Page 6 of Forged in Fire
A messenger. Too clean for this pit—his pressed gray suit crisp, sharp collar starched; unscarred hands that have never held anything more dangerous than a pen practically scream “admin jockey.” Although I guess I shouldn’t hold it against him. Somebody’s got to do that shit.
His eyes skim over the blood spattered on the floor, over Garrus’s battered features, before landing briefly on me. His face stays blank, but I catch the slight widening of his pupils, the way his throat works as he swallows.
“Riven.” No honorific. No preamble. Just my name, clipped and bureaucratic. It’s how we operate here; no visible hierarchy, no means of singling anyone out as a high-level target. His respect shows in the way he keeps his eyes lowered and maintains a careful distance, like he’s feeding dangerous animals.
“What?” I say, still breathless, sweat tracking down my spine and pooling at the base of my throat. I need to work on my fucking fitness. Or maybe Garrus just hits harder than I remember.
“You’re wanted at the head office.” The words come out clipped, professional, but I can hear the slight tremor underneath. This place gets to everyone, eventually.
I dip my chin once, a minimal acknowledgment. That’s all he gets before he pivots and leaves briskly, his footsteps moving quickly, like he can’t stand being in this place longer than necessary. Can’t say I blame him. It reeks of sweat, blood, and worse things that don’t bear thinking about.
Garrus snorts, wiping blood from a split on his knuckle with casual indifference. “Must be a job.”
I flick the dirt off my blade with a sharp snap of my wrist. “Or someone pissed off the wrong people again. Want me to settle a petty score.”
“Then they’d call me. You don’t take those assignments.” There’s something almost like approval in his voice, buried under layers of professional respect.
No, I don’t.
Without wasting time on farewells, I leave the training area. Luther and Allard turn away, haggling over a handful of notes Luther is holding. Garrus saunters off to find another victim, already scanning the room for fresh meat. He loves this shit—the violence, the dominance, the simple honesty of it. Me, I do what’s necessary to keep on form. Nothing more.
I grab a ragged towel from the rack, the fabric rough against my fingers, swiping it over my face. The cloth comes away dark with sweat and grime, streaked with traces of blood that might be mine or Garrus’s. The Guild sends plenty of mercs out for petty kills, personal grudges, the kind of work that leaves a sour taste in your mouth long after the coin’s spent. But my name isn’t on those contracts. Not anymore.
Never again.
Now they only call me out for the important stuff. The work that matters.
The locker room stinks of mildew and old iron, overlaid by coarse soap. I strip off my wet training gear, the fabric peeling away from skin that’s flushed red from exertion, toss it into the basket beside the door, and prowl naked to the stalls. The scars mapping the tanned flesh of my ribs and back don’t bother me—just mile markers from fights not worth remembering.
The shower hisses to life, ancient pipes groaning, steam curling against my skin as I step under the scalding spray.
Water sluices over me, hot enough to sting, turning muddy pink at my feet as it carries away the evidence of violence. I scrub quickly over taut muscle, methodically working soap into skin—shoulders, arms, hands, under my nails where blood likes to hide, the back of my neck. No lingering. No wasted movement. Ilather the cropped bristles of my hair, feeling the coarse texture against my palms, then dip my head beneath the spray to wash the suds away, scrubbing my hands over my head and face as water cascades down my chest.
All the while, I’m mulling over this latest summons. Head office doesn’t call unless it’s strategic.
Last time, it was a smuggling ring selling kids to the southern warlords. The time before that, a corrupt magistrate skimming funds for letting murderers walk free. The Guild might offer a blade for hire, but I don’t let myself be wielded by just anyone.
Stepping out of the shower, I towel off quickly, rough fabric scraping against skin still tender from the hot water, enjoying the flex of muscles in my chest and shoulders as I work. There’s something satisfying about the burn of a solid workout, the honest ache of pushed limits.
I yank on fresh blacks—sturdy trousers that won’t restrict movement, fitted shirt that follows the lines of my frame without binding, reinforced boots. The blade gets wiped down with ritual care, oiled until the metal gleams, packed in the weapons cabinet where it belongs. I prefer training with my own gear, but it’s smart to be adaptable, ready to work with whatever comes to hand in the heat of the moment.
The halls are quiet this deep in the Guild facility, just the distant murmur of recruits drilling like background static, the occasional bark of an instructor echoing off bare walls. My boots don’t echo despite their weight. They never do. I learned long ago how to move silently through these corridors. Through everywhere, really.
At the head office door, I don’t knock, just slide in with a brief nod to the receptionist, who knows better than to question me. His desk is neat, organized, everything in its place like his life depends on order. Which, given where we work, it probably does.
He nods in response, his expression suitably respectful, carefully neutral. “She’s ready for you.”
Of course she is. Veyra’s always ready. I push open the next door, feeling the weight of it, solid oak reinforced with steel. The room beyond is as cold and utilitarian as the rest of the place—concrete walls, fluorescent lighting, furniture built for function over comfort. Guildmaster Veyra sits behind her desk, fingers steepled, her iron-gray hair pulled into a ruthless knot that doesn’t have a strand out of place. A dossier lies in front of her, unopened, the manila folder thick with secrets.
She doesn’t look up, her attention focused on whatever document she’s reading. “You took too long.”
“I didn’t realize there was a time limit.” I stop in front of her desk.
Finally, her gaze lifts, eyes assessing, measuring. “There’s always a time limit. You’ll need to be sharper.” She glances at the folder, then back at me. “Got a job for you.”
I don’t flinch under that stare. I’ve seen too much to be intimidated by office hierarchy. “What is it?”
She slides the dossier toward me across the polished surface, the folder heavy with implications.
