A week later, Ronan stood atop the hills overlooking Meridium, his weary figure silhouetted against the city skyline. He muttered under his breath, his words a mixture of prayer and curse, his heart heavy with a thirst for vengeance.
He entered the city; his hood pulled low, and made his way to the nearest pub. With a flash of gold, he persuaded the barkeep to reveal the whereabouts of skilled mercenaries and assassins. The Gilded Cage, a notorious haunt for fighters and cutthroats, became his destination.
He found the pub bustling with activity, its patrons a motley crew of hardened warriors and shady characters. He settled at a table, drawing curious glances from those around him. A barmaid approached, her smile welcoming despite the wary glint in her eyes.
"Your order, good sir?"
"The best food and ale you have," Ronan replied, his gaze scanning the room.
As he ate, a hulking figure named Golia and his two henchmen approached his table, their expressions challenging. Golia leaned in, his voice a low growl. "You new here?"
Ronan ignored him, continuing his meal. Golia's face flushed with anger. "I said, are you new here?"
"Looking for something I doubt you have," Ronan replied coolly.
Golia and his men laughed, their voices booming through the pub. "Trying to be tough, are we? This ain't a place for lost little lads."
Ronan tossed a purse of gold onto the table, his voice loud enough for all to hear. "There's a mountain of this for those who serve me."
Silence descended upon the pub. Golia and his men stared at the gold, their laughter dying in their throats.
"Lad, I like you," Golia said, his voice a low rumble. "Leave the gold, and I'll let you live."
"Scram, fat lump," Ronan scoffed.
Golia's face turned red with fury. "You dare insult me? The best fighter in town?"
"More like the fattest ass in town," Ronan retorted. "There are at least five here who could take you down."
Golia, enraged, threw Ronan's plate and drink across the room. "You shouldn't have said that!"
"I did. Now what?" Ronan challenged, his hand moving towards his knife.
Golia overturned the table, but Ronan was quicker. He lunged, his knife pressed against the big man's throat.
"Not so tough now, eh?"
"You won't kill me," Golia said, his voice steady despite the blade at his throat. "You don't have the stomach for it."
One of Golia's men reached for his knife, but Ronan saw the movement. "Move and he dies."
At that moment, a tall, thin man with an unsettling smile and mismatched eyes approached. "We just want to drink in peace, Golia. Must you always cause a scene?"
"Stay out of this, Malik," Golia growled.
"I can't," Malik replied, his smile never faltering. "Unless you want this young man to kill you, which would be bad for my business."
"And who might you be?" Ronan asked, his eyes narrowed.
"Malik, owner of this establishment," the man replied, his smile sending shivers down Ronan's spine. "And that oaf is a friend of mine. So, please don't harm him."
"And if I do?" Ronan challenged.
Malik's smile widened, but his eyes turned cold. "Then we'll escort your corpse out."
Ronan knew he was outmatched. "I'm happy to meet you," he said, sheathing his knife.
"Why is that?" Malik asked, his smile returning.
"Because I found you. A real killer."
"That I am. As is Golia, for that matter." Malik gestured for the barmaid to clean up the mess and bring fresh food and drinks. "Forgive Golia. He's crude, but a good customer."
They moved to another table, and Malik's demeanor shifted, his smile fading as he turned to Ronan. "Now, what brings you to us?"
"I need skilled assassins," Ronan replied. "I heard this is the place to find the best."
"Indeed, it is," Malik agreed. "And why do you need such skills?"
"I want someone dead."
"Obviously," Malik chuckled. "But you seem capable yourself. Your target must be formidable."
"Not particularly," Ronan admitted. "He just has a...troublesome watchdog."
"A ferocious watchdog!"
"You have no idea," Ronan confirmed.
Malik's smile disappeared, his expression turning serious. "We're professionals. We honor our contracts. If you can pay, we deliver. No questions asked. We're expensive, but efficient. And money doesn't seem to be an issue for you."
Ronan placed three more purses of gold and gems on the table. "I'll pay ten times this amount once the job is done."
Malik remained impassive. "It's not the money that concerns me. With that much gold, you could have a prince killed. It's what you're not telling me."
Ronan hesitated, sensing Malik's suspicion. "If you won't accept, I'll find someone who will." He made to stand, but Malik's voice stopped him.
"Sit. No one here will work for you if I refuse. And I may not even let you leave alive." His killing intent was palpable. "But I'll accept, on one condition."
Ronan swallowed hard. "What is it?"
"I usually don't ask questions, but you're hiding something intriguing. Tell me why you want this target dead."
Ronan reluctantly recounted his tale, omitting certain details and altering others to avoid revealing Iskander's true nature. He spoke of betrayal, of a stolen treasure, and a desire for revenge. Malik listened intently, his unsettling smile returning as the story unfolded.
"Intriguing," he said when Ronan finished. "I like your spirit. I accept your request."
"Good," Ronan said, relieved. "But we need more men to deal with the watchdog."
"Don't worry," Malik assured him, gesturing towards a group of two men and a woman. "Meet the best assassins in the world."
Ronan's instincts confirmed Malik's claim. These were indeed formidable individuals.
"With you all, this might work," Ronan said, a glimmer of hope returning to his eyes.
"Consider it done," Malik declared.
He introduced his team: Adok, a stealthy tracker; Zog, a skilled swordsman; and Damia, a beautiful seductress and master of poisons. Ronan revealed that his target and his companions had been in Meridium, and Adok set off to track them down.
Hours later, Adok returned with news. "I found them. They left for the Isle of Whisper six days ago."
"That's impossible!" Ronan exclaimed. "They're heading for the Obsidian Spire, not The Isle of Whisper."
"I'm never wrong," Adok said confidently. "They went to the Isle of Whisper."
"Why?" Ronan questioned, frustrated. "It makes no sense!"
"The Isle of Whisper is the closest port to the Sea of White Dust," Malik explained. "They can catch another ship there and reach the western coast in fifteen days."
"Still, it's odd," Ronan muttered.
"Perhaps they needed a guide," Damia suggested.
"You might be right," Adok agreed. "There's a clan that specializes in guiding travelers through the Firefield. But few return from that journey."
"Are you backing out?" Ronan asked, his voice laced with anxiety.
"No one's backing out," Malik said firmly. "We finish what we start."
"Malik, are you sure about this?" Zog asked, his voice filled with concern.
"I am," Malik replied, his gaze unwavering.
"Fine," Zog sighed. "We follow you."
"Good," Malik said. "We head to the Isle of Whisper. Maybe they're still there."
"And if we find them?" Ronan asked, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and dread. "Do you have a plan?"
"If the watchdog is as skilled as you say, things could get messy. We need to be discreet. But first, we need to get there quickly."
Ronan nodded, his impatience growing. "We have to stop them before they reach the Obsidian Spire. Otherwise, we've failed."
He could sense Malik's suspicion, his eagerness to eliminate his target before they reached the Obsidian Spire, raising questions.
"Zog, can you secure passage for tonight?" Malik asked.
"I believe so," Zog replied.
"Good. We leave tonight."
"Consider it done."
With their plans set in motion, Ronan and his newly assembled team of assassins prepared to embark on a perilous journey into the heart of the Firefield, their pursuit of revenge driving them towards a confrontation with the immortal king and the shepherd boy with the extraordinary eyes.