The streets had grown quieter since their visit to Ortolan's forge. A pale mist curled along the cobbles, carrying with it the faint scent of soot, old rain, and city grease. Oil lanterns flickered on iron posts, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted in silence.
Allen walked beside Irvin, their footsteps muffled against the worn stones.
"You've got that look," Irvin said without looking at him.
"What look?"
"The one that says you're already planning how to kill a man."
A pause, Allen didn't deny it.
He then gave a slight shrug. "Means to an end. They had it coming...and I really want the shorswords."
Irvin chuckled under his breath, then pulled his cloak tighter as a breeze slithered through the alley. "No qualms with killing a man, heh."
Allen glanced at him. "Serves my goals. Also Ortolan is the guy you would need to keep close. This is an investment on my part."
Irvin whistled low. "Well, damn. And here I thought I was the ruthless one."
A silence stretched between them. Not awkward—just the kind shaped by two men who'd seen too much and said too little.
The tavern came into view ahead: The Winking Wyrm, its painted sign swaying faintly with the wind. Warm light leaked from its windows, accompanied by the low hum of laughter, tankards, and a bard's half-hearted lute.
Irvin nodded toward it. "Let's get a room. I've got a few things to handle tonight."
Allen slowed for a moment, eyes scanning the tavern door.
They stepped inside, leaving the chill night behind.
The tavern was full with people making merry and cheers. Drinking to drown their sorrows.
"How can I help you?"
"We need a room...Two beds."
"Economical," Irvin smirked.
They paid two silver for their stay, one for each of them.
That would cover their stay for the next four days.
Irvin left immediately after settling in the room ...he jumped through the window and off he went.
Allen didn't stay back either, he left a few minutes after Irvin, he had a recon mission to do ...scout out his targets.
***
Unnoticed and unseen, Allen was jumping from roof to roof, occupants below oblivious.
He happened to pass through his previous neighbourhood.
The abandoned shack down below- it seems it had a new 'tenant' a street rat probably sheltering from the harshness of mother nature.
He was in deep thought.
How time really changes man, just the previous month he was a street rat, trying to make ends meet, doing all sorts of odd jobs- brushed with death more times than he could count- now here he was , his coin bag full of silvers.
Mind you, a silver coin could feed a mid sized family for a week, and not just scraps. No,a feast!.
With a sigh he leaped off into the night; destination - Dancing Tallow tavern.
He arrived soon after; his destination was not that far.
He entered the tavern blended with the crowd.
This place- Ortolan had told him- was frequented by the party Rain belonged in.
Rain was his target- also the scout of his party
This place—Dancing Tallow—was exactly as Ortolan had described it. Loud. Warm. Reeking of ale, roasted meat, and spilled stories. The kind of place where mercenaries blurred into merchants, and hired blades drank beside city guards.
Allen's eyes scanned the room quickly, naturally.
There—three tables down and to the right. A group of five sat hunched around a table worn smooth by years of spilled drink and thudding fists.
A brawler, wide-chested with bruised knuckles and a bandaged nose. A healer in emerald robes, already tipsy, laughing as she twirled a half-empty glass. A swordsman with a duelist's swagger and a cocky smirk. A tank—armor half-on even while seated, the type who never relaxed. And lastly, Rain. The scout.
Lean, sharp-eyed, pale scar across the jawline. Watching the room even while laughing. Smart.
Allen took a seat three tables away—close enough to hear, far enough to not invite interest. He ordered a mug he didn't touch and sat back, tuning his ears to their table.
"—so we set out early," the tank was saying. "First light. Into the Gloompine."
"Ugh," the healer groaned. "Another swamp? Can't we hunt something in a meadow once?"
The brawler let out a grunt. "Gold's not in meadows."
"They say a Bronzehide boar has been sighted out there," Rain added, voice calm and matter-of-fact. "Young one, from what the reports say."
The swordsman scoffed. "Still enough to rip out your lungs if it's having a bad morning."
Laughter erupted around the table.
"Bah! We've taken worse," said the tank, lifting his mug. "To coin! To glory!"
"To waking up without acid burns!" the healer chimed in.
The mugs clinked.
Allen's fingers drummed quietly on the table. Their voices blurred for a while—talk of past hunts, an argument over who'd slept with which barkeep in which village.
But his eyes remained sharp. Focused.
He remembered a vial Shardu had once held up to the candlelight. Clear. Almost beautiful. A poison that didn't kill—at least, not right away. Slowed the blood. Numbed the limbs. Delayed reaction time. Caused confusion, subtle fatigue. Not enough to be noticed through drink or battle adrenaline. Until it was too late.
"You'd think you just didn't sleep well," Shardu had said, swirling the clear liquid. "Right until you realize your legs won't respond."
Allen's gaze shifted to the tray a nearby waiter was preparing—fresh mugs for the adventurers, froth spilling over the rims. He moved before he could second-guess it.
A slip of the hand.
The vial poured without a sound, the clear liquid vanishing beneath the foam like it had never existed.
He returned to his seat, feigning disinterest as the drinks were delivered.
The party cheered, unaware. Another toast. Another round. They drank.
Allen didn't smile. But there was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.
"It'll hit them by tomorrow," he thought. "They'll think they're just tired from the road. Sloppy from drink. Slower. Easier."
He waited. Watched.
An hour passed before the party stood, swaying slightly as they laughed their way toward the door. Allen rose casually, drifting behind them like a second shadow.
He followed from a distance—out the door, down the quiet streets slick with night drizzle. His hand rested on the hilt beneath his cloak.
He could do it now. They were drunk. Loud. Unguarded.
But his eyes scanned the alleys.
Too many lamps. Too many ears. A city guard not far off, leaning bored against a post. Too risky. Even a failed strike would stir the Adventurer's Association into a frenzy. And he wasn't ready for that kind of chase.
"No," he told himself. "The forest. Where the trees will watch and say nothing."
He watched them go. Memorized the direction they took. The time.
Then turned back, pulling his cloak tighter as he disappeared down a side street.
---
The room was quiet when he returned.
Irvin was still out.
The second bed was untouched. A single candle burned low near the window, its light flickering over the cold wood floor.
Allen sat at the edge of the bed, silent, methodical. He checked the borrowed shortswords. Clean. Sharp.
Then he lay back, staring at the ceiling