The Hound's Den wasn't a place for tea and conversation—it was a shadowed lair for extraction, where truths were tortured out of flesh and bone, or where sacrifices fueled dark rituals, blood spilled to empower spells that could topple rivals or bind loyalties.

Her grip tightened around the cup of tea, the porcelain cool against her palm, the liquid inside long since gone lukewarm.

This was why she avoided the outside world, why she kept her life compartmentalized like jars on a shelf—woodcutting by day, shadowy tasks by night, no bleed between the two.

Overthinking was her curse, a bad habit that turned simple jobs into labyrinths of doubt.

One stray order, and her mind spiraled: possibilities branching like frozen rivers, each path darker, more convoluted than the last.

She hated it more than anything—the gnawing uncertainty, the way it chipped at her control, forcing her to imagine outcomes she couldn't freeze solid.

Interference led to this: questions without answers, complications that thawed her carefully maintained detachment.

Better to stay neutral, deliver as ordered, collect the ten gold coins, and continue life as if it never happened.

Ameth pushed the plate away, the meal half-finished, the venison congealing slightly on the edges, the bread now a stale remnant of her indulgence.

Her gut denied to deserve the food anymore.

The candle sputtered, its flame dipping low, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls like specters of her thoughts.

She rose slowly, clearing the table with mechanical efficiency, stacking the dishes in the sink for later washing.

The parchment's weight against her chest felt heavier now, a tangible reminder of the complication she'd stumbled into.

Lor was just a job.

A means to coin.

Nothing more.

But as she blew out the candle and moved to her bed, the room plunging into darkness, the overthinking lingered, a cold knot in her gut that even her ice couldn't chill away.

Tomorrow, she'd act.

Maybe.

But tonight, sleep would come fitfully, haunted by variables she couldn't calculate.

__________

The morning broke over the town with a bright allure of the sun.

Lor woke sprawled across his narrow bed, one arm flung over the edge, a lazy grin tugging at his lips—today was the interclass academics tournament, a chance to flex just enough of his skill to stay under the radar while keeping his reputation intriguingly average.

Last night's weight, Silvia's warm hands and Kiara's gaze, had faded into a pleasant blur, softened by a rare, dreamless sleep.

He could ace the exam with his eyes half-closed; the questions were basic, the kind he could answer with a yawn and a smirk.

But the loser facade he'd perfected over months demanded restraint.

He'd done the math, crunched the numbers.

With Eva's hot rituals for his improvement: thirty marks.

Not too low, not too high to draw unwanted attention and at the same time showcasing the light's improvement on him.

He rolled out of bed, the wooden floor cool against his bare feet, and stripped the sleep off with a quick splash of water from the basin.

His hair stayed damp and gloriously unkempt, falling into his eyes the way he liked—boyish, disarming, a touch reckless.

Downstairs, the Vayne house hummed with the comforting chaos of family life: the warm, yeasty scent of baking bread mingled with the faint tang of sawdust that clung to everything.

The air felt lived-in, grounding, homely.

Mira, his mother, was already bustling in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour, her dark hair pinned haphazardly as she slid a plate of steaming eggs and thick, golden rounds of bread toward him.

Her eyes, warm and crinkled with that unshakable maternal pride, softened as she looked at him.

"All the best, sweetheart," she said, her voice a melody of encouragement as she leaned over to plant a kiss on his forehead.

The gesture made his cheeks flush the color of polished oak, a warmth he'd never admit he craved. "Make us proud."

His father, broad-shouldered and stoic behind his chipped mug of tea, offered a grunt that was half approval, half challenge.

"Make it double-digits at least," he rumbled, his weathered face creasing with a rare smirk.

"Do that, and I'll get you whatever you want—new boots, a blade, name it."

The offer was half-jest, half-promise, the kind of deal that carried the weight of his father's quiet faith.

"Deal," Lor said, snatching a piece of bread, his lazy, boyish grin flashing as he tore into it.

Mira's fussing—her quick ruffle of his hair, the way she adjusted his collar—flustered him more than any public scrutiny ever could.

It was the little things, the way his family saw him as someone worth believing in, that hit harder than any exam.

Breakfast was quick, warm, grounding, a fleeting anchor before he shouldered his worn leather bag and stepped out into the waking town.

The street was alive, pulsing with the rhythm of market life.

The town had already slid into motion.

The avenue toward the academy was a thread of human sound: a baker calling early loaves from his stall, a vegetable seller arranging crates with brisk, practiced hands, a smith coughing back sparks and swearing in a language only metal understood.

Lanterns on wooden poles dotted the street in their iron brackets; shutters opened one by one to let in the growing day.

Soon Lor closed in to the academy.

By the academy wall he saw the usual cluster of students compressing themselves into study groups, books spread like flags.

Some jogged numbers through their heads.

Others scrawled formulas on scrap paper.

Lor let his gaze sweep over them, finding the faces he knew, the rival nods and the tired, determined looks of people who'd spent many nights cramming.

Near the ivy-clad stone, Sophia and Lia were pressed together beneath a low arch, their shoulders hunched over open notebooks.

Sophia was scribbling desperately, hair tumbling in her face, while Lia, as ever, leaned back with that confident posture that said she expected success by default.

Both heads snapped up when they saw Lor; the brief surprise on their faces morphed quickly into comic dismay.

Lor strolled up, his grin as easy as a summer breeze, and leaned against the rough stone wall with a casual nod, as if it were just another confidant in his long list of allies.

"Morning, Sophia. Lia.," he greeted them.

Neither girl smiled. If anything, their faces sharpened with irritation, eyes narrowing like cats spotting a rival.

Lia folded her arms, her book tucked tightly against her chest, while Sophia puffed out a breath, her cheeks flushing with barely contained frustration.

"You didn't come by," Sophia snapped, stepping closer, her voice low but biting, as if he'd personally betrayed her.

Her eyes flashed, and the loose strands of her braid swayed as she tilted her head accusingly.

"We asked you to come by our house for the ritual, why didn't you come."

Lor raised a brow, genuinely caught off guard, his grin faltering for a split second.

"You did?" He racked his brain, trying to recall the conversation—had it been in the chaos of the last class, or some hurried exchange in the hall?

Lia's voice cut in, sharp as a knife's edge, her freckled face set in a scowl.

"How clear can we be? We told you we needed help. We asked for rituals, for tricks—anything to get us through this damn tournament."

Sophia jumped in before he could respond, her whisper rising into something dangerously loud, her frustration spilling over like water from a cracked cup.

"Do we have to ask you to come to our houses and fuck us before you'll teach us something useful? How clear is that?" The words tumbled out, raw and reckless, her cheeks flaming red as soon as they hit the air.

A few heads swiveled—students passing by, a merchant adjusting his stall nearby.

The academy morning was a cacophony of small noises: coughs, laughter, the clatter of boots on stone.

But Sophia's outburst hung like a dropped coin, glinting in the open, teetering on the edge of scandal.

Two boys nearby paused, their smirks sharp enough to cut, while a fruit vendor glanced up with a raised brow, her hands stilling on a basket of apples.

For a heartbeat, the moment threatened to ignite into something bigger, the kind of gossip that would trail them for weeks.

Then a wagon rolled past, its wheels squealing against the cobblestones, a stray dog yipped at a passing cart, and the street's clamor swelled just enough to smother the words before they could be pinned down.

It was an ordinary, blessed accident—life's chaos shielding them from prying ears.

Sophia and Lia seized the chance to smooth their faces, stepping closer to Lor, their voices dropping to a fierce whisper.

Lor, for his part, leaned into his lazy grin, pretending he hadn't noticed the eyes or the weight of their words, though his pulse ticked up a notch.

He wasn't foolish enough to let this escalate into a public scene.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.