The fief was quiet and small. No larger than a village. Not lifeless—just the kind of silence that comes from hopelessness.
The village nestled at the base of a brittle hill, surrounded by dry fields and crooked fences. Weather-worn houses sagged under the weight of time. The stone watchtower at the center had lost its upper floors, its flag reduced to a shredded thread that barely caught the wind.
Auren rode at the head of the party, his cloak falling perfectly over his shoulders, the faint emblem of House Veyr gleaming just enough to be seen—not flaunted, but not forgotten either. His expression was calm. Too calm for a boy his age, and that alone made the villagers wary.
Serai rode beside him, alert and watching. Wazir followed on foot as if the journey hadn't cost him a step.
They passed through the main path as doors creaked open and heads peeked out. The villagers didn't bow deeply, but they paused, stepped aside, offered the kind of shallow nods meant for someone above them.
Respect, in the way of people who feared titles more than they believed in them.
Auren dismounted in front of the cracked stone well at the village square. Dust curled around his boots as he looked over the place that now belonged to him.
A man with salt in his beard and a ledger in his hands stepped forward, wiping his palms on his tunic. His coat was patched but well kept. He bowed—short, but proper.
"Lord Auren," he said. "We weren't told to expect you in person."
"That was the point," Auren said evenly. "You must be the steward."
"Ald Thern, my lord," the man replied. "Welcome to Merren's Hollow."
"This is it?" Auren asked, sweeping his gaze across the handful of scattered houses.
Thern followed his eyes. "This was once a trade pit between Levtan and Lowreach. Then the fields dried, and the trade moved on. We still farm. We still live. But we are fewer every winter."
He hesitated, then added, "There's an orphan house near the boundary. Half-built stable, mostly. The kids are cared for… more or less. There's a girl who tends them is an odd one. When she touches the sick ,they stop coughing. Scares most folk more than the illness ever did."
"Why?" Auren asked.
"She says she pulls the sickness into herself. No priest ever taught her. People talk like that."
Auren was quiet a moment. "What's her name?"
"Reva. They say she's cursed. You'll see why."
Auren didn't comment. But his eyes shifted once toward the edge of the village.
Auren gave a small nod. "For now, I want to see the orphanage."
The steward looked mildly surprised but covered it with a nod. "Of course, my lord. Shall I summon the children?"
"No need. I'll walk."
He turned, cloak brushing through dust, and strode toward the edge of the village with grace.
Behind him, the villagers watched closely, whispering just out of earshot.
A lord had come. And whether they trusted him or not—he wore the crest. That meant something.
Even here.
He had been watching since dawn.
From a rocky outcrop hidden in the hills north of the fief, the Clean Knife lay flat between gray stones and dry brush. His cloak blended with the rocks. His breath was slow and measured. He hadn't moved in hours.
Below, the village of Merren's Hollow stirred to life. Chimneys smoked. Doors opened. People shuffled through routines too worn to change. The assassin watched without blinking.
He had seen the three arrive.
The boy—Auren—rode in front, posture straight, expression unreadable. He didn't carry himself like an exile. He didn't hide the faded Veyr crest on his cloak. That was unusual. Most who were cast out shrank into themselves.
Not this one. That made him dangerous.
The girl—Serai—moved with focus. Her eyes never stopped. She scanned rooftops, alleys, hands. Like someone used to ambush. The Clean Knife knew that type. Fighters who'd lived through too many close calls. She was no servant.
The third—older, in gray—was different. No crest. No formal posture. But the villagers avoided looking at him. Even from a distance, that said a lot. The Clean Knife didn't know him. That was rare.
He watched Auren speak with the steward. He noted the body language: not deference, not rebellion—caution. The people here didn't trust him yet. But they weren't dismissing him either. Respect, however thin, was growing.
He flipped open a worn leather notebook, wrote three initials:
Auren — Not afraid. Possible center. Dangerous if allowed to gather loyalty.
Serai — Watchful. Skilled. Second strike risk.
Wazir — Unknown variable. Avoid direct engagement.
Then his eyes shifted.
The orphanage sat near the treeline, barely more than a shack with patchwork walls. A girl stepped out—young, thin, pale. She paused halfway to the well, the pail in her hands. Her head turned slightly, brows pulling together.
She felt something.
He didn't move.
The villagers called her cursed. They said she could pull pain out of people. That she healed by suffering. That she never screamed.
The assassin didn't believe in curses.
But he believed in anomalies.
He watched her a moment longer, then added a fourth mark to the page. No name—just a red line.
Then he closed the book.
And melted from the ridge like he'd never been there at all.
He wouldn't strike yet.
But soon.