"Hehe, when did brats start crawling into these parts?"
"Look, he's got a babysitter too! Big one!"
"And a fancy blade hanging off his little waist!"
The whispers snickered and jeered, a chorus of mockery that rose from the scarred tables and the stained floorboards, wrapping around the boy and the man who had come through the door. The laughter was the laughter of men who had seen too much to be surprised by anything and were always looking for something new to break.
Ashan paid them no mind.
His steps were unhurried as he approached the scarred, ancient bartender, whose rheumy eyes tracked him with the worn patience of one who had seen a thousand fools walk through that door.
"Two drinks." His voice was flat, absolute.
He did not wait for acknowledgment, did not pause for response.
He simply turned and seated himself at a corner table that gave him a view of the room, the door, the stairs. Toric stood guard behind him, a wall of weathered muscle that drew eyes and made men look away.
"Oi, kid." A burly man from the adjacent table leaned forward, his grin splitting his beard. "You sure you know what you're getting into?"
Ashan did not look at him. His voice, when it came, was without pause, without inflection. "Your mother's cunt."
Silence. Absolute, profound silence that seemed to suck the air from the room. Then—BOOM.
"Hahahaha! Oh, the little bastard has teeth!"
"Shit, he cooked you, Brask!"
"Good one, boy!"
Brask's face purpled. His cup slammed down with enough force to crack the wood.
"You just signed your death warrant, runt!"
He rose, a mountain of stale sweat and cheap rum, his bulk blocking the light. Toric shifted his weight, a low growl building in his throat. Ashan's hand rose, a lazy, dismissive gesture that stopped Toric in his tracks.
Stand down.
Brask loomed, his crooked, yellow-toothed smile splitting his beard. "Still playing tough, huh?" His hand shot out. "That blade—give it here, and maybe I'll only take a finger or—"
The hand stopped existing.
Sluprt!
A crimson fountain erupted from the stump of his wrist, spraying across the table, the floor, the faces of the men who had been watching. For a heartbeat, Brask stared at the spurting ruin where his hand had been, his brain lagging behind reality.
Then the scream came.
"AAAAAAAGHHH!"
The pub, so recently filled with laughter, was now filled only with that single, raw, animal shriek of agony.
"You're making quite a fuss." Ashan's voice was conversational, almost bored. He had not stood. He had not moved. His blade, now slick with crimson, was a blur that found Brask's throat.
The scream ended in a wet, choking gurgle. The body hit the floor with a heavy, final thump that shook the boards, sent cups rattling, made men reach for the things they had hidden.
Ashan stood. He placed his boot on the corpse, withdrew his blade with a wet, sucking sound, and flicked it once, twice, sending a delicate arc of blood across the sawdust floor. He looked up, surveying the suddenly silent room. His smile was serene.
"Why have you all stopped laughing?"
A beat of absolute stillness. Then—HAHAHAHA!
"Fuck me, the kid knows the sea law!"
"Quick as a viper!"
"Brask always was a slow bastard!" The laughter erupted again, louder, relieved. "Cheers!"
A blood price had been paid. Order was restored. The wheel turned.
This is the absolute law here. No—this is the absolute law of existence. The strong lead. The weak are led. Or dead.
He turned back to the bar, sitting again atop his table. "Ah. Apologies, old man." He gestured dismissively at the cooling corpse. "I seem to have lost my thirst."
He let the words hang. "Now. Why don't you call your Mistress down here? I have a rather attractive deal for her."
The laughter ceased. Abruptly. Completely. Faces hardened. Eyes that had gleamed with amusement now dug into Ashan and Toric with naked hostility. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Toric's hand drifted toward his weapon. His whisper was urgent. "Captain… we're outnumbered. What deal? You didn't mention a deal."
The old bartender's expression remained impassive. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to a thin man lurking near the stairs. The man vanished upward. The silence stretched, thick and choking.
Then the thin man reappeared, leaning in to whisper to the bartender. The old man's eyes, never leaving Ashan's face, gave the verdict.
"The Mistress will see them."
"Well." Ashan rose, offering a shallow, courteous bow. "My thanks, elder."
He headed for the stairs. Toric followed, a nervous shadow.
The hostile gazes did not relent. They followed them up, like teeth.
.....
The second floor was a different species of hell.
Damn. What a foul smell. And sound.
The air was thick, cloying—not just sweat and cheap perfume, but the unmistakable, heavy musk of flesh commerce. Moans leaked through paper-thin walls, some feigned, some genuine. Wooden doors rattled on cheap hinges. The cries of pounding meat were a percussive backdrop.
Ashan's expression did not change. He climbed higher.
The third floor held only one door. Or rather, no door—only a heavy, blood-red curtain that shimmered faintly in the dim light.
"Captain. Let me enter first."
"As you wish."
Toric parted the curtain with a thick finger and stepped through. Ashan followed.
The first thing that registered was not the guards—though there were two, massive, scarred, radiating the low thrum of urja like banked coals. It was not the dark red cushions, plush and decadent, arrayed on the polished floor. It was not even the faint, sweet incense that coiled through the air. It was the woman.
She was beautiful in the way a drawn blade is beautiful—all clean lines and dangerous potential. Her figure, draped in loose, dark silks, was generous, curved, deliberately displayed. She lounged against a mountain of cushions with the boneless ease of a sated cat, a long, ornately carved chilim in her hand. Her lips formed a perfect 'O' as she drew the smoke deep, held it, and exhaled in a long, languorous stream.
Toric's breath caught. He leaned down, his whisper rough. "Captain… this woman—" He caught himself, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "—that is, these three. They carry urja. All of them."
Ashan heard. He did not respond. He simply selected a cushion across from the woman and seated himself with casual deliberation. After a beat, Toric followed, his bulk awkward on the delicate silk.
The woman exhaled again, a stream of greyish-white smoke that coiled toward the ceiling. "Kid. You've got nerve. Shedding blood on my floor."
Ashan's smile was light, pleasant. "I presume the man I killed was not yours."
"Oh? And what makes you presume that?"
"Because if he were," Ashan said, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, "you would have attacked the moment I crossed this threshold. You didn't." He tilted his head. "So either he wasn't yours, or you're curious enough to hear me out before you kill me."
A flicker shifted behind those lazy eyes—reassessment. The Mistress straightened slightly, setting the chilim aside with deliberate care.
"It doesn't matter whose he was or wasn't. What matters is that you acted arrogantly in my house." Her voice hardened. "You killed a man under my roof. That is a debt."
"What value does the dead hold?" Ashan's tone was reasonable, almost kind. "Let the dead bury the dead. You're a businesswoman." He leaned back, spread his hands. "So let's talk business."
The Mistress's gaze sharpened. The two guards behind her shifted their weight, a subtle, synchronized movement.
"Give me one reason," she said, each word distinct and cold as chipped ice, "why I should listen to another word from your bloody little mouth."
Ashan's smirk deepened. His eyes, which had been placid, kindled with a low, confident flame. "The reason is quite obvious, really." He paused. "We're going to be rich."
A beat. Then he shook his head, as if correcting himself, and his smile widened into something almost predatory. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that somehow filled the room.
"No. Let me rephrase." He let the words hang, become the only thing in the world. "We're going to be fucking rich."