Warric closed his knee-length coat against the chilled wind sweeping across the campsite as it stirred up smoke, reignited embers, and lifted the lingering stench of gunpowder. The sun set on another day with the skirmish unresolved. Soldiers, in dark-blue and gold uniforms, gathered around small fires. Great cannons, mounted on formidable wagons, glowed red as they cooled from the day's barrage. Metallic gyros bobbed, tiny white lights flickering on each ball—no doubt soldiers communicating with loved ones.

How the gyros worked wasn't something Warric could wrap his mind around. Slowly, weird contraptions powered by magic had begun to form part of his life. He grimaced and fingered the pouch of iron balls hanging off his belt alongside a pistol. A dagger or an arrow was silent and the best way to assassinate. No matter his skill, he couldn't beat the speed of a pistol.

General Jacut Devenmere of Bennedor strode out of the tent, then paused to run his hazel gaze over the campsite while donning calfskin gloves. His dark-blue coat piped in gold flickered in the wind. He glanced at Warric, tossed his blond hair off his temple, and grinned. "He is in a foul mood this night, Assassin."

"Perhaps I will soon find out why." Warric smirked.

"Aye, he seems...troubled. I head northwest to tackle the Brivela." Jacut grimaced.

Warric offered a nod in condolence. "A tiresome tribe and quite barbaric in their practices."

"Or so I have heard." Jacut stomped his foot, shaking a fleck of mud off the polished leather. "Imagine claiming a woman as wife by stealing her?" He scoffed. "There have been a few I wished I could silence but none worthy of a good kidnapping."

Warric chuckled. The idea of stealing a woman to wed was ludicrous when most gave out their favors for a kind word. "Are they not all too much effort?"

"Spoken like a man who has never known love." Jacut gazed at the unscalable stone wall as it snaked west for miles. "My sister is quite special. Mother and Father sacrificed much for her, and the little minx knows nothing of it." He squared his shoulders. "We pray she never learns the truth." He forced a smile after delivering that cryptic bit of information. After dusting his wide-brimmed hat in matching beige calfskin across his thigh, he marched off.

"Assassin." The voice, thick, educated, and filled with authority, belonged to Warric's lord, Baron Gregory of Kenningthain.

Only those in the baron's confidence knew Warric's true name. In private, the baron used it, but anywhere else, Warric was known as 'Assassin.' He flipped the tent flap back but halted. Awareness rippled across his skin, raising the hairs. Someone lurked, watched, their intentions ill.

A quick scan of those hovering nearby showed no one glancing in his direction. He ducked inside the massive tent, then let the flap fall, waiting a moment to ensure the guards didn't encroach. With a side glance, he located the baron and crossed the burgundy and periwinkle blue Eryssian rug to stand beside the war table. A detailed map sprawled across it, littered with iron figurines representing the wildemen from the north or the baron's soldiers.

While sucking air through his teeth, the baron ran a finger along the rim of a gold goblet. Warric remained still, expectant, patient for his lord to elaborate on why he'd been summoned. The wind shook the tent, yanking on its supports. From outside, the incessant murmur of camp life, along with sharp clashes of metal, penetrated the crackle of the fire pit inside the tent keeping the chill at bay. The magical flames fed on nothing. A standalone clock in gilded bronze ticked as each second passed. All this was noted in a cursory glance. Once he'd settled, he didn't shift, didn't focus anywhere but on Gregory's rugged face, half-hidden by a sculpted beard.

Yet, Warric's senses prickled.

The tent trembled with what he might have attributed to the gusts whipping across the campsite. Rolling his hand, gesturing to Gregory to talk, Warric cast out his magic—air and darkness. He searched for the void among the noise and dusky light.

Stiffening, Gregory nodded and droned on about his favorite horse as a boy growing up in Kenningthain.

Instincts snapped Warric's gaze to the side of the tent, mere feet from where the baron sat on a bench. No movement, sound, or shadow warned of an impending strike. In an instant, the shape of a man flickered to life, glowing like a lantern at the center of Warric's senses, despite not being visible through the tent cloth. He grabbed Gregory by the forearm and yanked him off the bench. At the same time, he unsheathed his dagger then plunged it downward, sinking it into the attacker.

Had he been wrong, the worst was a hole in the cloth.

"Hell's teeth," Gregory spat and bolted out of the tent.

Warric scowled, pulled the bloodied dagger from the man, leaving crimson stains on the tear. Cursing under his breath, he followed the baron. Sprawled in the gap between tents writhed a 'servant' clutching his chest. Blood saturated his cream garments.

"Who sent you?" Gregory roared, grabbing the man's tunic and bringing him off the ground to within an inch of his face.

The man smirked. Blood dribbled over a bottom lip. He slumped, his head falling to the side.

"Shit, Assassin, you could have stabbed him somewhere less lethal. I need answers." Gregory hooked a finger at a nearby guard, then pointed at the dead servant. With a glance at Warric, the baron stomped into the tent.

He withdrew a bottle from a wooden chest. "Wine?" He uncorked it with his teeth, poured a healthy amount, then held out the goblet.

Warric had just saved the baron's life, again. Something he'd done many a time. Yet the baron didn't bark out commands? No, he seemed...resigned. "So, the dead servant is not up for discussion?"

Gregory met his gaze and wiggled the goblet. "This is the last in a line of attempts on my life. This you know."

"I was here for a few of those, milord." Warric wrapped his fingers around the warm metal, drew the goblet under his nose for a deep inhale, then twitched. Sickly sweet almonds infused the fruity and not-yet-matured wine.

"As I expected." The baron ran a hand through his pale-blond hair. A military man in every aspect of his life from discipline to routine, it showed in his physique, as honed as if he was decades younger. Unlike his brother, whom the baron had often lamented being forbidden to kill.

"The wine is from your brother, Emil, milord?" Warric couldn't bring himself to call that child-man a lord.

Only Emil was cowardly enough to use poison. Then again, if it was said he'd killed the baron, the Conclave would deny him the right to rule. Should Gregory die on the battlefield—a hero's death—then the Kenningthain holdings and all its fiefdoms would become Emil's duty. Warric smothered a snort. Duty? The man knew not the meaning.

At Gregory's nod, Warric lifted the bottle off the table then angled it into the light. Dregs of some sort of powder lay at the bottom.

"I hoped to have his name from the dead servant." The baron took the bottle and poured the contents into the piss pot. "My little ass of a brother is stirring up mischief. I was tolerant when he wasted gold to find some lost amulet. That futile search kept him out of my hair. Now, he's taken over the Netherbury seat, and the rumors...well, you know." Gregory closed his eyes and inhaled, then slowly exhaled. He opened his brown eyes to meet Warric's gaze. "That is where you come into this, Warric. This is a personal matter, and for that, I apologize. We are at war, and yet, I must deal with—" He grimaced. "You are the only one I can trust. I need you to replace the new Sheriff of Netherbury en route to his post. Become Emil's right-hand man by all means necessary. Thwart every vile act without revealing yourself and send me regular updates."

He yanked open a drawer and placed two gold discs on the table—intricate patterns were carved into them. In the center of each was a needle. "State of the art, or so I am told. Will allow two-way messaging." Gregory pursed his lips while staring at the discs. With a squaring of his shoulders, he pressed a thumb over the needles. On each, a drop of blood sank into the grooves. White light burst outward. "Newfangled gadgetry powered by wind and air magic? The pistols and cannons, those I can grasp, but these?"

Warric followed suit, pricked his thumbs, and watched as his blood merged with Gregory's. Still glowing white, he palmed one metallic disc then slipped it inside his coat. "I agree, but adapt we must, milord." He gestured to the baron's plated armor—riveted, curved metal sheets, strong enough to stop a pistol, never mind an arrow.

"If these blasted Northerners would quit attacking my lands..." Gregory wiggled his fingers at the tent flaps. "The sheriff leaves Lorden in two days."

With a bow to the baron, Warric strode out of the tent to his horse tethered nearby.

He grabbed the bridle and rested his temple on Serenity's forelock. "We have been tasked, my dear boy."

Serenity snickered and stomped a foot, as if to say he was prepared for anything. Two pistols slapped Warric's thighs when he mounted. He threw a hand back to check the placement of his shotgun on the right. To the left was his freshly oiled crossbow nestled in its holster. Pulling his hood up, he nudged Serenity, spurring him into a trot. They veered around small tents, campfires, and wagons carrying anything from boom cannons to cannon balls to rations. It would take a day to reach Netherbury. He might camp along the Olion river or perhaps find a tavern close to the Conclave Way and await the sheriff's passing.

Out of all the assignments, this one irritated Warric. He clenched his jaw, rolled his shoulders, and urged Serenity into a gallop as soon as they breached the camp's perimeter. Infiltrate a northerner's tribes? Happy to do it. Kill a deserter or betrayer? What a pleasure. Seduce a fair maiden to reach her father? Whatever Baron Gregory needs, but this? Bow to lazy-as-shit Lord Emil? Warric grimaced. He'd rather lick sweat off a bull's balls.

Chuckling at his thoughts, he hunched his shoulders and faced ahead. If Gregory hadn't chosen Warric's scrawny ass decades ago, where would he be? Stuck in a brothel? Babysitting a sop of a lord? Days wasted guarding a treasured library? He shuddered. No, as a sentinel, he served the baron. If he could ease one of those frown lines etched into Gregory's brow, then Warric had served well.