The next morning, the first rays of sunlight barely filtered through the cracks in the window. The harsh and pale light caressed the decrepit walls, as if to emphasize the lamentable state of the room. Jarek stood up with a growl. The night had been short. And agitated.

Bursts of voices, rushing footsteps, a dull shock against a wall... He had practically not slept. The sounds of the city had invited themselves into his room, amplified by the cracked window and the total absence of insulation. He'd caught at least two violent arguments, maybe a fight or even a murder, he wasn't sure. Every sound had awakened his survival instincts, keeping him on edge.

He had turned around about twenty times on this rough bed that creaked with each movement, unable to find the slightest comfort. For a moment, he had thought about sleeping on the floor, before changing his mind upon seeing a suspicious trail dried under the desk without a tray.

He got up, poured a little water on his face, if we could call it water, and adjusted his outfit. Then he left the room and went down the stairs in silence, his gaze sharp despite his fatigue.

He joined the main room of the Order of Assassins, a large vaulted room with black walls, illuminated by some weak torches. Some hooded silhouettes were lying around, exchanging furtive glances, whispering or writing on coded documents. The silence there was religious, almost heavy. Here, every word had a price.

He approached the counter, where stood a different hostess from the day before. Younger, more nervous, brown hair loosely tied in a ponytail, she barely looked up when seeing him approach.

"Room 42?" she asked in a neutral tone.

He just nodded.

She quickly tapped on a tablet of runic stone, then made a blackened parchment appear that she handed to him without ceremony. Above, a series of precise lines, written in scarlet ink that still seemed fresh.

"Mission. Priority three. Target: Mathias Renold, former governor of Ceston. Refugee in the Old Court, north of the city. He is protected. Two guards of the old militia, private mercenaries."

She added in a weary voice: "He sold classified information about the Order to a rival guild a few weeks ago. We want his head. And we want a message."

Jarek raised an eyebrow. "What kind of message?"

She stared at him, impassive. "The kind that makes others think. Make an example of it."

He remained silent, then put the scroll back in his jacket. No emotion on his face. Just that cold facade that he wore so well.

"What does he look like?" Questioned Jarek while staring at the hostess in front of him.

"Male, in his forties, graying hair on the sides, large build and small in height." She replied without giving more information.

"Delay?" he asked simply.

"Before midnight. If the target disappears again, you will be held accountable."

He nodded again. Not a word more.

As he turned away from the counter, the hostess reminded him in an almost curious voice, as if she had just noticed something: "You didn't ask what the target really did."

Jarek stopped, without looking back. "I'm not interested."

Then he disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, his thoughts turned not to the mission, but to the way in which he was going to use it to his advantage. Because he had not come here to assassinate. But to understand how this Order worked from within.

And if he had to leave a body behind for that, then so be it. But it wouldn't be a waste. It would be an investment.

The day was moving slowly, but the morning fog struggled to clear. Ceston, in that pale light, looked more like a cemetery than a city. Jarek progressed through the northern alleys, hood down, drowned figure among the shadows and hurried passersby.

He wore nothing distinctive. No insignia. No symbol of the Order. He had blended into the crowd like one more shadow. The Order did not require a particular style for its assassinations, only results.

The Old Court was a disused courthouse, converted for years into a den for crooked governors, corrupt mercenaries or fallen nobles trying to flee their past. It was a forgotten, but dangerous place: the men who lived there had lost everything except their distrust.

Jarek stopped at about thirty meters from the building. From there, he had a partial view of the main entrance: two collapsed statues of hooded judges, and a wide solid wooden door, eaten away by moisture. Two armed men watched the surroundings, not discreet, but not stupid. They wore worn but maintained armor, the two mercenaries mentioned by the hostess.

He did not linger. He observed. He waited.

For nearly an hour, he spotted the rhythm of the rounds, the movements of the guards, the way they took turns to smoke or pee behind the building. He also noticed that one of the back walls, covered with ivy and moss, seemed unstable, perhaps weakened by the years. He sketched a slender smile. He had his point of entry.

At nightfall, he returned, silent as the mist.

He climbed a side facade, taking advantage of a recess in the stone. No noise. Not a breath. Once on the roof, he let himself slide between two chimneys, to the area he had spotted earlier. He carefully removed three stones from the wall to open a narrow passage, just enough to crawl inside.

The interior of the Old Court was dark, almost empty. Old broken benches, files stacked for years, and moldy hangings still dangling from crumbling walls. The smell was a mix of mold, sweat and fear.

He progressed with caution, spotting the sounds: a discussion in a neighboring room, muffled laughter. Three voices. Two masculine, one feminine. He was only waiting for two.

"Tss. That's a bad sign." he thought.

He slowly approached the door ajar and glanced inside.

Mathias Renold was there, bigger than he had imagined, sitting on a chair, a cup of wine in hand, dressed in a purple coat. He was laughing at a joke he had just made. To his left, one of the mercenaries. To her right, a young woman, maybe an escort, maybe more.

The second guard was missing. Which did not suit Jarek.

He stepped back, plunged again into the dark corridors, barely lit by the moon through the cracked stained glass windows. That's when he heard it: a slight scrape of steps, discreet, but poorly proportioned. Someone was going around.

He melted into an alcove. Waiting. The breath suspended. Then the guard appeared, walking slowly, inspecting the corridors with a shaky torch. Too focused on what he thought he saw, not enough on what could surprise him.

One hand rose from the shadows, closed on his mouth. The other planted a dagger just between the ribs. The guard tried to struggle, but the blade came back up, neat, precise, into the heart.

Silence.

Jarek let the body slide to the ground, placed it against a wall as if he was sleeping. He picked up the torch, extinguished it gently. Then he returned to the main room.

He opened the door with a snap.

The first mercenary didn't have time to react. The dagger flew into the air and stuck in his eye. He fell backwards, dead before touching the ground.

The woman shouted.

Mathias stood up with a leap, the wine splashing his sleeves. He tried to flee.

Jarek grabbed him by the collar, plunged it against the table. With a sharp gesture, he stunned him with the handle of his blade. Then, calmly, he turned to the still frozen woman.

"You will say nothing. You have never seen him. And he died like a traitor."

She shook her head frantically, too terrified to utter a word.

Jarek leaned over Mathias's unconscious body. He did not kill him right away. He brought out a longer, thinner blade, almost like a ritual.

On the old man's chest, he engraved a word in clear letters: TREASON.

Then he cut off her head.

The blood ran slowly, then stronger, soaking the table.

He took his head still bloody and put it in a canvas bag. He didn't search for anything. He wanted it to be a message. As requested.

He left the place without looking back.

And when he passed the door of the Old Court again, the two collapsed statues seemed to stare at him, silent, as if they had judged him.

It was just after twenty-two when Jarek arrived in front of the entrance to the Order of Assassins. A fine rain fell, slow and cold, drenching the cobblestones and souls. No one followed him. No one had seen him go out. The sticky bag he was carrying in his hand seemed to weigh a ton, but his step remained light.

He crossed the main arch without a word. No one saluted him, but some looks rose in his path. Whispers barely audible. He knew what they were seeing: the bag. The blood. The absence of remorse.

He stopped in front of the counter.

It was no longer the nervous hostess of the morning, but a man with a shaved head, bare-chested despite the cold, covered in scars. He was cutting a piece of wood using a small knife, without lifting his eyes.

"Mission complete?" he asked in a monotonous tone.

Jarek placed the bag on the counter, blood slowly oozing through the thick fabric.

The knife stopped. The silence became denser.

The man finally looked up, planted it in that of Jarek. "Did you do it properly?"

Jarek took out the black scroll from his jacket, placed it next to the bag. "The message passed. There was wine, blood, an engraved word. They will remember it."

A slight, almost imperceptible smile brushed against the man's lips. He slowly nodded, then called without raising his voice:

"Kellia."

A young woman in leather armor, white hair tied in a long mat, immediately appeared from a side door.

The man looked at her without showing any interest. "Full report. Logistical details, trace the name, and... clean it up." She dictated to him while pointing at the oozing bag of blood lying in front of him.

She approached the bag without a word, grasped it confidently despite the smell. Her gaze met that of Jarek, but she said nothing either. In this Order, silence was often worth more than words.

The man behind the counter replied. "As this was your first mission, no reward will be given to you."

Jarek approved of the leader, knowing that he expected to receive nothing for this mission.

The host then stepped back and handed an object to Jarek, which he took in his hands, without even asking any questions. He knew this kind of objects, it was the badge of the Order of Assassins, made of blackened wood by time or humidity, he didn't really know.

A small nugget of gold on its surface, barely larger than the pulp of his thumb, was embedded in it. This color too, he knew it well. He already had it when he was in the Order of Mercenaries.

Raising an eyebrow in surprise, Jarek turned his badge between his fingers a few moments before again turning his attention to the man with the stern gaze. "Rank Gold after a single mission?"

The man looked at him in a neutral and firm tone, being neither friendly nor hostile towards him. "You may be new, but everyone knows you, number 3... Especially in this city."

A slight smile appeared on Jarek's face. "I will take your remark as a compliment, Eskarn."

A furtive grin appeared on the host's face, but it faded immediately.

Eskarn. Few people know this name. For the ignorant, it is only a word empty of meaning. For others, it is a blade planted in memory. A threat whispered in the shadows. A silent warning.

Eskarn is not just a cold, impassive host of the Order of Assassins. He is a black-blooded beast, an unscrupulous executioner who relishes every cry, every plea, before finishing his prey with a brutality that defies all comprehension.

One can count on the fingers of one hand those who survived a direct confrontation with him. And even they never really came out unscathed.

He has been a Bronze for more than ten years, not for lack of talent, but because he refuses to follow the rules of the game. He rejects official missions, ignores promotions. Otherwise, he would already be among the most feared Gold ranks of all the Orders combined. Maybe even in the very restricted circle of the top 10.

But Eskarn has never had a thirst for recognition. He kills because he likes it. Because he does it better than anyone else. Because it explodes whenever someone dares to upset it.

And when Eskarn explodes, nothing remains.

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