marcus Blackthorn sat behind his massive desk, packing his pipe with careful, deliberate attention. The walls were lined with books that probably hadn't been cracked open since the Guild was founded, and a fire crackled in the hearth, throwing shadows across the carpet.

He looked up when I entered, silver threading through his black hair, and I noticed the ornate cane propped against his desk. The thing looked expensive enough to buy a house, but I'd heard rumors it hid a blade that had ended more arguments than his words ever had. He rose with a slight limp as he gestured me toward the chair, then settled back into his seat with the practiced ease of a man who'd learned to make his injuries look deliberate.

"Samuel," he said, his voice carrying that courtly weight he put behind everything. "I appreciate you answering the summons so promptly."

I dropped into the chair across from him. It creaked under me, old leather groaning like it resented the company.

Marcus slid a parchment across the desk. "I have a contract that requires a particular set of skills. Your particular set of skills, as it happens."

I picked it up, scanning the fancy script. The details filled in fast: a warlock named Malkor, blood magic rituals, girls going missing near Blackrock Hold. Whole villages too scared to sleep with their doors unlocked.

"A blood warlock," I said, reading the details again. "Kidnapping girls for rituals."

"Malkor has been collecting young women from the surrounding villages," Marcus confirmed, tapping his pipe against the desk. "Oakhaven, Millcross, others. The families petition the Guild every week, and the local militia won't go near Blackrock Hold. Someone needs to put a stop to it." He paused, letting the smoke curl. "How you stop him is your business. I don't need to know the details."

The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. I stared at the parchment. Girls being snatched from their beds for blood rituals. Real people with real families, gone because some twisted fuck needed ingredients for his spells.

My stomach turned. I'd seen what dark magic left behind. The scorched circles, the stains that didn't wash out. I thought about Felix, warm and safe back at the Crooked Nail, and something cold settled in my chest at the idea that anyone could drag someone out of that kind of safety and into a nightmare.

"The pay listed here is shit," I said, because I had to say something that wasn't about the knot in my throat.

Marcus leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Consider it an investment. There's a parable the old guild masters used to tell: the thief who chases the coin purse misses the vault door standing open behind him. Stop Malkor, bring those girls home, and the Guild will remember. Generously."

I stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. "Alright. I'll deal with Malkor and get the girls out."

Marcus's expression grew serious, the measured warmth disappearing from his eyes. "Samuel, I will be direct. Malkor is not some hedge wizard brewing potions in a basement. He kills without hesitation, and his keep is a fortress." He fixed me with the kind of look that made seasoned adventurers suddenly remember appointments elsewhere. "Keep your wits about you and your focus sharp. I don't need to remind you that your... appetites have complicated past assignments."

I grinned. "You wound me, Marcus. When have I ever let distractions get in the way?"

"Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically?"

Fair point. "Message received. Stop the warlock, save the girls, keep my dick in my pants."

"See that it stays that way." He leaned back, fingers curling around the head of his cane. "Blackrock Hold has swallowed better rogues than you. Come back with your head still attached, and we'll discuss your future prospects over something expensive."

I tucked the contract into my pocket and headed for the door. The weight of it pressed against my leg with every step, heavier than parchment had any right to be.

---

The streets buzzed with late afternoon energy as I made my way to the stables. Vendors called out final sales, and the smell of roasting meat from a cart made my stomach growl. Marcus's warning echoed in my head, mixing with the image of those circled words on the contract.

The stables sat at the city's edge, where the stone gave way to mountain paths and the air smelled like honest sweat instead of perfumed bullshit. I could see Bertha waiting in her stall, probably plotting new ways to make my life difficult. She was a good mule, which meant she was stubborn, opinionated, and smarter than half the people in the Guild Hall.

As I approached her stall, the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. I turned, and there she was, Mistress Ashara, emerging from the shadows like she'd been stitched into them and only just decided to step out. Her silver-and-black fur caught what little light filtered through the stable windows. Those golden eyes fixed on me, and my spine went rigid on instinct. Training did that to you.

"Leaving without a word, Samuel?" she purred, her voice carrying that razor edge that made my spine straighten and other things do the opposite.

She was danger wrapped in fur and leather, all confidence and coiled power, the riding crop resting against her thigh like it was part of her body. My brain cataloged the usual details: the black bodysuit that fit like it had been poured on, the way her tail moved with that hypnotic grace, the fact that she could probably kill me six different ways before I finished this thought.

"I was going to send a note," I started.

"Save it." The riding crop flicked up, pointing at my chest. "Blackthorn doesn't sneeze without me knowing."

She stepped closer, her breath warm against my ear, and I caught her scent: cedar bark and something sharp, like heated metal, with a warmth underneath that made my pulse kick. "Blackrock Hold isn't a place for mistakes. But I have no doubt you'll come back."

Her lips brushed my ear, so briefly I might have imagined it. "Try not to get yourself killed before we have a chance to properly celebrate your success."

Then she was gone, melting back into the shadows as quickly as she'd appeared, leaving me rattled, flushed, and wondering if that had been a threat or a promise. Knowing Ashara, probably both.

I shook it off and moved to Bertha's stall. She looked at me with those big, knowing eyes, like she could read every thought in my head.

"Don't give me that look," I muttered, checking her saddle. "We've got a warlock to kill and girls to bring home. Try to contain your excitement."

She snorted, which I took as enthusiasm.

I led her out into the fading daylight, the mountain air sharp in my lungs. The city stretched behind us, all warm lights and familiar chaos. Ahead lay the unknown: winding mountain paths, a mad warlock, and a bunch of kidnapped girls counting on someone who hopefully wasn't as stupid as he looked.

"Alright, girl," I said, patting Bertha's neck as I swung into the saddle. "Stop the warlock, save the girls, try not to die. Sound like a plan?"

She flicked an ear, which I chose to interpret as confidence in my abilities to not fuck this up too badly.