The room reeks of stale cigar smoke, sweat, and oiled steel. Dim lanterns hang from iron chains, casting jagged shadows across scarred faces and tattooed necks. Ten figures lounge or lean against the walls—bounty hunters, each one a walking legend or a walking nightmare. A table in the center is littered with empty tankards and half-smoked stubs. No one speaks much; they wait.
"Where's the damn task collector?" growls a man with a jagged scar splitting his left cheek from eye to jaw. He lights a fresh cigar with a flick of flint, the flame briefly illuminating the deep grooves. "Jerk's making me wait like I'm some street rat."
"Tell me about it," mutters a woman dressed like a carnival nightmare—painted white face, red smeared lips, striped trousers, and a frilled umbrella slung across her back like a rifle. "I've got places to be."
"This has to be big," says a wiry man in patched leather, leaning toward the small girl perched on a crate beside him. She's no older than fourteen, but her eyes are old. "Taskmaster calling all of us? Look around. That's the Hound over there." He nods subtly toward the scarred man. "Brutal. Four hundred fifty confirmed kills. They say he once tracked a target across three Kingdoms without sleeping."
"Awesome," the girl whispers, eyes wide.
"Who's the one with the hammer?" she asks, pointing.
"That's Skullbreaker. Seven hundred eighty kills. Two-million bounty on his head alone. You can guess how he earned the name."
Across the room, a mountain of a man picks at his teeth with a fingernail the size of a dagger, the massive warhammer resting against his thigh like a child's toy.
"And the clown?" the girl presses.
"They call her the Whisper. Eight hundred fifty kills—mostly men who never saw her coming. One-million bounty. Sneaky bastard."
The Whisper twirls her umbrella idly, the painted smile never leaving her face.
"Quiet," someone hisses. "Someone's coming."
All eyes snap to the door.
A heavy *thud* echoes from the hallway. The door swings open. The task collector's body tumbles in—face-down, a dagger buried to the hilt between his shoulder blades. Blood pools dark on the floorboards.
Weapons flash out in an instant: swords, pistols, axes, chains. The room bristles like a cornered beast.
"Come out, whoever you are!" the Hound bellows, voice rumbling off the walls.
A figure steps calmly through the doorway—tall, cloaked in dark green, face hidden beneath a hood embroidered with silver thorns. He stops just inside, hands loose at his sides.
"Who the hell are you?" a bounty hunter snarls.
"Just a mutual friend," the assassin replies, voice smooth as oil.
"What beef did you have with the collector?" demands the Trickster, a lean man in patchwork coat and feathered hat, already leveling a ornate pistol. "How do I get paid now?"
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room.
"What stops us from killing you right here?" the Trickster asks, thumb cocking the hammer.
"I have a job for all of you," the assassin says. "One worth your time."
"Don't tell me *you* called this meeting," the Trickster snaps.
"I'm not interested. I'll probably take your head instead." He aims the pistol square at the assassin's chest.
A deafening *crash*. The Skullbreaker's hammer sweeps in a brutal arc. The Trickster doesn't even scream—his body explodes into red mist and shattered bone. Chunks splatter the walls.
Silence. Then the Whisper giggles, brushing a speck of blood from her striped sleeve.
"Now you've gotten my dress dirty."
"Talk," Skullbreaker rumbles, voice like grinding stones. "What's the job?"
"My sponsor wants the head of the Drought," the assassin says. "He's willing to pay each of your bounties—doubled—to bring him to me. Alive, preferably. Dead works too."
The Whisper's painted smile stretches impossibly wide.
"Don't tell me—the Drought? Four-billion bounty? The one who scratched a demigod and walked away?"
"What if we refuse?" the Hound asks, eyes narrowed. "You gonna have big boy here smash us too?"
"No," the assassin says with a thin smile. "He doesn't work for me… yet. You're free to decline. But think—double your bounty for killing one man."
A voice from the back: "One man? We've heard the stories. He's the only one who's ever wounded a demigod without dying on the spot. He's operating on another level."
"I'm out." The speaker—a grizzled veteran—smashes a window with his elbow and leaps into the night. Others follow, vanishing into the dark.
Five remain: the Hound, Skullbreaker, the Whisper, Red Fang (a grizzled father-daughter duo, both scarred and silent), and one more.
The assassin tilts his head. "And you?"
A hooded figure steps forward, pulling back the cowl. Long silver hair spills out.
"They call me the Bone Collector."
"Welcome," the assassin says.
"When do we start?" the Hound asks.
"Better move fast," the assassin said, pulling his hood up. "Things are going to get interesting from here on."
**Cut to one of the Seven Kingdoms– The Kingdom of Ashenmoor **
Hooves thunder across the plain. Riders bearing the dragon-and-tree sigil charge toward the palace gates, blades flashing. Screams rise as guards fall—arrows, lances, fire. Bodies crumple in the dust.
**Inside the palace**
Marble halls gleam under crystal chandeliers. Queen Isolde stands at the far end, regal in crimson and gold, flanked by her two massive direwolves—each the size of a destrier, fur black as midnight, eyes glowing amber.
A breathless messenger bursts through the outer doors. Guards part to let him in.
"My Queen!" he gasps, dropping to one knee. "We've been hit—critically. The attackers march on the city. We must get you to safety. It's the top priority—"
"I should *run*, Xeryth?" Isolde's voice is ice. "Coward. You would have me flee while these filth lay waste to what my ancestors, my father, and his father built?"
The wolves growl low, hackles rising.
"Calm," she commands. They drop flat, whining softly.
Xeryth bows deeper. "My Queen, heed me. If they overrun this city, it will be a devastating loss to the realm—"
"Quiet, old man."
A sudden *boom* shakes the doors. Wood splinters. The wolves surge to their feet, snarling.
Xeryth steps behind the Queen, hand on his dagger.
Guards inside grip spears and swords, knuckles white.
The great doors burst open. The Monarch strides in—tall, armored in blackened steel etched with crimson runes—flanked by his commander, a silent figure in scaled mail.
"Stay where you are!" a guard shouts.
The commander moves like lightning. Blades flash. Guards drop, throats opened, armor rent.
The Monarch steps forward, boots echoing on marble.
"What in the seven hells do you want with my kingdom?" Isolde demands. "Think you can take what my father built, trespasser?"
Her wolves launch—snarling fury.
The Monarch draws his sword in one fluid motion. A single slash bisects the first wolf; steaming entrails spill across the floor. The second leaps; he kicks it mid-air, then severs its head in a clean arc. Blood sprays in crimson arcs.
A strange mark blooms on his cheek—dark, pulsing—like a brand from another world.
"My babies!" Isolde screams, voice breaking as the wolves twitch and still.
"Come with me," Xeryth urges, tugging her arm.
She refuses. He flees through a side door.
The commander pursues at a leisurely walk.
Isolde snatches a ceremonial sword from the wall and charges, fury blazing in her eyes.
The Monarch meets her thrust effortlessly. His blade punches through her chest—clean, precise. Blood blooms on her gown, spills from her lips.
"You think you're a conqueror?" she gasps, clutching the sword impaling her. "Someone will kill you."
He leans close, whispering something only she can hear.
Her eyes widen in pure terror.
He withdraws the blade. She collapses, lifeless, eyes staring at the ceiling.
He sheathes the sword with a soft click.
A figure emerges from the shadows—a girl with vivid pink hair, clad in tattered one of the rejects, bowing low.
"Destroy it," the Monarch commands.
She turns to the golden throne, slips two fingers into her mouth—and exhales. A torrent of fire roars out, hotter than forge-flame. The throne melts, gold pooling like blood on the marble.
The Monarch strides out. His footsteps echo down the hall.
**Outside the city walls**
Xeryth gallops through burning streets, cloak whipping. He reins in near a dovecote, dismounts, and scribbles a frantic message on parchment. He ties it to a messenger bird and flings it skyward.
The commander appears on the ridge, bow drawn, arrow nocked—aimed at Xeryth's eye.
"Shit—he already sent it." The commander smirks. "No worries. I'm a good shot."
He looses.
The pink-haired reject in a blur slams into him from the side. He stumbles, arrow veering wide. The bird vanishes into the night.
"Look what you've done!" the commander snarls, shoving the girl off. "You'll get me in trouble, you freak!"
"Ehh, don't be rude," she chirps, smiling brightly. "I came to check up on you."
Chapter ends