We weren't supposed to make noise.
It was a clean job: get in, disrupt a shipment line, burn the ledgers, and vanish. House Vestule had made a few too many enemies among the eastern trade houses, and someone with coin wanted a message sent.
I didn't care who. I wasn't paid to care.
I usually worked alone. But the client wanted a second hand, and they picked Jarik-a fellow bounty hunter I had some history with. If it were up to me, he wouldn't even make my tenth choice. He was taller, meaner, and wore a sneer like it was armor.
We slipped in through the back passage behind the quarter wall. No guards. No traps. I should've known then.
The ledgers were in the side archive. Sealed. But not protected. We lit the fire just before the storm broke outside.
And that's when the boy ran in.
Sixteen? Maybe. Vestule livery. Holding a bucket. Eyes wide.
Jarik moved fast. Blade out. Aiming for the throat.
I stepped in.
Steel met steel. My knife caught his. Sparks flew.
"He saw us," Jarik growled.
"He's a boy."
He snarled. Pushed. "He's a witness."
I shoved him back. "Then kill me too."
The kid bolted. Jarik didn't follow.
He just glared. "You're gonna regret that."
Because I knew what it meant to protect someone who couldn't fight back.
---
We split before sunrise. I was having a drink in a quiet tavern on the edge of Stonehill when a man in gray sat across from me. Didn't ask. Didn't smile.
"I have a job for you," he said. "Come with me."
I follow anyone, as long as I get paid. But when I saw where he led me, I paused.
House Vestule.
I'd never set foot on their grounds before.
And yet they let me in.
---
The manor looked colder than I expected. Sharp lines. Old stone. Quiet as a held breath.
They brought me to the garden path. Wind pulled at her coat.
She stood thereLady Vestule. Still as carved stone.
"You failed," she said.
"I know."
"You burned nothing of value. The real ledgers were moved days ago. We knew someone was coming. We were prepared."
She studied me a moment longer. Then said, "The boy wasn't supposed to be there. That was my mistake." She paused. "Why didn't you kill him?"
"I'm a killer," I said. "I've taken lives for coin. I've done worse on worse days. But not innocents. Not those with empty hands."
She studied me. Measured something. Then spoke.
"We've employed ghosts. Spies. Blades-for-hire. Most follow orders. Some follow gold. Very few stop when it matters."
She didn't blink.
"We need someone who decides when to pull the blade. And why."
I didn't nod.
But I remembered my brother.
We were orphans. Our parents left behind nothing but debts, and the Syndicate collected in blood.
He was fifteen when he started bounty work, trying to cover what they said we owed. We barely ate. And when we did, he made sure I got more.
Said I'd need the strength. Maybe if I had said no or made him take my share...
he'd still be alive
He missed a payment near the end.. malnutrition had left him too fragile to work. When that happened, they didn't just kill him.
They strung him up in the town square with a placard that read: "Late isn't forgotten."
They called it an example.
I called it the last time I cried.
children have full lives ahead of them.. and we drag them into adult debts, adult wars, and pretend we're not the ones who did it.
That boy in the ledger room didn't deserve to be part of anyone's message.
I wouldn't let him be.
"You want someone ready to die," I said. "Not for loyalty. For choice."
She didn't answer. Just offered her hand.
I took it.