Chapter One

Raven crouched inside a shadowed nook between two trees that were bent and twisted by corrupt sorcery. He eyed the newly erected temple only twenty strides ahead, assessing the best means of infiltration. The structure was immense, a sprawling multi-compartmented hide tent that dwarfed a collective score of the largest of the thatched dwellings native to the remote villages in the region. 

Forced to travel the last five miles on foot, the progress through the tainted and decayed forest had been slow and miserable. His mount had been unprotected by the powerful alchemies that flowed through his body, shielding him from the potent sorceries, and so had succumbed to the withering miasma.

Besides, stealth was his greatest ally this night, not speed. It would be his patience and subtlety that would get him into the lethal striking distance of his next target, the second of the three self-styled warlock-priests that Carrion dispatched him to murder.   

The first of the three was now dead, assassinated three nights prior. Raven had set out immediately afterward for the second, riding for three days and two nights across the once lush forest of southern Kulthene that now stretched corrupted and withered as far as the eye could see by the necrotic energies.

After a full bell watching the tent, he saw no sign of a single person, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. Where were the scores of zealous acolytes he had to either avoid or cut through back at the first nomadic temple? There were no guards posted, no patrols roaming. Spirits, it was discipline alone that stopped him from casually strolling through the parted opening and strolling into the warlock-priest’s sanctified chamber. 

Well, it was discipline that kept him cautious, yes, but also the level of ruthlessness the first warlock-priest had displayed. The target had released wave after wave of chaotic sorcery at Raven, incinerating over a score of his own disciples in the attempt to stop his murderer. It was a desperation that matched the considerable strength of his affinity.

Raven would not allow himself to become complacent. He opened the pouch at his belt and took generous sips from each of the three alchemical elixirs at his belt, replenishing his sorcery negation, his increased affinity sensitivity, and his body’s healing effectiveness. And then he quested out with his newly replenished affinity awareness and renewed and flinched, then frowned. 

There was…something riding the air now. It was faint, mere traces of a potent sorcery that had been unleashed in this place. It wasn’t strong enough to identify the flavor of affinity, but he knew it wasn’t chaos, for that belonged to the first warlock-priest.  

That was all the confirmation he needed. 

He drew his twin daggers into each hand, glanced over his shoulder to survey the darkened path he had taken through the thick trees and heavy foliage for any sign of pursuit, and then padded towards the tent, thankful for the added layer of concealment afforded by a moonless night. 

Because of the utter silence of the abandoned encampment, cutting a hole through one of the thick hide walls the way he had done on the first hunt would bring more potential attention to himself than strolling right in through the front opening. 

He chose instead the main opening, ducked inside and crouched low, knives held at the ready as he listened for anything. 

The interior was uncomfortably hot, the air thicker than the humid summer night air outside. The stench of sorcery grew stronger, clinging to the air, making that whisper of wrongness in his gut grew a bit louder. It was a bit sharper now, but still could not identify the affinity.

He set out at a low trot, senses buzzing at high alert. The interior of the circular tent was a maze of narrow corridors, most of which lead to dead-ends and loops designed to confuse anyone seeking the path to the central chamber. That wasn’t a security measure. It was the way all Kulthene temples were designed—a test of the purity of one’s will. The locals believed the time it took to find the sacred altar at the center was a direct reflection of the purity of one’s soul. If it took too long to reach the center, it was said the priests would withhold their blessing, for the believer would be deemed unworthy. The foolishness. Raven’s targets were warlocks, corrupted by their dark powers, but they were still priests, devout followers of the Radiant Star. 

He soon lost all sense of direction as he took turn after turn in the poor visibility of the massive black-hide tent, which had but a single green flamed to illuminate each corridor. Each time he was forced to double back, the waves of frustration and anxiety redoubled. His only solace was the fact that, to this point, he had not found himself back out at the mouth of the temple entrance.

He found himself wishing he had encountered the same resistance as the first warlock-priest he had assassinated, at least there in the hide temple. Finding that first target had been as simple as following the bloody path he had carved through the scores of acolytes sent to stop him. Those acolytes had led Raven straight to his quarry.

Could this second target have fled, somehow tipped off that the Bloody Murder had accepted their contract and had dispatched their deadliest mage-killer? Or perhaps they shared a sorcerous link of sorts, and now the others two knew to flee before having their own throats slit atop their altars. It seemed unlikely, given their reputed arrogance and ruthlessness, but it wouldn’t matter either way. If they did flee, Raven would find them. 

A soft crunching underfoot brought Raven to a sudden stop. He froze, eyes closed and ears straining to hear, if anything, reacting to his sloppiness as he cursed himself for making a sound. After a few tense moments, he slowly released his held breath and looked down at the packed dirt around his boot. He saw nothing out of place at first, but then, just as he went to turn away, a shimmer of reflected torchlight caught his gaze. 

He noticed it then, the now stifling air, the sweat that poured soaked through his layered black clothing. All at once, it made sense. The hard packed dirt floor of the temple tent was covered with a layer of ash. And there was more. The residual affinity that had barely tickled the edges of his awareness when he first entered now rode the air with enough strength for him to identify—pyromancy.

Raven frowned. Something was very wrong. These warlocks were powerful sorcerers of life, death, and chaos affinities. None were reported to be either pyromancers or dual aspected. Carrion’s intel was sometimes vague, but always solid. An error so egregious was out of the question. 

That left only one other possible explanation. Another mage had recently unveiled their affinity here.

Raven lowered his foot and accepted the crunching of his boots on what he assumed were the remnants of some charred organic matter, giving up the idea of stealth. From this point forward, if anyone was still within the makeshift temple, they would know he was coming. It was time to switch tactics. 

A quick cut to the stiffened hide wall and he created an opening wide enough for him to burst through. He had no idea the level of affinity this pyromancer possessed, but the wall itself showed no signs of fire damage, indicating a level of control that suggested a dangerous mage, regardless of magical potency. 

The deeper he ran, carving his way indiscriminately through toward the central chamber, the hotter and more pronounced the pyromancic affinity became; that’s how he knew he headed in the right direction.

Soon the sporadic charred remnants that littered the temple floor became a thick layer of ash and soot that kicked up acrid clouds as he rushed through. Layer by layer, Raven made his way deeper into the temple, gaining speed until he ran at a near sprint. He picked up a rapid rhythm of slashing, then jumping as he closed deeper. 

Raven burst through to the inner sanctum where, like that first warrior-priest he’d encountered, an altar rested.

He surveyed the scene before him with furrowed brows. He now knew where all the acolytes had gone. They were there, some in piles of corpses chopped, butchered, and piled one atop the other with utter disregard. Many more were charred husks, utterly unidentifiable outside of their blackened human forms. There were scores, far more than Raven had fought through at the first temple.

It was a brutal scene, one that might even stay with him, added to his ever-expanding catalogue of nightmares. But he didn’t have the time to dwell on the scene now. He was on a contract, and so took no more than a second heartbeat to move on to trying to piece together what had happened. 

A mage had both burned and cut through this temple? He was doubtful. A team, perhaps? That would be more likely. A mage and melee were a common enough combination for anyone that might have taken up the contract. After all, the Bloody Murder was often not the first contracted to deal with high level sorcery. By the time it made it to Raven’s cabal, all other lesser—and cheaper—options would have been exhausted. 

But Raven pushed that trail of thought from his mind too. Understanding what had happened was also a question for another time. He focused instead on trying to identify his second target among the corpses. The warlock-priests were unmistakable, adorned with all the fanciful robes, gaudy headdresses, jewels, and other accouterments expected of one who deemed themselves on the cusp of ascendancy. 

Raven made slow progress through the spacious interior, checking each corpse in his path toward the altar. If another mercenary band or rival assassin had completed this portion of the contract, unlikely as that might be, the Bloody Murder would still get their full pay. All he needed was proof of the kill to preserve the reputation of the Murder.

As he neared the central dais, he could now sense the residual stench of this warlock-priest’s flavor of sorcery. It was a tainted version of life affinity, riding the muggy air just below the remnants of pyromancy overpowering the temple.

Raven grunted as he came to the remains of a single corpse sprawled in the ash behind the altar, burned beyond all recognition. He frowned as he noticed the head missing from the rest of the charred body. His gut told him this was what remained of his target. That hunch was confirmed when, from where he stood, he raised his gaze to the rear wall of the altar and saw a severed head nailed to the pristine wood, complete with the ridiculous jeweled circlet still neatly in place atop his brows.

The head was separated from its body in what looked like a single clean stroke. There was no blood and no burns. A glance at the underside of the neck showed the wound was cauterized. Odd. This suggested the one who butchered these people and the one who unveiled their pyromancy were one and the same. 

He frowned at a creeping suspicion. 

The expression frozen on face staring up at him had a mix of shock, horror, and rage. He stared into the head’s sightless eyes, lips pursed from the macabre sight, and then pulled the head free from the wood. He crinkled his nose as the remnant stench of corrupted life energy radiated from the head. 

As he reached into the bandoleer strapped across his chest and ran his fingers across the fist-sized orbs nestled within, feeling for the markings that indicated the alchemical he sought, a shuffling sound came from the far side of the tent. He paused. The sound was brief, barely audible even in the utter silence that was the temple’s interior chamber, but he’d heard it.

He waited just a heartbeat, then turned to dash toward the nearest tent wall, not waiting for some surviving acolyte to make their appearance. He had what he came for. 

But before he could take a step, the sound came again, loud enough this time for Raven to identify the location. He snapped his head around to the source. But, his frown deepened, there was nothing but a lone corpse sprawled face-down into the ash, its remaining flesh charred and blackened. Raven squinted through the dim torchlight and noted the disturbed ash around the sprawled figure’s arms and legs.

Nauseating life affinity caught Raven’s attention, drawing his gaze back down to the head still clutched in his hand. The stench of magic coming from the head was intensifying, to the point that the faint sensation of pins and needles spread over him. The effect of the black elixir’s magic negation was little more than a discomfort at this point, but it was yet another sign it was time to get going. 

Already, the life affinity was more potent that the remaining traces of pyromancy that still dominated much of the temple. Seeing that the headless warlock-priest still had an effect on the area wasn’t surprising, given the life affinity aspect. Seeing the aura intensify after the sorcerer’s death instead of fading away was very surprising. 

Movement from Raven’s periphery pulled his attention from the head back into the larger inner chamber. A spasm had wracked the body of one of the charred bodies, followed by a gurgled gasp of air, then by a low groan that sounded of pure agony. 

A surviving acolyte. The body looked female, weakened and badly injured. She pushed herself to her knees with what looked like all the strength she had remaining, sending a blanket of ash and soot cascading from her back and shoulders. She swayed, as if she would topple over, but to Raven’s surprise, she appeared to grow more hale with each passing moment. It was no doubt an effect of the life affinity currently filling the chamber and creating a twisted version of a healing aura.

Part of Raven thought to question the acolyte. Perhaps she had some information on the pyromancer that tore through the warlock-priest and his acolytes, but oddly left the head for someone else to come in and claim as proof. But that didn’t matter. He was there to eliminate the warlock-priest and move on to the final target of the three. He decided to leave the woman to her fate, which might not be much longer once the head of the warlock-priest was out of range.

He took a step and the woman’s head twitched violently, then whipped around to regard Raven. That was when he noticed the gaping wound at the side of her neck. She took a step toward him and a length of cord unraveled from her waist to pile on the ground before her. 

Well, rope was Raven’s first thought. But he belatedly realized she had been disemboweled. Between the two wounds and her terrible burns, the woman should not be alive. But she woman staggered toward him a second step, brows knit in a permanent mask of agony. The moment slightly parted what was left of her robes and revealed another wound in the form of a puncture in the center of her chest, and Raven knew then that the woman was definitely not alive. 

Another pathetic moan escaped her voice. Only this time, that moan stretched longer, rising in pitch until the hide walls of the inner chamber reverberated with her raw, guttural wail. Soft green wisps of iridescent affinity wafted from her eyes.

A glance down at the corpse that was the warlock-priest, then back up to the corpse now regarding him, and Raven sighed as he set the head down in the ash beside the corpse. Leaving the undead woman would not have violated the Bloody Murder’s contract. But he could not leave such an abomination to roam even a foreign nation. Few in such a remote section of Kulthene could deal with such an unveiling of lifelife’s affinity.

Raven slid his fighting dagger back into its sheath. His style of knife work—crippling wounds that maimed or bled his victims—was all but useless against the reanimated. 

Instead, he opened the satchel strapped across his chest and reached inside for one of his alchemic orbs, quickly finding the munition he sought. 

The dead woman shambled forward, trampling her intestines underfoot and uncoiling more from her abdomen with every step. 

Whatever energy trapped her life force into the shell of her body seemed to be increasing before Raven’s very eyes. Her body seemed strong now. The once shuffling steps now better resembled tentative strides toward him. 

At maybe fifty full strides away, give or take, Raven cocked his head, estimated the level of agitation his alchemic munition needed for the sole creature, and then pulled the orb free. Slowly, he rotated the viscous amber liquid. Soft luminescent light the same color of the liquid began to radiate from the orb, illuminating the entire interior of the central chamber. 

Once the first stage of alchemy was sufficiently cooked, he intensified the shaking, quickening the reaction. He needed to be careful here. Reanimated corpses were notoriously hard to kill. The trick was to ensure the reaction was potent enough to do the job, but not become too volatile and shatter in his hand. Or worse, agitate the alchemy too much and get caught in the blast radius.  

Raven waited another three steps, two, one—and then he lobbed the now fiercely glowing orb across the room, causing the elongated shadows within the chamber to shift within the golden light that dominated the interior. It struck the ground and shattered just a few paces ahead of the corpse’s now confident strides, releasing a momentarily blinding flash of light in a silent golden detonation.

The corpse pitched forward and fell to her hands and knees with incredible force, arms trembling against the incredible force. The remaining intestines still in her body were sucked out onto the ash-packed ground, and then the twin ropes that had trailed behind her were pulled into the pile. And then, in a sudden release, both arms broke at the forearms and she slammed face-first into the ash coated ground. 

Raven knew what would follow and turned away. But he had no choice hearing the bones snapping and breaking under the preternatural alchemical force, pulling her with ever-increasing force as he crouched to retrieve the warlock-priest’s head.

Another tormented groan filled the stifling air, this time from the opposite end of the chamber. He froze and turned over his shoulder to see another layer of ash cascade off the corpse of a burly man whose skin now looked a sickly grey instead of the rich brown. It pushed itself up to a standing position. 

For two heartbeats, Raven assessed the animated corpse, considered whether he would take action. The same consideration niggled at the back of his mind as the undead woman he’d just dealt with. But now that a second had risen and, given the number of corpses littering the chamber, likely many more, he now had to turn to the consideration of his current assignment. He couldn’t exhaust his cache of alchemical munitions before he made it to the last target. Ultimately, he shook his head and turned away.  

He snatched up the head of the warlock-priest by the soot clogged hair and set off again, but only managed to cross half way to the chamber exit when more groans filled the air. It was dozens, coming from every direction.

“Burning damn sands…,” Raven muttered as he saw corpse after corpse rise around him. Like that first reanimated corpse of the woman he had flattened into the ground moments before, their deep groans gradually rose in pitch, until a chorus of shrieking wails pierced his ears.

Seemingly in unison, the sound cut short and the head of every corpse snapped to him, their iridescent green wisps softly wafting from their sightless eyes, and then they rushed forward with startling speed. 

Raven reacted at once, releasing the head of the warlock-priest and rushing forward, sending a pair of throwing knives spinning to intercept the first two. His aim was true, and the knives buried dead-center of the corpse’s foreheads. Both pitched forward and did not rise again. Whatever residual sorcery from the warlock-priest that gave them life still held them, but their brains no longer functioned well enough to give command to their bodies. 

A quick draw of another pair of throwing knives from his vest sheaths, and he sent another pair of blades spinning toward another pair of corpses rushing to intercept him. One knife caught a dead man in the side of the head as it ran at him with its head twisted around at a grotesque angle, once again penetrating brain. The second also landed true, but he didn’t have a good angle on the woman’s head. He opted instead for her throat. It was a decision based on pure instinct, the muscle memory of thousands of repetitions. That one was a mistake.

The corpse took the knife to the throat in stride and barreled into him with preternatural strength, knocking him clear off his feet. The petite dead woman followed him down and began clawing at the exposed portions of neck and face, tearing deep gashes into his flesh before they even hit the ground. And when they did, the corpse’s weight felt like a mountain pressing down atop him.

The strength of the dead woman was appalling. This was the way of life’s aspected affinity; the stronger the affinity, the stronger the reanimated corpses. It was a testament to the power of the warlock-priest that all of this came from the lingering effects of some incantation cast prior to his death. This one would have been a handful. It made Raven wish he’d been the one to sever the damn bastard’s head.

Raven ignored the pain of the blackened nails tearing into his flesh and focused on fighting his way through to the hilt jutting from her throat. He closed his fingers around the handle, pulled it free, and then punched it through its eye, piercing the brain and immobilizing the dead woman. 

The entire exchange lasted maybe four heartbeats, but that was an eternity when you had a legion of undead converging on you with enhanced speed and strength.

He rolled to his feet, face and neck already healed from the effects of the gold elixir coursing through his system, and sent the knife he had just punched through the eye of the corpse flipping end over end to bury into the eye of the closest corpse rushing towards him. And then the mass was on him, about a dozen in all.

He considered using another alchemical orb, but he didn’t have time to cook another munition. Instead, he drew the twin fighting daggers from his waist and rushed to meet the oncoming pack. The ebon bladed knives danced as he slashed and stabbed, working his way into the thick of the creatures. His movements were well-practiced, but as he expected, the wound didn’t so much as slow this pack of undead. Still, the movement alone allowed him to work deeper into the growing press while keeping their teeth and fingernails away from him, all the while slowly making his way to the waiting tent flap that was his exit.

Soon Raven found his progress slowing, then stalling. Pressed on all sides, Raven was a storm of knives as he spun, focused solely on keeping the creatures at bay. He growled in annoyance, then slammed his knives back into their sheaths and crouched into a tight ball. In that moment, the horde pounced onto his back, a mound of screeching, rotting flesh all desperate to fulfill their dead master’s final command. He felt teeth and clawed fingers digging into his exposed back, shoulders, arms. And then there was the even more painful forced alchemical healing waging constant war with the damage. 

In a matter of moments, his shirt was torn completely from his torso. By the sun, even the thick hide leather of his vest was being stretched and torn. But all that he paid no attention to. It was the bandoleer strapped to his chest that he held tight to.

The undead would rip him to pieces if he didn’t do something about the current position. Of course, he had no intention of letting that happen. He pulled the alchemical orb he had been working on free of his bandoleer. So pressed by the weight of the bodies atop him, he could see none of the bright yellow radiance of the orb he held in hand.

He clenched the orb, shattering the crystal and detonating the alchemy in a soundless flash of bright yellow light. He grinned at the sudden weightlessness as the very ground released him from its grip. He launched himself upright in an eruption of corpses that flew away in all directions. The undead bodies floated weightless, spinning or flipping in whatever direction their inertia had sent them. 

Raven, too, had shot upward. But unlike the corpses that flailed aimlessly, he had aimed his leap forward, towards the open tarp flap, and shot forward like an arrow, flying weightless over the ash covered ground. He zipped past corpse after corpse in a clear path. 

Up ahead, he saw the point of transition where the effects of alchemy ended and prepared himself as best he could. But there was no real preparation for the moment the ground reclaimed him, and so he held his breath and tensed his body until he flew over the last remnants of alchemy, and was then yanked downward with such intensity that he nearly emptied the contents of his belly. It had happened many times, and was, in fact, the prime reason he loathed the yellow alchemy. But spirits, they were effective. 

He crashed to the ground in as graceful a roll as he could muster. He had hit hard, shoulder first, but momentum carried him forward and back to his feet without anything more serious than what would have been a bruise had the healing alchemy not still been coursing through his body. 

A quick glance around to assess his surroundings made him beyond pleased with his work. He had corralled the undead horde into a mass as tight as he dared before detonating his alchemy, and the result was that nearly every one his undead attackers now floated weightless in the heart of the temple’s main chamber, harmless and shrieking whatever personal agony they experienced. 

As for the remaining four stragglers outside the radius of his alchemy, well, he drew his daggers and made quick work of them before retrieving the warlock-priest’s floating head, then padded out through the tent flap.

He made it only halfway down the corridor when another horde of undead rounded the corner at the far end at a full sprint. They rushed toward him in such a frenzy they shoved and trampled one another as each fought to get to him first.

Scores of undead choked the corridor, with more pressing in on the hide walls, desperate to get through. The corridor pitched to the side, ready to collapse. Cursing, Raven spun and doubled-back into the main chamber of the temple. His plan was to skirt around the center that was still under the effects of his alchemy, and duck out of the far side hide opening. 

Except, he didn’t make it more than a dozen strides before slowing to a halt as he caught sight of more undead already pouring into the room from that direction. Most got caught in his alchemy that still dominated the center, but enough had chosen a random path that sent them around the trap to cause concern.

To this point, the damage done by the horde had been superficial at most, easily healed by the alchemy still in his system. But enough ripped flesh and nasty bites to his body, and even the minor bumps and bruises would eventually add up. Death by a thousand paper cuts. 

Raven grunted, sheathed his daggers, and downed the rest of his gold healing elixir as he took a moment to assess his surroundings.  

A powerful spike of pyromancy crashed through his senses, seizing his body. It was a powerful affinity, the source of which continued to rise, folding onto itself as the sorcery grew and expanded, choking the air with stifling energy. 

Even as the rising air temperature within the temple became unbearable, with shimmering waves of heat distorting his vision, the affinity rose higher still. Even the undead were affected. They no longer sprinted towards him. Instead, they moved at a sluggish, wavering pace, as if trying to beat back the air itself. Blisters formed and then burst from their ashen skin and the tatters of clothing caught fire.

But that was not so for Raven. The other support alchemy coursing through his body—the black elixir—had taken effect, negating the powerful waves of sorcery. He felt nothing more than the tingling in his skin that caused enough discomfort for him to grind his teeth.

And then the pyromancic affinity spiked, and then a storm of churning fire ignited around him in a deafening howl, turning the world into a blinding inferno. The intensity of the sorcery drew concern as he felt the negating alchemy draining with terrifying speed. He thought to run clear of the sorcerous storm, but it cut short with sudden relief. 

In the fire storm’s wake, soft flurries of ash flittered to the ground. The altar, the bodies, the hide walls, and all other evidence of the temple were gone. All that remained were the thick plumes of steam venting from his body, a collection of perhaps a hundred charred bones scattered all around him, and the open night sky. 

Some two hundred strides away, well clear of the blast radius, stood a black cowled figure.

Raven looked down at the now blackened bandoleer, still smoldering with embers strapped to his chest, and hissed. The protective alchemical coatings on the bandoleer that protected his munitions from sorcerous assault had nearly failed. That would have been deadly. He had no protections against the potent alchemy he carried on him.

He drew his daggers and looked at the figure in black, anger rising.

The hooded figure cocked its head to the side, and a coarse voice filled the air. “Is that any way to greet me now, Raven?”

Raven tightened the grip on his knives. “Had you been anyone else, Torgos, and I would have already killed you.” Well, expect for Rook, of course, but Raven kept that to himself. “You know our rules. We do not interfere with each other’s assignments. And even more important, we do not steal targets.”

Torgos raised his hands. “You’re right, Raven, of course. You know me. I wouldn’t have, had I any other choice.” Torgos gestured.

Raven scowled, but offered no response. 

Torgos sighed and lowered his hands. He approached Raven with purpose. “Sheath your damn knives, Raven. I don’t mean to cross blades with you.”

Raven grunted and slammed his blades home. “You better have a good explanation. I didn’t need any damn help.”

“Burning sands, I know that. Cool that temper of yours. I’m supposed to be the hot blooded one.” Torgos crooked a wry smile that went unanswered. “Damn Carrion to the driest pit in the ocher ocean for putting me at odds with your bull-headed ass.”

Raven cocked his head. “Carrion sent you?”

“Why else would I be here?” Torgos lowered his cowl, revealing a face more lined, weathered, and haggard than the last time Raven saw the old man. He slowed his approach as he neared Raven and reached into a pocket and produced a folded parchment. He stopped a stride away from Raven and held it out to him. “Also, against protocol, I saved this, just to calm you down.”

Raven knew the look of the parchment. A set of orders. He sighed and reached behind his head and undid his bound hair, allowing his loc’d hair to fall past his shoulders, just to make the old bastard have to wait an extra moment, then took the parchment and read.

Frowning, Raven handed the paper back to Torgos and, for a long moment, was at an utter loss for words. “Carrion gave you my assignment?”

Torgos nodded. “Yes. He wanted these upstarts put down as quickly as possible, so he sent me to finish things up.”

Raven swept his gaze around the burning expanse. “Quickly? Carrion emphasized discretion above all. He wanted nothing to alert the Kulthenes of our presence in their lands. This hardly does that.”

Torgos shrugged. “You don’t send me when you want subtle. Fact is,” he produced another folded parchment, this one still sealed with Carrion’s mark, “the situation has changed.”

Raven took the parchment, broke the seal, and read over the single line scrawled within. He looked back up to Torgos with brows knit. “I’ve been recalled, back to the Sovereign Cities.”

“Allow me,” Torgos said, holding out his hand. Raven gave him back the parchment, which Torgos promptly set aflame in his hand, then tossed it to the charred ground. They both watched until the note disappeared in the ashes. 

Torgos met his eye again. “Headed back to the Roost, then?”

Raven shook his head. “No. I’m to report to Carrion’s personal estate in Bhadestan.”

“The Bad Lands eh? Well, that’s new. Ah well, looks like I’ll be traveling back to The Roost alone, then.” Torgos then turned and began walking.

Raven frowned. “The third warlock-priest?”

Torgos didn’t bother turning as he replied. “Already burned that one out. Tough one, she was. I’ll need to see Coragyps when I get back, get more of her gold elixir.”

Raven watched him for a time, then called out to the man. “Hey. Sorry for the… ugh… terse greeting. I wouldn’t have actually—

“Put a knife in me?” Torgos barked a laugh. “Don’t you try and look me in the eye and blow smoke up my ass at the same time, Raven.” He wagged a finger into the air as he strode away. “You would have. But that damned Carrion sent me, knowing I was the one person in the Bloody Murder you would give a chance to explain the situation.” He shook his head. “The bastard is always a step ahead.”