‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ CHAPTER ONE ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
sweet mother, sweet mother

   THE DARK BROTHERHOOD always answered a prayer to the Dread Mother. A mixture of blood and fire would accompany each prayer, a singular purple flower in the centre of the circle. Fingers stained red and black, blood and soot, and the ever-flowing words that left the mouth like a simple conversation between friends:

   Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear.

   Rennen had let those words fall from her mouth many times as a child, a combination of prayers and screams into the night. The scent of soot and blood was fresh on her nose and the tips of her fingers as the scent of the forest threatened to overpower it. And, in the distance, the commotion from the harbour. If she focused enough, she could remember the way the assassin stepped into the clearing and asked for what she prayed for.

   She would be doing the same to a child that was the same age as she when she first prayed.

   Rennen stepped forward from the darkness, letting the wooden floor creak beneath her weight. "What did you pray for?" She let her eyes fall onto the charred bones on the floor, the purple flower in the centre right next to the human heart. Then, she looked up at the child.

   The child was no older than thirteen, with hair the colour of autumn's hay and eyes as bright as the stormy ocean. "Who-who are you?"

   Rennen pointed at the human heart with her chin. "I'm the one who answers your prayers, child." She had grown accustomed to the scent of fresh blood and burnt skin and the deadly flower, almost like a personal perfume that embedded itself onto her skin. "What did you pray for?"

   The child rose to her feet and took one step forward before stopping abruptly. She held her hands in front of her, wringing her fingers together before grabbing at her skirts and doing the same with the cloth. "I-I want..."

   "You want?" Rennen arched a brow. "You must tell me what you prayed for, child, so I can answer."

   "Degreved," the child finally said, looking straight at the assassin. She let her hold of her skirts fall and her arms stood rigid at her sides. "His na-name is Degreved. He's the butcher's son, you see, and he..." Her eyes lowered to the floor, towards the candles that illuminated the room. Everywhere except the assassin.

   "He did something to you," Rennen said, watching the child carefully. She knew what boys and men were capable of when it came to a young girl who could barely defend herself when it came to their desires. Many times had she answered a prayer that was the same.

   The child nodded. "He..."

   Rennen shook her head and raised a hand to stop her from continuing her words. "You don't need to continue," she said. "I know well what men do."

   The child turned and hurried to the table at the corner of the room, where she picked up a bag. "I can pay!" She hurried back to the assassin, pushing the bag onto her hands. "I will pay."

   Rennen weighted the bag in her hand, eyes still focused on the girl. "This contract has been accepted." She did not wait for an answer from the child but stepped out of the house and onto the darkness of Blaviken. The port town was busy even at night with fishers preparing themselves to leave before dawn, with sailors arriving and others leaving. The scent of the ocean was strong in every crevice, and memories threatened to pull her back.

   The assassin pulled off the mask that covered her face and allowed herself to breathe, her eyes focusing on the starry sky and the moon that was almost in the centre. It was nights like those that she missed most, the way she would lay on the sand and focus on the sky to wait for a star to shoot across. A few did. And when they did, she wished on them just like she had prayed over bones and blood and deadly flowers and wax of candles.

   Rennen ran a hand through her hair and pushed forward. She had a job to do, a boy to kill. It was those prayers that always reminded her of herself, not the same but almost. For an assassin, it was best to not get attached to neither the one that prayed or the one that had been prayed about—they were both parts of a contract.

   The port town became louder as she neared The Tuna Fish. There was loud music and conversation from the inside, laughter that rung against her skin as she pushed the door open and walked in. For only a moment was there silence. Rennen moved carefully towards the barkeep behind the bar area, feet almost dragging against the floor. She wanted to appear tired and haggard as if she had just arrived in one of the many ships on the port.

   "Welcome!" The barkeeps laugh echoed around the inn, smile yellow and teeth crooked. "What can I do for ya?"

   "A room," she said, "for a night."

   The barkeep raised a brow. "Here?"

   "Where else?" Rennen knew she could have stayed at The Golden Court, the other inn and the one that was most elegant—and she would have preferred to have stayed there—but it would be too noticeable to see a woman with blood on her after she finished her contract. She would be less noticeable at The Tuna Fish. "Do you want me to leave?"

   "One room," the barkeep said. He waved over a young girl that had been serving beer and pointed over at her. "For the night."

   The girl appeared at her side, her skin too tight against the bones and eyes sunken onto its hollows. She appeared almost like a walking skeleton. "'Dis way, please!" The girl motioned to follow her.

   Rennen nodded and followed behind her. The girl talked about the town, pointing at the best stalls to buy from and the people to be wary of. The assassin listened. Anything she said could be helpful in her contract, from the mention of the fruit stall that sold the sweetest fruits to the best smithy in all of Blaviken.

   The girl stopped in front of a door. "'Dis is your room," she said, pointing at it with her thumb. "'Der is lots of drunks 'round her, so it's best for yah to keep yah belongings with yah."

   Rennen nodded and opened the door, closing it behind her before the girl said anything else. She stared at the room in disgust. A singular bed at the corner with hay filling, the singular pillow on top and the yellowing blankets at the edge. A desk at the other corner of the room with several lit candles and the cracked vase with half-dried flowers. On the wall, a simple tapestry of flowers. She dreaded picking that inn over The Golden Court.

────── ⚔ ──────

   The night became darker and more silent, the wind rushed against her as she made her way silently through the town. The inns became the only rackety buildings with sounds, the streets void of people except the random few and the animals. In the shadows, Rennen moved. The girl at the inn talked too much, an idle conversation between a bargirl and a mysterious young woman. And that was what she wanted. She wanted to leave the port town just as fast as she came, preferring the luxurious cabin on the ship and the silks on her bed at the sanctuary.

   That had to wait.

   The whorehouse was one of the few fine buildings in the town, discreet from the outside but well-known from the ladies that stood out front in their silks and gold around their necks. Rennen preferred them to the company of random men, they made fine partners and conversationalists and always had the best information. For a price, of course.

  "Welcome, beautiful," one of the ladies said. "What can I help you with?" The lady was tall with hair as dark as the night and eyes just as dark. She had a scar in the centre of her forehead, right between her brows—a small red flame. No, not a scar but perhaps a birthmark. It reminded the assassin of the tattoos she had seen, like the ones that ran down her back.

   Rennen smiled at her and raised a small bag of coins. "Information," she simply said.

   The lady eyed the bag, then grabbed it as she turned and made her way inside. The ladies of the whorehouse and the Dark Brotherhood could be considered similar, for both answered to prayers of blood and soot. They all listened to the information that could crumble kingdoms and raise monsters.

   For a price.

   Rennen followed after the lady. The sounds echoed all around her, giggles and moans and drunken conversation. Scents of perfumes and sex and wine were all around her, forever imprinted onto the walls. The whole building was cleaner and more organised than The Tuna Fish, and Rennen would have preferred to have spent the night there than the dirty room she had been given.

   The lady entered a room and sat on the bed, crossing her long legs in front of her. "Before we begin, sweetheart, my name is Mentha."

   Rennen let a smile fall from her lips. "Sweetheart?"

   The lady—Mentha—chuckled and pushed her hair from her shoulders. They were slim and elegant, slick oil from one shoulder and onto the next. "Do you want me to call you assassin?"

   Rennen raised a brow and clenched her teeth. "Assassin?"

   Mentha snorted. "Do you think I haven't seen your kind 'round here?" She stood from the bed and sauntered over to her, laying a hand on the emblem right above Rennen's heart. "Many of your, what do you call it, guild have taken contracts with the girls here."

   Rennen stepped back and felt the weight of the emblem over her breast. It was a simple grey circle with a red hand in the centre, a sign that told anyone that came too close that she was part of a deadly guild that killed for coin. Their revenge would help her live. She sat on the chair by the corner of the room and sunk onto its softness.

   Mentha stepped back and waved her hand as she took a seat back on the bed. "My lips are sealed, sweetheart, so don't worry 'bout anything gettin' out. What do you want?"

   "Information," she repeated, the same word she said when she first arrived. "I'm looking for a boy. Degreved, he's called."

   Mentha nodded. "Degreved." She made a face of disgust. "Yes, I know him."

   Rennen pulled the bag of coins from her side and laid it on the small table beside the chair. "Where can I find him?"

   "Here," she said. "Where else would he be? He doesn't like his wife."

   Rennen stopped herself from making a face. "He has a wife," she noted. It didn't matter to her that he was married or if he had children. She had accepted a contract and she was bound to complete it unless she wanted to face the wrath of the Listener and her leader.

   Mentha shrugged her shoulders. "She would be better without 'im," she said, leaning back against her hands. "You'll know where he is. He likes to hear his name."

   "Thank you." Rennen stood and made her way to the door.

   "Sweetheart," Mentha stopped her. "You should know, there's a witcher here."

   Rennen's hand stopped from turning the knob.

   "He brought a kikimore with 'im this mornin'," Mentha continued. "Tried to sell it to Caldemayne, the alderman, or someone who would buy it. No one wants to buy a monster, you see. No one wants to work with a witcher."

   Rennen knew little of witchers. They were infamous everywhere she had visited, even more where she was from. They were unnatural with their mutation that gave them the power to be excellent slayers of monsters, but they were good at what they were created to do. Their tales had been written in books all over the Continent. Some stories made them out to be heroic and others made them out to be just like the monsters they slew.

   The Dark Brotherhood and witchers could be the same—they both killed monsters.

   Rennen turned to face Mentha. "Where is this witcher?"

   Mentha's smile reminded her of a cat. "He's with one of the girls," she said. "Careful leaving, sweetheart. I hear witchers sense when they're being talked about."

   The giggle that followed Rennen as she left the room made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. Witchers could be hired just like she could, coin for a body—human or monster did not matter. A shiver ran up her shoulders. She needed to find Degreved, kill him, and leave as fast as possible.

   Rennen stopped. The room buzzed all around her, a ringing right at her ears. Magic. She knew what magic felt like, had become an expert at locating it whenever it was being used. The way her fingers flexed and she craned her neck to the sides, the invisible fingers that brushed from her shoulders to the bottom of her back—someone had used magic.

   She turned.

   Amber coloured eyes stared back at her from across the hallway. The man was tall with broad shoulders, shirtless, his trousers hanging low. It took her a moment to notice his milk-white hair.

   The witcher, she realised.

  Rennen swallowed and stared back at him, blanketing her face of any emotion. The man was handsome, she had to admit, but so was the other witcher she knew. The difference between him and the other was the colour of his eyes and the shade of his hair, unnatural just like the powers he had. Amber eyes that reminded her of the sun and milk-white hair that contrasted against the dark of the wooden walls. A painting, almost.

   The witcher moved back into the room. He had seen her face, that had been enough for her to hurry to finish her job and leave Blaviken as fast as possible.

   She turned to another hallway, following the loud moans of the name she needed. The amber coloured eyes haunted her as she moved, thoughts reeling of what could happen if the witcher realised who she was and what she was about to do. No, he had to know who she was. Their unnatural ways of knowing and seeing and working had to tell him something about her. Did he see the emblem that rested above her heart or the red of her leather that symbolised all the blood she had spilt? Would he stop her? He wouldn't—couldn't—stop her. It was a contract that she needed to finish. If not that night, then by another night.

   Time was a luxury she had.

   The hallways were all brightly lit with the braziers at each wall, warm in the cool night. Walls were covered in tapestries with different locations and humans in different sexual positions, the paintings the same. The rooms were all personalised by the girls that owned them, from flowers all around and jewellery at their tables with tall goblets of wine and tankards of beers, beds wide and grand with sheets that could be soft to the touch.

   In the room at the end of the hallways, Degreved's name was moaned.

   Rennen laid her hand on top of the hilt of the dagger at her side as she opened the door as silently as she could. Two people were on the bed, the man behind the woman and hands on her hips as he thrust wildly into her. He reminded her a lot of a dog.

   She stepped forward and pushed the tip of her dagger against the end of his spine. "Degreved, I take it?"

   The man stopped thrusting and pulled his hands away from the woman's hips, raising them. "Who-who are you?"

   The woman pulled herself away and grabbed the blanket from the bed to cover herself. She looked at the assassin once over, eyes falling on the emblem over her breast, then hurried out of the room. The ladies of the whorehouse and the Dark Brotherhood were too much alike.

   "I'm the answer to a prayer," she sang, dragging the dagger up his spine. A snicker left her mouth as she heard the man hiss, as she saw the man begin to shake beneath the tip of her steel. "The answer to a question you should have asked yourself a long time ago." She grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back, laying the dagger on his neck. Blood trickled beneath her steel.

   "Wh-what do you want?" Degreved whined, shoulders shaking.

   She ignored his words, pulling him by the hair harder until his head rested on her shoulder. The man disgusted her. She could imagine the girl's frightened face as Degreved neared her, the way she would have pleaded for him to stop. Her thoughts stopped as she pulled his hair harder and let the dagger slide across his neck in slow motion. She let go of him, watching as he fell on the bed and a crown of red began to appear on the bedding.

   The contract was finished.

   Rennen left several ducats on the table by the window, the man's coin purse right beside it. An apology to the lady who owned the room for the mess that had been made, both for the blood and the night she had to spend with the man. She cleaned her face with her forearm as she left the room, taking steady steps down the hallway and to the front door of the whorehouse. It had quieted in the moments she had been inside the room, the hallway cooled from the fires that had been put out.

   She wondered whether the witcher was having a good time.

   The port town was alive in the early dawn as she made her way through the streets, eyes focused in front of her as her feet dragged against the ground. Dogs barked in the distance, the scent of fires and food wafted through the streets. The beginning of a new day for Blaviken.

   Even though she was tired, she did not want to stay in the port town. She went back to The Tuna Fish to clean up and take her bags, then hurried to her horse. A sweet but fierce mare the colour of fresh tree barks with a single white spot on her forehead, stolen from an abusive merchant in Mahakam years ago and under her care ever since then. It would be a lie to say that Rennen didn't love the horse because she did. She renamed the mare Beag, little in the Elder Speech, a name the mare had taken to and snorted whenever called. She was everything but beag.

   Rennen ran her hand through the horse's muzzle, leaning into the warmth of her fur. "We'll be leaving soon enough," she told the horse as she began to lay her belongings on her. "We've got to leave this awful port town, don't we?"

   The horse neighed and bumped her with her nose, pushing her to the side.

  "It's time to go, Beag," she said, mounting the mare and grabbing the reins. A small kick and the mare began to move. Tiredness pricked at her body as she moved, each careful gallop from the mare a jolt that kept her awake for a small moment before tiredness decided to come back. She wanted a bed to sleep on, a hot bath with fragrant oils.

   For a moment, she could recall the last hot bath she took before she left the sanctuary. The way the oils made her skin the scent of mulberries and lilies, and the way her skin glistened with the fires that illuminated the stone baths.

   Screams echoed from the market of Blaviken, and the scent of blood wafted through the air as she rode to leave the town. Bodies and blood loitered the streets, and in the distance, she saw the man with milk-white hair moving between screaming people as they threw rocks at him.

   "Aye!" Rennen stopped one of the men from throwing a rock. "What happened here?"

   The man spat at the ground. "That witcher there," he hissed, "murdered all these people!"

   She let her eyes wander up to the retreating witcher, raising a brow. "He did?"

   The man nodded and threw the rock. "Master Irion said so! Always knew witchers were horrible things."

   Things, Rennen repeated the word in her head. Not a person, a thing.

   "Master Irion?" She glanced around the market and saw a well-dressed man in the centre, hands at his waist as he stared down at the body of a young woman. He directed the people around him to help him with the body, pointing at a cart beside him.

   "Master Irion," the man repeated. "Our wizard."

   She felt her shoulders become rigid and the hold on the reins tighten. Wizards and Rennen did not get along, not since she was a little girl. Her father's wizard had always been a terrible man, though others liked to think him great for the things he had done. But, she knew him better than most. She knew he liked his experiments as much as others liked sex; the scars on her body were a tale of that.

   The wizard looked up around the people that helped him pick up the body and lay it on the cart, then his eyes caught hers. For a moment, the wizard stood still and examined her with furrowed brows. He whispered something to the guard that stood beside him, pointed at her with his chin.

   Rennen clicked her tongue and her mare began to move. 

   Blaviken had been enough.