"Let's drink and rest for a while."
Toric retrieved his sword from the blood-soaked ground. A single, sharp swing—a practiced motion—sent crimson droplets flying. The blade came clean.
Heads nodded around him. Eyes still darted between the massive corpse sprawled in the street and the man who had somehow, impossibly, survived. The how remained a mystery. The result was undeniable.
They're following the right person. Or so they think.
"Hey, old man!" Toric's voice boomed across the tavern threshold. "Drinks! Food! Now!"
He strode inside, still draped in cooling blood, his clothes clinging wet and red. Other customers hunched over their tables, speaking in hushed whispers. Not a single gaze rose to meet his.
The tavern keeper moved with surprising speed. Mugs appeared, plates materialized, drinks flowed. Toric grabbed a cup and drained it in one long swallow. It was exactly what he needed.
"Hmm. Captain, where are you going?" Colt's voice emerged through a mouth stuffed with meat, barely intelligible.
Toric was already climbing the stairs. "Someone important."
.....
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three light raps against weathered wood. The door had seen better decades.
"Enter."
The voice was flat. Empty. It carried no warmth, no cold, no anything.
Toric pushed inside.
The room hasn't changed. Same goat-hide beds. Same sparse furniture. Same strange materials scattered about.
He dropped to his knees. Bowed his head until his forehead nearly touched the floor. "I'm sorry, Captain." The words came out rough, self-directed anger coloring every syllable. "I couldn't kill him. You had to—" He stopped, started again. "Thank you. For saving my pathetic life."
Eyes fixed on the floorboards. Voice thick with self-mockery. Hands trembling in small, uncontrollable intervals.
Ashan did not respond. Did not acknowledge. Did not seem to notice Toric existed.
In one hand, a thin membrane—one of the strange creations—held under a stream of water from a wooden cup. The material expanded, filling, stretching. Water sloshed gently within. For a few seconds, it held. Then—drips. Small at first. Then a steady stream. Pinhole leaks, multiple, sprinkling the floor.
Ashan tossed it aside. It landed with a wet, squeaking sound against the wall.
Toric risked lifting his head. Four similar membranes lay in a discarded heap, each still dripping. Failed products. All of them.
Oh no. Captain's mood. This is bad.
Two defective. Half and half. Ashan's thoughts moved parallel to the room, untouched by Toric's presence. As production continues, failure rate should decrease. Practice. Refinement. The same as charmcraft.
"Toric."
The name dropped into silence like a stone into still water.
"Yes, Captain!"
"The Master's business. Take it over." The words were flat. Pure information. No warmth. No cold. No inflection at all. "Kill his people. Take their goods. Drop the bodies in the sea."
Toric's shoulders tightened. Something's different. Before, Captain felt... distant. Like watching from far away. Now? Can't even say that. Can't feel anything at all.
"Should I kill the Master himself?"
A pause. Almost imperceptible. "Don't overestimate yourself."
Toric's head shrunk lower, embarrassment burning.
"We need him alive. Until his influence and wealth are drained completely."
There. That's the Captain I know. Using everyone. Even enemies.
Toric lifted his head—not standing, but meeting Ashan's eye level.
Ashan sat cross-legged on the bed. Grey-white swirls moved in his eyes, but faint now. Dim. Like embers rather than flame. And his face—there was nothing there. No smirk. No cold amusement. No anger. No satisfaction. Just absence.
He wants reputation. That's it. Building my name builds our name. The Master's faction hears Toric killed their strongest—they'll fear. They'll fracture. They'll fall.
"Spread the news. You killed the bald one. Let their morale shatter."
Toric nodded.
"Won't the Mistress ally with the Master now? Against us?"
Ashan's lips curved. The motion was slight—barely there. Not a smile. Just movement. "If she's stupid, yes." The words hung in the air. "Doesn't matter to me." A pause. "But for you? It'll bring trouble. You and your group will shed blood and bones in the coming weeks."
Toric's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No words came.
Should I ask? For another session? The energy thing?
He met Ashan's gaze. No. Not after failing to kill that bald bastard.
"Then... I'm going, Captain."
The door closed. Silence returned.
Ashan sat alone among failed creations and drying blood spatter from earlier—none of it his. "More lives will be taken." Hands clenched. Tight. Knuckles white. "And this isn't even the start."