Reed didn't know how long he had spent in delirium. In those rare moments of consciousness, he felt someone’s hands touching his burning body; someone gave him water, changed his clothes, even wiped him with a damp cloth, but he didn't understand who. He forgot where he was and how he got there; he couldn't even remember his own name. Sometimes nightmares tormented him, making him bolt upright, but nightmares were nothing new—he saw them almost every night.

  He dreamed of Belden and a woman with dark hair. She screamed and cried, reaching out to him. Reed didn't remember who she was, but her screams squeezed his heart as if she had once been dear to him. She had a very young face, and Reed himself was a child in the dream. First, they beat the woman, then him, until he fell, bleeding. He watched three kreyghars take her away, and for some reason, he knew she would suffer even if they let her go. He looked at his bloody, calloused hands and felt a powerlessness that made him want to howl. And he did howl, and then he woke. In those moments, those same hands forced him to lie down and wiped his face while a voice whispered in his ear. But Reed couldn't make out the words before he fell back into a feverish sleep.

  He woke up in daylight, drenched in sweat and as exhausted as if he had run several miles. The splash of water and quiet singing drifted from the other room. Reed sat up in bed; his head spun, and then he remembered where he was and what had happened to him. He lifted his shirt and saw two wounds. One was on his chest and a second on his side. The first was healing well, only reddened, but the second was pulled together by terrible, crude stitches. Yet Reed understood it was only thanks to these stitches that he was alive at all.

  His whole body ached, and his hands trembled. Gently touching the stitches on his side, he noticed there was no swelling, though it was still agonizingly tender. Lowering his shirt, he stood up, but his legs immediately gave way. He nearly fell, grabbing onto a small table to steady himself. A candle and a metal mug clattered to the floor. Reed grimaced at the noise, and the splashing and singing in the other room ceased. A moment later, Eliza burst into the room.

  "Are you a fool, or what?"

  "What's wrong?" Reed asked, confused. "The candle is okay."

  "Why did you get up?"

  "I wanted a drink."

  "So, call out, no? You haven't lost your voice, have you?"

  "Why are you so angry? Did I offend you?"

  "Yes! I'm fussing over you just so you can make yourself worse now and ruin everything," she grumbled, but her tone immediately softened. "Wait."

  Reed watched her rush off and sat back down, head throbbing. Eliza returned with another mug and handed it to him.

  "How long was I out?"

  "About three days," she replied. "I thought you were going to die."

  "Well, I didn't," Reed shrugged, setting the mug on the table.

  "Don't want to say anything?" She crossed her arms over her chest and stared expectantly at him.

  "I was just about to say thank you," he said, attempting a smile that came out awkward and heavy.

  "I didn't mean that, but it's nice you know such words," she said, even blushing slightly, though she still tried to look angry. "What happened?"

  "I thought I told you. I was on a duel."

  "What for?"

  "It was necessary. I can't tell you," Reed sighed and took Eliza's hand in his.

  "Can't tell me? You burst into my house barely alive, forced me to care for you, and you can't say?" She pulled her hand away.

  "You could have let me die; I didn't force you, I asked," Reed said. He rubbed his forehead wearily and looked Eliza in the eye. "I really can't say; you'll have to accept that. It's dangerous. It's just part of the job."

  "So, did you win?" Eliza asked with a small smile.

  "Yes," Reed answered. "I won. But it was almost a draw."

  "I thought you were going to die," she repeated, then sighed, sitting down next to him. Only now did Reed notice how truly exhausted she looked. Dark spots had already appeared on her neck, and Reed shamefully averted his eyes, as if that could help him avoid reality. Eliza herself apparently hadn't noticed them yet.

  "How did you bring down the inflammation?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

  "Bought ointment from a healer," she clarified, meeting his surprised look. "I didn't say it was for you."

  "Thank you."

  "What will you do next?"

  "First, get dressed. And then I need my clothes and weapons."

  "All your things are there," she pointed to the bench standing in the corner. "But stay put for a bit. You need to eat; you haven't eaten anything in days. I barely managed to get water into you. You were screaming and... calling for someone. Asking for something, but I couldn't understand what it was."

  Reed fell silent. A lump formed in his throat, and he shook his head, chasing away the images that abruptly surfaced in his memory.

  "It's just nightmares, Eliza," Reed whispered, patting her knee soothingly.

  "Is everything okay?" she asked, worried.

  "Yes. Just nightmares."

  "Then I'll go get food. Wait here."

  Eliza left, and Reed remained alone. Her words had reminded him of exactly what he wanted to forget. The lump in his throat made it hard to breathe; Reed lowered his head, covering his face with his hands, and froze.

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  ***

  “I won't give up my weapons," Reed said, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his dagger.

  He stood before the Wasps’ nest a day later. The journey had been long, his wounds still pulled at his skin, and Reed was in no mood for compliance. Now, they wanted his blades too.

  "Those are the rules. Nothing to be afraid of," the brute insisted. His small, dull eyes peered through the slits of his mask. He repeated the words like a memorized script, as if he didn't fully grasp their meaning. His voice was a flat, low drone. Reed looked him straight in the eye and shook his head again.

  "If I have nothing to fear, then neither do you. There are more of you, you’re all armed, and I’m alone and wounded. I’m keeping my weapons."

  "Let him pass," a voice rang out from the darkness. It was melodic and high, like a bard’s, yet Reed was certain its owner was no street musician.

  Hornet had been standing there the whole time, watching the exchange. Reed knew the math: they outnumbered him and could kill him before he even drew a dagger. His weapons wouldn't save him if they truly wanted him dead, but he felt a cold comfort in their weight.

  Reed had left Eliza several hours ago, navigating the forest with the map provided after the duel. The Hive was buried deep in the woods, a place designed to be missed. He had reached the perimeter after nightfall, giving Hornet every opportunity to observe the newcomer from the shadows, testing how quickly the mercenary would surrender his only means of defense.

  "What if he tries something?" the second sentry grunted.

  "Then I'll handle it myself. You heard him. He's wounded and, by the looks of it, not an idiot."

  Hornet stepped into the light. He was tall, nearly matching Reed’s height, but more solidly built. He had short black hair and dark skin; his brown eyes darted with a restless, cunning energy that made him seem perpetually on edge. He was handsome, his face was young, startlingly so. Reed found himself wondering how someone this young managed to keep such a violent crowd under his thumb.

  The Hive resembled a small, mobile town of tents and canopies, a clear sign they never stayed in one place for long. It was a smart move; it made them a ghost to the authorities, though a truly skilled tracker could still find them. Reed wasn't a tracker, a fact he occasionally regretted.

  "Interesting, isn't it?" Hornet asked, measuring Reed with a dark gaze.

  "Not particularly," Reed answered dryly.

  "Why is that?"

  "I'm the same way. In our line of work, it's just business."

  Hornet grunted, leading the way toward the far end of the camp. He invited Reed into a small, nondescript tent. Inside, there was little to suggest it belonged to a leader. Reed understood the logic: in a raid, no one would know which tent to burn first. Men like Hornet lived and died by camouflage. In that, they were very much alike.

  Hornet sat on a log covered with a rough blanket and stared at Reed point-blank.

  "So, what brought you here?"

  "Tired of working alone," Reed said, holding his gaze.

  Hornet’s lips curled into a smile. "Wanted to share the load?"

  Reed chuckled and took a seat opposite him.

  “What's with the interrogation? You know as well as I do that a mercenary can't do much alone. It's a question of survival, and I always thought I knew how to survive. In Argain, that’s only possible when you aren’t alone. Becoming a competitor to a gang that has its hands in almost everything is not in my interests. Better to be an ally than an enemy."

  Hornet nodded, appearing genuinely pleased with the answer.

  "Then there's no point asking how you found out about us."

  "Only the lazy don't know about you," Reed countered, looking Hornet straight in the eye.

  "Looking at you, I understand why you chose us."

  Reed remained silent, waiting for Hornet to continue. The leader stood up, took a flask from his bag, and took a heavy swig.

  "We are the same here as you," he said, tossing the empty flask onto the table.

  "And what am I?"

  "It's written on your face. Each of us has walked in your boots. I served time in Belden myself, and I know that look. We have more in common than you think."

  "Is that why you allowed me to come armed?"

  "Not only that," Hornet replied. "I was told about the duel and what happened before it. You'll do; you don't look like an amateur. But there are rules."

  "I'm listening carefully."

  "First, don't take hits on the side. If I find out you worked behind my back, I'll gut you. Second, don't try to deceive me; the result will be the same. All earnings are shared fairly. If you become part of this company, you work for our benefit, and we work for yours."

  "That's crystal clear."

  "Good," Hornet nodded. "Want some rum?"

  Reed answered with a short nod. Hornet pulled out a bottle, popped the cork, and handed it to him.

  "Now, tell me how you ended up here," he said, sitting back down.

  "Is that necessary?" Reed parried with open mistrust. The idea of digging into his past with a man like Hornet didn't sit well with him.

  "Everyone talks eventually."

  "I was born in Rodan," Reed lied. He hadn't expected to share anything about himself, so he wasn't prepared to weave complex legends. He said whatever came to mind, hoping it would sound convincing enough to pass. "My mother was from Saisen, and my father was an Arasian settler. I didn't know him; he left us before I was born."

  “Is that all? And just like that, you turned to be a merc?” Hornet squinted suspiciously.

  “No. My mother died, and I started stealing. For that, I ended up in penal servitude.”

  “For how long?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  Hornet's eyes widened. “That's a bit much.”

  “They couldn’t catch me for a long time,” Reed replied. His heart pounded restlessly in his chest; he was afraid his flimsy story would fall apart right then, and Hornet would stab him in a fit of rage. Even if not, Reed wasn't destined to get out of the camp alive if he were exposed.

  “Bastards,” Hornet spat. “I served six, and that was enough for me. Damned elves... why couldn’t they just sit still?”

  The rum burned Reed’s throat, turning into a lump. He swallowed with difficulty, cleared his throat, and then asked uncertainly:

  “What do elves have to do with it?”

  “It started with them. If not for the Blood Waters... they let them into Bradenmain and caused a massacre.”

  “I’m an elf too... almost,” Reed blurted out cautiously. His hand instinctively drifted toward his belt of daggers.

  “You’re more human than elf. Are you sure your mother hooked up with your father willingly?” Hornet grimaced squeamishly at the last word.

  Reed clenched his fists, hoping Hornet didn't hear the grinding of his teeth. He wanted to punch that dark face, to beat it until it turned into pulp. Nevertheless, Reed pulled himself together and answered:

  “No. I’m not sure.”

  “There’s your answer. I don't know if there could be any reason to hate those long-ears even more.”

  “Unlikely,” Reed snarled.

  “I see you know more about your daddy than you're letting on,” Hornet chuckled. He misinterpreted Reed's anger, attributing a meaning to it other than the one it actually held. From a certain point of view, this was advantageous for Reed. “Have you ever thought about what you'd do if you saw him? He gave you a brand, and you can't wash it off.”

  “I might kill him,” Reed replied. And at least there was no lie.

  He was getting more and more riled up, but the anger remained inside, raging like flames. Malice gripped him with iron chains, suppressing his reason. The air in the tent felt stifling, and Reed caught his breath with difficulty.

  “That’s enough. We sometimes hunt escaped slaves from Belden, so I think that will be to your liking.”

  Reed swallowed and simply nodded, remaining silent. If killing Hornet had originally been a matter of contract he took from Ermod, now it was personal. He would have gutted the man for free. Let Hornet believe Reed had been defiled by an elf rather than born one; the misunderstanding was useful, but it did nothing to soothe his fury.

  Reed stood up, realizing that if he heard even one more word from Hornet’s mouth, he would pounce. Hornet rose with him, his presence heavy in the cramped tent.

  "Tomorrow at dawn, you head out with Karl and Gray. They’ll brief you. I expect a report upon completion."

  Reed nodded and turned toward the exit, but Hornet suddenly gripped his elbow, forcing him to turn back.

  "Try to be smartass, and I’ll know," he said quietly, his voice a low threat.

  Reed yanked his arm free, a cold smirk touching his lips. "Make sure you aren't ignoring everyone else while you're busy watching me."

  Hornet crossed his arms and took a step back. Adjusting his cloak, Reed walked out of the tent, already calculating how soon he could deliver the fatal strike. He caught himself thinking that killing Hornet wouldn't just be a job, it would be a pleasure.