Chương 8: Chapter 005 Arman’s Delicious Savoury Wraps (Part 2)

Jack's attention was drawn to the sound of loud laughter as a small group of people emerged from the Royal Library and stepped onto The Square. The group huddled together, joking and patting each other on the back before parting ways. He searched through all the dark-suited men, hoping to spot his father among them. He recognised several librarians and scribes from his past life, yet his father was nowhere to be seen.

"Dad's probably working in the Ancient Texts Department," Jack muttered to himself as he failed to see his father. He smiled at the thought of his dad hunched over an ancient text using one of his Expert Scribe skills to unlock its hidden secrets. I'll see him tonight if this… His blood ran cold when his gaze fell upon Baron Greaves leaving the Royal Library. Greaves was impossible to miss, adorned in his ridiculous top hat, fancy crimson waistcoat, and an air of smug self-importance.

Before Jack even realised what he was doing, he was on his feet, shadowing the almost forty-year-old noble and the two beastkin guards flanking him. Everything else was forgotten as his insatiable need for vengeance consumed him. His right hand rested on the new dagger at his side; the feel of the scarred grip offered an unexpected comfort as if he and the dagger were meant to be one. With his hand gripping his new dagger, Jack melted into the crowd, shadowing Baron Greaves and his two beastkin guards.

He was no assassin, but months of hard-earned experience guided his steps, allowing him to move unseen through the streets, his quarry unaware they were being stalked. Despite his earlier failure to strike Greaves down, he found a strange, almost comforting reassurance in having the blade at his side. It was a false comfort, yet one he clung to nonetheless. Even the damage along the weapon's handle seemed fitting. The dagger was scarred, as he was, but still capable of fulfilling its purpose.

The dagger felt more a part of him than any weapon he'd ever held. As the Baron strolled away from the library, Jack's thoughts turned dark and not entirely his own. I have to kill all the blood mages in Lundun and protect the girl. He pictured himself closing the distance and driving the blade home.

"I could end it now. Get my revenge," he muttered under his breath, his mind consumed by decades of hatred. The angles, the footwork, the precise moment to strike all played through his mind. Thoughts of his family vanished beneath a haze of hate, and he didn't care that killing the Baron would almost certainly cost him his own life. Vengeance and justice mattered more. But then a wave of dread surged over him, cold and suffocating. His muscles locked, and his breath caught.

In that instant, he was no longer the one moving but a distant observer, a disembodied spectator witnessing himself from somewhere far removed. He saw his own body step forward, dagger in hand, ready to strike. The vision splintered into jagged flashes. A beastkin guard's sword swung in a brutal arc. His own head separated from his shoulders. Another flash revealed the Baron's mild look of curiosity, as though Jack's death warranted little notice. Another flash, and his severed head hit the ground with a dull thud.

The disjointed vision faded with Greaves smiling as Jack's headless body crumpled to the ground.

"What the fuck was that?" Jack spluttered, the cold dread ebbing away as sweat slicked his back. Trembling, he leaned against a nearby wall.

"What the hell was I thinking?" His fingers tightened on the dagger's hilt. He's got two guards; I'm unprepared… My family! Reality and reason bit down hard. He recalled the preparations he'd made to kill Greaves. Pain-filled months of dagger training in the forest just so he could make one clean strike into the bastard's back. A decade spent crafting spell scrolls for elven mages just to afford a drow-forged blade.

Almost three months of carefully following him, never getting too close, just close enough to build a pattern of the man's movements. And yet here he was, much closer to Greaves than he'd ever dared before, on the verge of getting himself killed for nothing. Thankful for the strange vision, Jack exhaled and shook his head in resignation. His eyes were still locked on the Baron as the noble wandered farther away.

"I should get my class and go home to enjoy time with my family." He'd been so caught up in his obsession for revenge that he'd forgotten that his family was alive; he had something to live for. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Jack recalled something an Apprentice Healer had once told him after he'd gone to her to cure his nightmares and flashbacks: 'I've seen this before in soldiers who've seen too much. Your soul is scarred.

The body heals, but the mind keeps fighting the same battle. I'm sorry, your soul bears old wounds that never closed. They're driving you, Jack… not wisdom.' Different healers had different names for it: Soul-scarred, Mind-wounded, Grief-mad… The military used the term Soldier's Heart. Coined after the Mercian Civil War, this described veterans who returned from battle 'changed'. They were haunted by memories, prone to panic, unable to sleep.

Yet, despite his rational mind urging him to choose his class and go home, he couldn't tear himself away from stalking the man he despised most in the world. Like an addict searching for his next fix, his obsession drove him to follow the cold-blooded killer. Jack's heart raced as he shadowed the Baron along the city's main promenade, zig-zagging through the throng of market-goers and clockwork kiosks belching scented spent aether-steam into the air.

He watched, dismayed, as the greedy Baron stopped to chat with merchants, casually helping himself to free samples of their wares as though the entire city owed him tribute. The vendors didn't seem to mind the noble helping himself, and the few he attempted to pay waved him away. Jack looked on with revulsion as he witnessed the entitled noble stuffing his face at nearly every food stall he passed. When he worked at the Royal Library, it wasn't unusual for Greaves to take five breaks a day just to eat.

The bastards on his early morning break. Without a care in the world, Baron Greaves enjoyed a wrap filled with meat and grilled vegetables. Ignoring the earlier vision, Jack had moved close enough to see what he was eating. The middle-aged Baron had paused to watch one of the street entertainers, a gnome whose accordion unfolded into a mechanical serpent that belched aether-steam in time to his melody. He flicked the gnome a silver coin—an extravagant tip—before continuing on his way.

Clenching the handle of his dagger, Jack again considered striking. Damn it. I'll fail again. He recalled the earlier feeling of dread and the strange vision of him losing his head, literally. Taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to control his raging anger and sense of powerlessness, he continued to follow. Don't get too close. You're better than this. He reminded himself as he allowed a little more distance to form between them as he tried to control his self-destructive thoughts.

The grim reality of what would happen to his family if he were caught trying to kill a noble calmed his hatred enough not to act rashly. He couldn't risk his entire family being executed.

"No. I-I'll," his voice was shaky with impotence. So, he continued to follow with hate-filled eyes as his hand itched to sink the blade into any part of the Baron. As the minutes passed, Greaves veered away from the main city streets and into Lundun's more unsavoury quarters. The district was officially called Grimesby, but to the locals, it was Grime City. A cesspit of crime and debauchery.

Unlike the well-kept main avenues of the capital, this slum was a patchwork of corroded pipework, soot-blackened walls, and flickering signage powered by spluttering, low-grade aether conduits. Only the main thoroughfares were lit by aether lanterns; once dusk fell, the side streets plunged into darkness, where crime thrived like mould in a damp cellar. Jack followed, his confusion mounting as Greaves and his guards entered one of the city's larger slave markets.

The stench of unwashed slaves, bodily waste, and despair hung heavy in the air. The smell assaulted his nostrils. Why would he visit a slave market? In all the months he'd shadowed Viscount Greaves, the man had shown no interest in the flesh trade. Yet the Baron moved with purpose, suggesting this was more than a casual detour. They stopped at a modest operation, less showy but still doing brisk business.

Greaves leaned in to speak with the slaver in charge, a sickly-looking white-haired drow who carried an aether-powered slave prod at his side. The auctions were already well underway; guttural shouts of bidding rang through the market, punctuated by bursts of aether-steam from overhead vents and the rattling chains of new acquisitions being hauled into place. The cobbled streets reverberated with the clatter of cart wheels, and the general clamour of commerce drowned out Greaves' voice.

Jack strained to hear over the noise of the busy slave market, but it was useless. I need to get closer. With his hand gripped tight to the hilt of his dagger and ignoring his rational mind telling him to keep his distance, he threaded his way through the crowd, dodging elbows and jostling shoulders, using the commotion as cover. Shouts echoed around him, bartering calls rang out, and the sizzle of a nearby aether grill added to the noise.