Altair slipped through the crowds of the East Borough with practiced ease.
It was noon. Smoke-stained workers poured out of the factories—those who could afford a meal, at least—and Altair blended with them so naturally he might as well have been born there. After circling the flow of bodies twice to confirm no one was trailing him, he turned sharply into a narrow alley.
Inside the shadowed passageway, his steps grew lighter. His silhouette darted between piles of debris; he leapt over discarded crates and slick patches of mud left by the rainfall two days prior. His movements were clean, nimble, almost animal-like.
After twenty minutes, he arrived at a tavern whose signboard had yellowed with age. A black pointed soft hat—stained as if wine had soaked through its brim—was painted beside a bubbling copper cauldron.
Altair pushed open the door. The wind chime above the entrance jingled.
"We're closed during the—oh. It's you."
A heap of black clothing on the bar counter shifted, revealing the tavern's proprietress beneath her floppy hat. Upon recognizing him, she didn't stop him. Instead she rose, fast for a woman who looked half-asleep, and locked the front door with a decisive snap.
"He's already waiting for you. Booth Three." She stretched lazily, shot him a teasing glance, and stepped aside.
"Thanks, Gegran."
Altair tossed a white cloak onto the counter. "Your clothing. I'll take the deposit later."
He walked deeper into the tavern. His mind had already leapt ahead—to the payment and the potion formula he was about to receive.
After the War of Faith, the world had gained far more Beyonders than before. People awakened abilities by accident, through rituals, or during moments of crisis. Altair, once simply a bounty hunter, had become one of them.
His potion path carried the name Assassin. His employer had been the one to tell him that—after learning what he was. Altair recalled the employer seeming to hesitate, as if wanting to say more… but ultimately staying silent.
Quiet employers were the best kind. Less talk meant fewer complications. This job had been no different.
Travel to West Borough. Kill Baron Sindras.
That was the entire request.
Sindras had risen in politics on the shoulders of the Conservative faction, yet privately leaned toward influential financiers aligned with the New Party. Assassination was practically an occupational hazard for men who tried to maintain loyalties in two camps at once.
Altair reached Booth Three, pulled open the wooden door, and bowed politely.
"Good afternoon, Miss Pride."
Inside sat a blonde lady in a dark green ruffled gown. A white mask concealed her face, while a single pearl earring gleamed on her left ear. She gave Altair a soft nod and performed a seated noblewoman's bow—hands lightly clasped at her waist.
No matter how often he saw her, Miss Pride always looked like she belonged in the upper echelons of old aristocracy.
Altair had served Baron Sindras long enough to have met many noble young ladies, yet none of them executed a bow with such refinement. She must be from a deeply established lineage—obsessed with formality—perhaps even the reason she selected Sindras as a target. But that wasn't Altair's concern. His work was simple: get paid.
"I've already heard about Sindras' death," Miss Pride said softly. "You handled it well."
Altair bowed his head. "The target had status, but the job itself wasn't impossible."
"As agreed."
She slid a briefcase and a small folded note toward him. "The Sequence Seven formula for the Assassin pathway—and two thousand pounds."
"That's more than the quoted price," Altair said, genuinely confused.
"You exceeded expectations. The Punishers didn't detect anything. No trace of Beyonder interference, no sign of tampering. A perfectly natural 'accident.' You saved me significant trouble."
The corner of her mask curved as if she were smiling.
Miss Pride—so generous. But her nickname still felt strange. She didn't seem prideful in the petty sense. Instead there was something… absolute about her confidence. The way she displayed her mystical item openly. The way she met an Assassin in a dangerous neighborhood without fear. The way she adhered to aristocratic courtesy regardless of the setting.
It was a pride so complete it didn't even recognize others as rivals, let alone threats.
Altair blinked, catching himself before staring too long. He collected the briefcase and slid the note into his pocket. The thought that she might hand him a false formula never even crossed his mind; it was as though the idea simply could not exist.
"I'll take my leave. Thank you again for your generosity."
He bowed and exited the booth.
The moment he left, the air in front of Miss Pride shimmered—then cracked like a pane of glass. The delicate smile vanished, replaced by melancholy.
"Noble etiquette…" she murmured. "The last time I saw such manners, I still believed the world was simple. Now I work behind the scenes—not for Justice, but to steer fate using assassination…"
Miss Pride—Audrey Hall—let out a small sigh. She quickly steadied her expression using her Spectator abilities.
"This Altair… he may be useful. I need someone in the East Borough for intelligence gathering. Backlund is far too complex. And I certainly can't sift through the dreams of the entire city each night—that would irritate the demigods."
She paused.
"It's a pity he chose the Assassin pathway. Will I need to call him Miss Altair someday?"
A faint, rueful laugh escaped her.
"…Not that it would sound bad."
Her figure dissolved slowly into nothingness, like a sugar cube dissolving into water.
Meanwhile, Altair—now richer by an extra thousand pounds—descended back into the tavern bar.
"Your deposit. Two pounds."
Gegran pushed two notes across the counter. Altair took one and pushed the other back.
"Margarita first. And tell me if any new work came in."
"You just walked out of a commission, didn't you? Shouldn't need money this fast."
Gegran pulled tequila from the cabinet, mixing with casual familiarity. Even closed for business, she would never refuse coin from someone who couldn't drink enough to make trouble.
"I have uses for it."
Altair drew a dagger from his sleeve and wiped its reflective spine with a cloth.
"That so? Well, nothing big right now."
Gegran scooped ice aggressively. "But the Zimang gang got a new enforcer. There's a two-hundred-pound contract to make her disappear."
"Highlanders again," Altair muttered. "They multiply like sardines in Intersea Shire—net one wave and another swims in."
"Wait… you said her?"
"Yes. A woman." Gegran retrieved a portrait from beneath the counter and tossed it to him.
"Vienata. Came on an airship this year. Injured, abandoned in some East Borough clinic during the army's retreat. Survived anyway. Ended up joining those Highland lots. She's strong—too strong—and the local gangs teamed up to pay for someone to get rid of her."
"Anything else?"
Altair studied the portrait. Light golden hair, wheat-colored. A hint of freckles. Tall, judging from proportions. She looked more like a farm hunter than a hardened enforcer.
"She's a Beyonder. Pathway unknown, likely Sequence Nine. Uses darts, slings, traps, and mild poisons that weaken or knock people out. Brutal strength. Fast."
"Not impossible." Altair pocketed the portrait. "If anyone asks, tell them I took the job."
"Here."
Gegran set down the drink—tequila and strong rum beneath a fresh layer of crushed ice.
"Margarita for the fancy ones."
She leaned on the counter. "Tonight's gathering is at eight. You've missed a few. The others think you've already been eaten behind a warehouse. Should I warn them or will you show up yourself?"
"I'll thank them for their optimism," Altair said, taking a healthy swallow.
"Eight, same place, same rules."
Gegran wrinkled her nose. "And change your clothes this afternoon. You still reek of the Tassok River. Like two drunks rolling in a mattress soaked with old piss."
"That's… horrifying. I'm going."
Altair grimaced. One rarely notices one's own stench—especially after swimming an hour in a polluted river. The realization that he'd met Miss Pride while smelling like that made heat crawl up his neck.
He drained the last of the margarita and slipped out of the tavern.