Scars

(Ace)

Ace led his mare down the Redmond road, a worn and well-traveled path. His exact plan for when he finally arrived at his destination was still a work in progress, but at least he had the time for brainstorming. The King’s bounty had said that the target was last seen heading this direction, and Ace knew this area like the back of his hand, especially the places that almost guarantee a way to make you disappear from prying eyes.

Knowing the area was definitely an advantage, but he knew next to nothing on his target. A woman was all he had gotten when acquiring the job. Like that didn’t pertain to half the population, he thought with a sad shake of his head. They didn’t even have a solid description, only saying that there would be a magic energy that would be a dead giveaway. So they said.

The Redmond road stretched before him like a scar across the land, rutted earth flanked by withered hedgerows and the skeletons of old oaks whose roots clawed at the ditch line. The morning mist clung low, ghosting around his mare’s legs, curling around the leather of his boots until each step seemed swallowed by the fog. The air carried the scent of damp soil and distant hearth smoke, the kind that meant a town wasn’t far, but far enough that you could still breathe without the stench of people and coin.

He adjusted the reins absently, the familiar creak of worn leather grounding him in the silence. It was the sort of quiet that made thoughts grow loud.

The King’s seal still weighed heavy in his coat pocket, its wax impression slightly cracked from his grip. Gold would’ve been enough, but the favor was what kept him moving. A single promise from a monarch could summon the kind of mage that most men only heard about in war songs. And maybe, just maybe, that mage could mend what sickness and prayer couldn’t.

His sister’s face flashed unbidden in his mind. Pale, fever-slick, her laugh now only a memory that echoed faintly between dreams. He swallowed hard and pressed his mare forward. There were few things Ace Wells feared, helplessness was one of them.

The land began to dip, and with it came the faint glimmer of water reflecting gray sky: the river that split the edge of Lundene. Beyond it, the town sprawled low and wide, hemmed in by marsh and smoke. Its crooked rooftops leaned on one another like drunks after a long night, and banners of faded color hung limp from the watchtowers. Even from a distance, he could hear the faint clamor of the marketplace. Iron striking iron, gulls crying above the docks, the rhythm of a city that never truly slept.

He hadn’t planned on coming back here. Not after him.

Lundene was Dusty’s territory. Or it had been, last Ace heard. A den of smugglers and whisper-brokers, where a man’s worth was measured by what secrets he could sell. Dusty had ruled its underbelly like a shadow king, all silver words and sly smiles. A man too clever to die, too cowardly to stay honest. The kind of man Ace had once called brother.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Of all the devils to seek out,” he muttered, “it had to be you.”

The mare’s ears flicked at the sound of his voice, and Ace patted her neck absently. The air thickened as he descended toward the river crossing. The scent of tar, fish, and coal smoke rolled over him, dragging memories with it. Of laughter over cheap ale, of a friendship forged in chaos, of the day it all burned away.

The King’s favor. His sister’s life. The bounty that might buy redemption. That was the chain around his neck now. And waiting at the end of it was Clyde Dusty Silverscale, the one man Ace had sworn he’d never need again.

By midday, the sun had climbed high enough to bleach the sky pale. The road dipped into a valley of rippling gold, the autumn fields swaying like an ocean of grain, broken only by the distant shimmer of the river that curved lazily around Lundene’s edge. The city rose beyond it, a cluster of timber and stone crouched against the plains, its narrow roofs pitched high against the wind that rolled in from the open country.

To a stranger, it might have looked peaceful; smoke curling from chimneys, the faint hum of distant bells. To Ace, it looked tired. The kind of town that had seen too many promises and not enough mercy.

The old bridge groaned under his mare’s weight as he crossed the river. The water below was slow and brown, carrying the smell of reeds and wet earth. Barges drifted along the current, piled with grain sacks, barrels, and the occasional slumped worker half asleep in the shade of the cargo. Trade still moved through Lundene, but the city’s pulse had changed.

The main gate stood open, its arch sagging under the weight of age. Guards lounged nearby, their armor dull, their spears leaning against the wall as they watched the flow of travelers shuffle past. Ace guided his mare through without question, just another man wrapped in road dust and intent.

Inside the city was alive in the way a battlefield was alive. Chaotic, purposeful, full of noise that had its own rhythm. Wagons clattered over the cobbles, chickens darted through the streets, and the calls of traders rang out from every stall. Spices from the south mixed with the smell of baked bread and livestock, the kind of heady blend that spoke of both prosperity and rot.

He passed a woman selling apples from a wagon, her voice bright against the low murmur of bartering men. A trio of mercenaries jostled past, half drunk and already spoiling for an argument. The clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed from a side alley, and somewhere farther off someone was shouting about lost coin and cheating dice.

Ace’s eyes swept the crowd with the practiced calm of a man who had learned long ago to measure every face, every glance, every alley shadow. He caught sight of familiar markings here and there, a dagger scratched into a wall, the faintest echo of Dusty’s old network, but most of them were defaced, crossed out, overwritten by new sigils. Someone else ruled the streets now.

He followed the slope of the main thoroughfare until the noise of the market began to fade into smaller side roads. The Traveling Tavern sat at the end of one of these, a narrow lane where the sunlight barely touched the ground. The inn leaned like an old drunk against its neighbors, wedged between an alchemist’s shop that stank of sulfur and a general store whose faded sign creaked on its hinges.

The tavern’s sign swung overhead; a painted tankard and a road winding off into the distance. The paint was flaking, the edges burned. Beneath it, crudely carved into the wood, was a mark Ace didn’t recognize, a snake coiled around a broken blade.

That wasn’t Dusty’s mark. That was someone who wanted the world to know they’d taken what was his.

He tied his mare to the post and brushed the road dust from his cloak. A few men loitered near the tavern’s steps, their laughter sharp and humorless. They wore no uniform, but their matching snake tattoos wound up from the edges of the collars, bright and fresh. One of them watched Ace too long, his grin spreading slow.

Ace ignored it and stepped inside.

The tavern air was thick with smoke and sweat, the low hum of voices breaking only for bursts of raucous laughter. The floorboards were warped from spilled ale and the smell of cheap stew mingled with the sour tang of unwashed wool. Sunlight filtered through the shutters in narrow gold bars, cutting across the haze.

This place had been Dusty’s once, the quiet center of a web spun from whispers and silver coin. Back then, conversations had been soft, and danger wore a polite smile. Now it was loud, reckless, and mean.

The barkeep was a broad woman with sleeves rolled to her elbows and a temper that seemed to simmer just beneath the surface. Her hair was a streaked tangle of gray and gold, her eyes the sharp color of river mud.

“Room?” She asked, not looking up from the mug she was scrubbing.

“Aye,” Ace said. “One night.”

“Coin first.”

He slid three silvers across the counter. Her gaze flicked over him, the dust on his cloak, the sword on his hip, the quiet steadiness of his stance. Something in her expression hardened, but she took the money all the same and dropped a key onto the counter.

“Third door left, upstairs. Try not to bleed on the sheets. They’re new.”

He raised a brow. “That a common problem here?”

She smirked, just barely. “Depends on who you owe.”

Behind him, chairs scraped across the floor. A burst of laughter followed, low and taunting. He didn’t turn. The tavern’s mirrors cracked, streaked with grime, gave him all the reflection he needed. Three men at a corner table, dice scattered before them, each armed. One of them nudged the other, whispering something that earned a grin.

Ace pocketed the key. “Appreciate the warning.”

“Wasn’t one.” She said, and turned away.

He moved toward the stairs, boots whispering over warped planks. A wanted board hung near the doorway, parchment scraps pinned haphazardly beneath a knife. The ink was still fresh on one of them:

NO DAGGERS. NO DEALS. NO SECOND CHANCES

The knife pinning it wasn’t for decoration. Its edge was wet. Ace’s jaw tightened. Dusty’s reach was gone, swallowed by these new snakes. His once-ordered network had been replaced by open violence.

He climbed the stairs, each step creaking under his weight. The second floor was quieter, dimly lit by a single candle that burned low in its holder. His room was small, a cot, a washbasin, a window overlooking the narrow lane. Dust clung to everything.

He set his pack down and crossed to the window, pulling it open just enough to look out. The street below was a tangle of movement, carts rattling past, children chasing one another between puddles, a group of the snake-marked thugs roughing up a peddler too slow to move aside.

So this was Lundene now. Dusty’s old world, eaten alive by something louder and uglier. Ace drew a slow breath and let the window fall shut. The air inside was stale. He could already feel the itch of coming trouble beneath the quiet.

If the woman he hunted had passed through this place, she’d have drawn eyes. And if she’d drawn eyes, someone in this den of snakes would have noticed.

And somewhere, beneath all the noise and rot, Clyde ‘Dusty’ Silverscale was still out there. Watching, waiting, or hiding from ghosts, same as Ace.

Either way this city was his only lead. And he wasn’t leaving without answers.

The Traveling Tavern came alive after dusk. Lanterns flared to life, their light wobbling through the smoke like gold drowning in murk. The air thickened with laughter, shouting, and the hollow music of dice clattering over wood. The snake-marked thugs had claimed most of the tables, their swagger too loud for a city that used to know how to whisper.

Ace kept to a corner near the hearth, his hood low and a mug in hand he barely touched. Years of soldiering had taught him how to watch without looking, how to let the noise wash over him until the right words drifted to the surface.

“Daggers are done,” a drunk murmured two tables away. “Last of ’em ran north or bled out.”

“Not all,” said another. “Heard one o’ Dusty’s old lieutenants still moves coin through the east quarter. If he’s smart, he’ll keep his head down.”

“Smart men don’t last here anymore,” the first replied.

Ace’s jaw tightened. Dusty’s name had become a ghost story, a warning told between drinks.

He nursed the ale, the bitter taste settling on his tongue. Every question he asked met the same deflection; shrugs, half-truths, or the slow shake of someone who knew better than to speak. By the time the tavern quieted, he’d learned little except that the new gang called themselves the Vipers, and they had turned Dusty’s once shadowed empire into a spectacle of fear.

When he finally climbed the stairs into his room, he felt the weight of eyes on his back. Someone had noticed.

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The streets shimmered beneath the pale sun, dust rising in the thin golden sheets with every passing wagon. The smell of the river mingled with hot metal from the smithies and the sweetness of crushed grain.

Ace wove through it like a ghost dressed in road dust. He’d spent the morning following whispers about the bounty, about a woman, about strange magic. But every time he brushed against the past, it recoiled. People didn’t say Dusty’s name anymore. They mouthed it like a curse, glanced over shoulders, and shut doors.

The King’s favor had brought him to this city. But the reason he stayed, the reason he hadn’t turned back, was older, sharper and far more dangerous.

The crowd thinned near the lower quarter, where narrow streets twisted into one another like veins. He turned down a side path where the noise dulled to a low hum. The air was cooler here, thick with damp clay and faint rot of wet straw. That was when he heard the footsteps. Measured, even, intentional.

He didn’t turn right away. The sound came from behind him, echoing faintly between the walls. When he did, five men had already filled the alley’s mouth. Vipers.

Their leader, broad, scar across his cheek, eyes too bright, grinned. “Been hearin’ a knight’s been pokin’ around,” he said. “Ask’in about old ghosts. Names that ain’t safe to say.”

Ace’s jaw clenched. “Not interested in trouble.”

“Trouble’s all there is in this city,” the man said. “Especially for anyone sniffin’ after Silverscale.”

The name hit like a blade pressed to old scar tissue. Ace’s hand fell to his sword. “I’m not one of his.”

“Sure you ain’t.”

The man swung, the rest followed. Steel sang in the close air. Ace moved like instinct, each motion sharp and clean. Parry, twist, strike, breathe. The first man dropped with a wheeze. The second’s blade skimmed Ace’s sleeve, drawing a thin line of red. He pivoted, kicked the attacker’s knee sideways, and felt it give.

The fight was too tight for grace. It was survival, plain and raw. A blow caught his ribs. His vision flashed white. The world closed down to breath, blood, and noise.

The leader raised his blade again, and stopped.

A line of silver cut across the air between them. The man dropped before he even realized he was dying.

“Five against one?” A voice said, low and level. “Cowards.”

Ace froze. That voice… He turned and the world seemed to steady itself for a heartbeat.

Lysara Mercer stood at the alley’s mouth, framed in the dim light, the mist of her breath catching in the cool air. Her armor was worn and travel-stained, her braid half-unraveled, a streak of dust across her cheek. But her eyes, steady, amber, and alive, hadn’t changed.

The remaining Vipers stumbled back, muttering. “Steel Warden…”

“Leave,” Lysara said softly. Her tone was quiet, but it carried authority like a blade.

They didn’t argue. Within seconds, the alley was empty again, the echo of boots fading into the city’s hum. Only then did she sheath her sword. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Ace leaned against the wall, breath unsteady. His ribs ached with each inhale, but the sight of her drove the pain somewhere distant. Four years had passed since he’d last seen her, and somehow, she still carried that same quiet gravity, the kind that steadied chaos just by existing.

“You shouldn’t be here,” She said finally, breaking the silence. “Not in Lundene. Not with his name on your tongue.”

Ace gave a tired laugh, wiping blood from his sleeve. “Good to see you too.”

Her gaze flicked down to the wound, then back to his eyes. “You’ve always had a strange way of surviving.”

Something flickered in her tone, not quite accusation, not quite relief. Ace caught it. Of course he did.

“I didn’t expect anyone would still care whether I did,” he said quietly.

Lysara’s jaw tightened, and for a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. Her breath caught, just faintly. “Don’t say that,” she murmured. “You know better.”

He almost smiled, weary and small. “Four years. I wasn’t sure you’d still be walking this side of the line.”

“I’m harder to kill than I look,” she said. “And you… well, I half-thought you’d be the one buried.”

Her words came sharper than intended, but her eyes betrayed her. A flash of something softer, something almost like relief.

Ace studied her face. “You’re not disappointed.”

That stopped her. “Don’t start,” she said, quieter now. “You think I’d rather it had been you that night?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence stretched, filled with the ghosts neither of them could name. Rain, firelight, screams. The choice Dusty had made, the one that had cost a girl her life and left Ace alive instead.

Lysara looked away first, eyes hard, but voice fraying at the edges. “He made the call to save your life. He didn’t see what it would cost you.”

Ace’s throat tightened. “He saw.”

Her gaze snapped back to him. Sharp and aching. “You think I don’t know that?”

The words hung between them, raw and trembling. For a heartbeat, she looked like she might say more, might finally speak the name of the woman they both avoided, but she stopped herself. Instead, she drew a breath and softened her tone.

“You can’t be here, Ace,” she said. “Not chasing him. Not after what he took from you.”

“I don’t have a choice,” he said.

“There’s always a choice.”

“Not when someone’s dying,” Ace said quietly. “And Dusty’s the only one who can help.”

Her brows knit. “You’d go to him again. After everything?”

“I don’t trust him,” Ace said. “I just need what he can give.”

She studied him. The lines of his face, the faint tremor in his hand, the exhaustion carved into every movement. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its edge.

“You haven’t changed,” she said softly. “Still willing to bleed for someone else’s life.”

He met her eyes. “That’s what you liked about me once.”

Her mouth twitched, a shadow of a smile, gone before it could form. “Maybe. It’s also what’ll kill you.”

They stood in silence, the sounds of the market slowly returning around them. Somewhere, a bell tolled. Slow, hollow, distant.

Lysara stepped closer, close enough that the smell of steel and rain lingered between them. For a fleeting moment, the guard dropped again. Just a breath, but enough. Her eyes softened.

“I’m… glad you’re still breathing,” she said, voice so low he almost missed it.

Ace’s breath caught. Before he could reply, she stepped back, the mask sliding neatly into place. “But you shouldn’t be here when he finds out you are.”

He nodded. “Then tell him I’m looking.”

Her expression flickered, fear, disbelief, maybe even admiration, before she turned away. “You always did have a death wish,” She muttered. “Stay alive long enough for me to regret saving you.”

Then she was gone.

Ace stayed there long after she vanished, the air still heavy with her presence. He pressed a hand to his ribs and winced, the pain grounding him.

He could still hear her voice, still see that flicker of warmth she’d tried to bury under steel. Still feel the weight of what she didn’t say, that in some quiet, buried part of her, she was grateful he’d been the one who lived four years ago.

And gods help him, that made the guilt burn worse than the wound.

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The rain came soft and steady, whispering against rooftops like an old secret. Lundene after dark felt different, less a city than a living thing breathing slow and shallow in its sleep. The glow of the lamps wavered in the mist, the alleys slick and glistening as if the stones themselves were sweating.

Ace stayed on the side streets, hood low, the ache in his ribs pulsing with every step. He could feel eyes sometimes. Not on him, but near him, watching from doorways, from the cracks between the city’s pulse. Word would spread fast; one of the Vipers was dead, and strangers weren’t forgotten easily in this part of town.

The Traveling Tavern was no longer an option. He’d seen enough of the brand on those men to know they drank there, slept there, ruled there. Going back would be walking into his own grave.

So he walked deeper into the old quarter, where the air smelled of wet hay and rusting iron, until he saw the crooked sign of the Bent Flagon. Its paint was flaked and its hinges groaned, but the light spilling from inside was dim and merciful.

The barkeep barely looked up when Ace entered. A nod, a coin, a key. No questions. The kind of place that didn’t care who you were as long as you didn’t die in the bed you paid for.

The candle on the table flickered weakly, its light bending and flaring with each draft. The world outside blurred through the glass, lanterns smeared into amber streaks, rain pooling in the gutters below.

He cleaned his arm, the water stinging where the blade had grazed him. Blood ran thin, then faded to pink in the basin. When it was done, he sat again and let the quiet settle. It was never truly silent in Lundene, there was always the hum of the river somewhere, the muted clang of metal, the wind sighing through narrow streets, but this kind of stillness crawled under the skin. It left space for thoughts that didn’t belong anywhere else.

And Ace, for all his discipline, had never learned to stop thinking.

He saw her again, Lyasara, standing in the alley’s half-light, rain beading along her blade, eyes torn between disbelief and relief. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the sound of her voice until she’d said his name like it still mattered.

But behind her face, as always, another one waited. Younger, softer. Seventeen. He closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to think of her, but once the memory surfaced, it came all the way.

That night, the shouting. The smell of smoke and ash and something worse beneath it. When he finally found her she was so still.

The rain had washed most of the soot from her face, but not the blood. Her hand was curled loosely around a crumpled scrap of parchment. He’d almost been afraid to take it, but he had. And the words, smeared by rain, but still legible, were only four.

He is worth it

He’d read them until the ink bled into the page and the page bled into his hands. He’d carried it for weeks after, folded so tightly it nearly disintegrated. Those words had saved his life once. And damned it ever since.

He opened his eyes. The candle had burned lower, pooling wax across the table. His reflection in the window looked like a stranger, gaunt, eyes shadowed, the years carved deep.

He wondered if Dusty ever thought of her. If Lysara did. If the three of them were still bound to that night, circling the same wound from different directions. Dusty had never asked for forgiveness. He never needed to. It wasn’t hate that had driven them apart, it was what was left when the trust was gone. A hollow space that no apology could fill.

Ace rubbed at the scar along his wrist, tracing its edge like a man reading a map. He’d told himself coming back here was a necessity, that his sister’s life justified every step back into this city. But now, sitting in this quiet room, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was penance.

The rain deepened. A wagon rolled somewhere below. THe air smelled faintly of smoke and river mist. Then, a sound. Soft. Barely there. A tap against the door.

He froze, reached for his sword, and waited. Nothing. He crossed the room quietly, bare feet whispering against the floorboards. A slip of parchment lay half-tucked under the door.

No seal, just a mark drawn quickly in ink, a dagger, jagged through the center. He unfolded it, heart slowing to that steady rhythm it always took before a fight.

The river warehouse at first light. Come alone.

No name, no threat, but the meaning was clear. Lysara. And behind her… him. Dusty. Ace let the paper fall to the table and leaned his hands against the wood. The candlelight trembled, casting his shadow across the wall. He saw that night again, her hand clutching the note, her lips pale, her eyes open but unseeing. And those four words burning like a brand behind his ribs.

He is worth it.

He wished, not for the first time, that he could believe it. Outside, the rain pressed harder against the glass. He sat in the silence watching it fall, and whispered, more to the ghost than to himself.

“I hope you were wrong.”

The candle guttered once, then steadied. Ace leaned back, closing his eyes. He didn’t sleep. Just waited for dawn.