2. Selis
Selis
The man’s whimpering now. Half-kneeling, half-crawling, blood soaking through the fine weave of his embroidered sleeves. I let him crawl. Let him sob into the dirt like it’ll save him.
It won’t.
I flip my knife once, twice, catching it by the hilt every time. The sound it makes when it spins—sharp, certain—cuts deeper than anything he’s praying to.
"You don't have to do this," he gasps, hands pressed together in some broken attempt at devotion. "I can pay—I have coin, I have land, I have—"
"You had coin," I say, voice light. “Then you ran. Now here we are.”
I crouch, bringing myself to his level, the blade tapping rhythmically against my knee.
I like it better when they stop pretending they have options.
"Gods," he wheezes.
"Oh, don't bring them into this," I murmur. I lean in close enough that he can see his own reflection, warped and trembling, in the blade. "Your gods didn’t come when the debt collectors did. Doubt they’ll bother showing up now."
His mouth moves—no words, just little wet gasps—and he looks at me like maybe he thinks I’ll find some mercy stuffed somewhere between my ribs .
I don't.
I reach out and tilt his chin up with the flat of the blade. His whole body goes rigid, a shudder traveling down his spine.
"Besides, you'd be amazed," I murmur, smiling without warmth, "what people will sell their gods for."
He opens his mouth to say something—beg, maybe, or curse me—but I don't give him the chance. The knife slips under his jaw with the ease of a kiss. One hard, practiced push.
Warmth splashes across my wrist. Thick, immediate. A pulse of heat against skin gone too used to steel. His body twitches once, twice, like it hasn’t realized yet that it’s already over.
I watch him die.
I wait.
Not out of mercy. Just out of curiosity.
He prayed. He begged. And like always, his gods didn’t show. Despite all the prayers I’ve heard, I haven’t seen a god yet.
That’s better for both of us.
I don’t need gods. Never have. The only thing I ever bend the knee for is coin.
And the bounty for this one—a coward noble who thought he could outrun blood debt with silk-lined boots and a whimper—was a large one.
His blood pools slow. Gathers in the crease of stone and dirt like it’s trying to return to the earth that made him.
Pathetic.
I wipe the blade clean on the hem of his once-rich cloak. Expensive clothes. Cheap soul.
The coin purse tied to his belt is heavier than I expected. I slice it free in one smooth motion—along with the signet still looped on a cord beneath his tunic. Proof of death. Proof of value. I tuck them into my coat, feeling the familiar weight settle against my ribs.
Easy work. Barely worth the trip.
The wind stirs the trees above, whispering like an old ghost. I glance up at the stars, sharp and cold in the night sky. No judgment there. Never is. Stars don’t care who bleeds beneath them.
People, on the other hand? Most people look at a body cooling in the dirt and frown like they’ve never dreamed of killing someone. Like they haven’t thought it. Whispered it. Hoped for it, quiet and desperate, behind their pious little faces.
Most people don’t like the unsavory jobs. But that’s where the money is.
The good jobs—the clean ones—they go to boys with noble blood and polished armor. The real coin? That lives in filth. In whispered names and last gasps.
That’s where I work.
That’s where I live .
A twig snaps somewhere beyond the clearing. I stand but ignore it. Probably a fox.
My boots crunch over the frost-bitten grass as I turn toward the road, hands already itching for something more interesting than frightened men and empty prayers.
Somewhere in this rotting town, there’s another job waiting—something bigger, something bloodier.
I intend to find it.
Soon.
***
The tavern at the edge of town isn’t much. Sagging beams. Soot-caked windows. A slouch of smoke bleeding from the crooked chimney. The kind of place where debtors and drunkards come to die slowly if the world doesn’t finish them first.
Furthermore, The Hollow Ember isn’t marked on most maps. Not the honest ones, anyway.
There’s no sign. Just a glowing lantern swinging on a rusted chain—glowing faintly blue, like flame passed through bone.
That’s the tell. If you know, you know.
And I know.
Inside, it’s dim. Always is.
The air smells like ash, sweat, and sharp liquor no one bothers naming.
A hearth burns low in the corner, more for tradition than warmth.
A handful of regulars linger—none of them talk to each other.
The tables are scattered, but there's a rhythm to the way people sit. Who faces the door. Who doesn’t.
No one looks surprised to see me. No one ever does.
I nod once to the barkeep.
He nods back. Doesn’t pour anything.
I head to the far end, where the boards don’t creak. Where the lamp is always a little dimmer than it should be.
He’s waiting.
Gray coat. Black gloves. Short dark hair. Sitting in the booth like he owns the shadow itself.
Kael.
I’ve done enough jobs with him to know he never wastes time—doesn’t waste breath, either. Doesn’t blink unless he has to.
“Selis,” he says, voice like old velvet. “You’re early.”
“Don’t remind me,” I reply, dropping into the seat across from him. “It wasn’t much of a hunt.”
I reach into my coat and pull the signet free. Still sticky. I set it on the table with a dull clink.
Kael lifts it between two fingers, tilts it toward the lamplight, then lets it vanish into his coat like it was never there.
“Where’s the body?” he asks, casual, like he’s asking if I left the door open.
“Propped in a ravine six miles east of Whitvale. Crows’ll be at it by morning,” I say. “It won’t lead back here. I’m not an amateur.”
I lean back. Let him see I’m not bluffing.
“No tracks. No coin trail. No signature. No scraps.”
He nods. One sharp dip of the chin. That’s all I get.
“We received word of his debt last month,” he says after a pause. “You weren’t the only one who bid on it.”
“Well, I’m not the only one with a knife.” I smirk. “Just the one that finished the job.”
He doesn’t smile. He never does.
“You want it in coin?” he asks, already reaching for the lockbox beneath the seat.
It’s enchanted—obviously. Oak reinforced with something that doesn’t come from this side of the veil. The edges shimmer faintly, warded six ways to damnation.
“Always. ”
The Black Lantern Guild’s always been fond of their magic tricks. They house half a dozen sorceresses in the western wing just to keep the wards humming and the contracts binding.
Blood magic. Memory veils. Truth-bound pacts. All very dramatic.
Personally, I prefer steel. It never forgets who it’s pointed at.
He slides me a pouch without counting. I don’t count it either. If it’s short, I’ll come back and take it from his teeth.
I test the weight, then tuck it into my coat. The clink it makes feels right. Familiar. Steady.
Kael taps his gloved fingers once on the table.
“We have something else,” he says.
I raise a brow and lean back, stretching my legs beneath the booth.
“Of course you do.”
He doesn’t blink. “High bounty. High risk. Not public.”
My mouth quirks, just a little. “You know how I feel about secrets.”
“You profit from them,” he says flatly.
Fair.
Kael glances past me—to the shadows behind the bar, the people who pretend not to listen.
“This one’s different. Sensitive.”
I snort. “They always are.”
“Just a name, and a meeting.”
I still.
He meets my eyes, cold and steady.
“Where?” I ask.
“Out back. Just before midnight.”
I glance toward the tavern’s warped back door. It creaks when it’s windy, locks when it shouldn’t .
“You really know how to romance a girl, Kael.”
He ignores that and says, “You’ll know him by name. Nothing else.”
He slides a small scrap of parchment toward me. Just a single word burned into it: Marn.
I pocket it without looking again.
“Mm, I’ll play along. But he better not be late.”
“He won’t be.”
“He better not be boring.”
That gets me the ghost of a smirk.
***
I lean against the post outside, arms crossed, the blood on my cuffs already drying stiff. The air stinks of old ale and colder fear. I breathe it in, slow. It’s a good night for a deal.
Footsteps scrape over gravel—soft, deliberate. Not a drunk, then. My hand rests lazy at my belt, fingers brushing the hilt of my second blade. I don’t tense. I don't need to.
A figure peels itself out of the fog—a cloak too clean for this gutter-town, boots that don't slosh through the mud like they belong here.
They stop three paces away. Smart enough not to get closer. Hood up. No visible weapons. But the way they hold themselves—tight at the shoulders, cautious at the hips—tells me enough.
Not a fighter. A mouthpiece.
"Punctual," he murmurs, voice low and greasy. "I was told you would be."
"You were told right," I say, flashing a smile sharp enough to cut. “You must be Marn.”
The figure shifts, glances sideways like they're afraid the tavern walls might sprout ears and rat him out. Cowardice smells worse than the ale here.
"Yes. A new contract," he says, pulling a small scroll from his sleeve. No name, no house sigil. Just wax the color of dried blood. “One that could use your skills, or so I'm told.”
My interest perks, but I don't move yet. I raise a brow instead. Let him stew. Let him wonder if I’ll walk away.
“What’s the pay?” I ask, voice low, bored on purpose.
He hesitates, then steps closer. I catch the edge of something beneath the leather oil on his collar. Sweat. Fear.
“This one,” he whispers, “is worth more than a dozen dead lords.”
Now he has my attention.
I push off the post and saunter closer. Slow enough to be a threat, casual enough to be an insult. He flinches like he’s been struck. I grin wider.
"Who?" I ask.
He glances around again, then mutters, barely a breath, "A holy daughter."
I bark a short laugh. Can't help it.
"Holy daughter," I echo, tasting the words. "Now that does sound expensive."
"She escaped," he hisses. "From The Garden of Selene. The clan wants her back before the next moon turns."
That stops me.
My smile widens. Well, this just got interesting . The Garden of Selene. I’ve heard whispers. Cult-like enclave full of vampire zealots, all dressed up in moonlight and martyrdom. Even the other clans think they’re insane—and that’s saying something.
“Alive?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He nods.
Of course they want her alive.
Holy things always fetch more coin when they’re still breathing.
I let the silence stretch until the figure shifts again, restless. Finally, they add, almost reverently, "She glows in the moonlight. Touched by a goddess, they say."
Glows .
Now that’s new.
I raise an eyebrow, slow and deliberate. "Touched by gold, more like."
He doesn’t laugh. You’d think dealing with blood money would come with better company.
I pluck the scroll from his hand, already half-decided. The parchment is soft from sweat. Smells like old candle smoke and something older underneath. I break the wax and unroll it with two fingers.
A sketched face stares back at me. Delicate. Wide-eyed. Soft features, parted lips, a crown of hair like moonlight caught in wind.
It states her crime is the “theft of sacred power.”
I laugh—sharp, teeth flashing.
“Sacred power,” I echo under my breath, tilting the scroll. “Sounds like she stole a god’s favorite wineglass.”
I study the image again. Too pretty for this mess. Too breakable-looking.
But then I lower my eyes to the bottom of the scroll.
Ah .
Now that looks better.
A number that makes my chest hum with familiar warmth. I let out a low whistle, appreciative.
“Well,” I murmur, folding the scroll and tucking it into my coat. “That’ll keep me warm for a season or two.”
The shape of this job is already forming in my mind: Soft. Sacred. Scared.
And stupid enough to think gods would save her.
"I'll take it," I say.
The figure exhales—some half-mumbled prayer spilling from their lips like I’m the answer to it. I don’t bother listening. Gods don’t answer. I do.
“Payment on delivery?” I tilt my head, tone lazy. “Or should I bottle her glow in glass first?”
He flinches at that. Predictable.
“Payment will be given once she’s returned,” he says tightly. “To The Garden.”
Of course it will. Always the sanctity. Always the strings. I click my tongue and nod once, sharp.
“She’s a day-walker,” he adds, like he’s offering me a gift instead of a warning.
My fingers still.
Day-walkers, or born vampires like her, can pass as human. The sun doesn’t burn them. Doesn’t even touch them.
It’s the turned ones who turn to ash.
But day-walkers? They’re rarer. Older. Closer to whatever divine thread The Garden claims to follow. And more dangerous than they look.
My little moonbeam, glowing and soft and sweet—dangerous.
I nod once. “I’ve handled vampires before. ”
He exhales like that’s all the confirmation he needs. “The Garden requires her return before the eclipse.”
Neat timing. Holy blood under a darkened sky. I don’t ask what they plan to do with her. I already know.
“You’ll have her by the next moon.”
Whether she walks or bleeds, I don’t say. I tuck the scroll deeper into my coat, the weight of it almost warm.
A holy daughter.
Glowing .
Running scared.
A curse wrapped in silk and prayer—and she doesn't even know I'm already hunting her.
Poor thing.
She won't see me coming until I'm already at her throat.
And gods help her if she dreams of mercy.