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Over and over again, Jamil asked himself what went wrong.
There had been the mission, which Jamil had not accepted without his suspicions, and then investigated with multiple angles of questioning.
There had been the location, which Jamil had rigorously cased.
Then finally, there had been the target, which for an assassin such as himself, was a nonissue
so long as it was killable.
The target, which as time slipped by, Jamil increasingly feared was not as human as he had appeared.
And whose eyes and growing claws were set on Gran.
To Jamil, there was only one figure that existed as “Master”, and that was Gran. In that respect, he had already failed as a shadow.
---
First, the mission. Two days ago in the sitting room, things started out simple enough.
With the tips of his fingers, Jamil brushed the seat of the chair. Cold, so likely vacated for at least a while. Next, he dropped fluidly to the floor and eyed the lint. From the pattern of the disturbance, someone who had not bothered to mask their steps briefly entered and exited without any dalliances.
As he finished marking the corners and reached for the doorknob, it opened to reveal his young captain. A bemused expression blinked back at him; it was not the first time Jamil had been caught in such a position.
“I asked to meet with you an hour ago, Jamil. No one would have planned an assassination in the study since then, knowing you’d be there. So please, at least relax when you’re alone with me.”
Jamil frowned at that and neglected to mention he could pull off a similar feat in that timeframe. Admittedly, the chances of success for any facing an Urzhuwan Clan member were slim. Still, he gave a quick, stiff bow to Gran. Gran raised an eyebrow, then gave an exaggerated show of slouching in his seat to demonstrate what he meant.
“The mission this time.” Jamil moved briskly as he seated himself opposite, straight-backed. “It’s a little out of the ways, and on a small island, is it not? Forgive me for asking, but are the risks worth taking for the job?”
“Small island, large town,” Gran corrected, “and it’s already odd enough that the job reached us docked elsewhere. Sierokarte was insistent that a job this fishy would lead to a fishier truth when she called us in. I am kind of new to the art of er, subterfuge, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you...”
“The rest of the crew should remain outside. Lyria, for one,” Jamil finished. He was no fool. Soft-hearted as he was, Gran was loath to call for assassinations, poison-tasting, and the like; that was a part of his Master’s charm. Yet years on the road and in dangerous skies have taught him to at least be wary and heed advice when he could. Besides, a little spying, or “gathering of information”, was critical to any mission.
Gran gave Jamil a meaningful look, but didn’t disagree, “No killing.”
Disregarding alternative ways of extracting what he wanted that might be worse than killing, Jamil nodded. It was always easier to apologize after.
Gran stirred as if sensing his true intentions. “I mean it, Jamil, there’s no need to do dangerous tasks on my behalf. This time, report back to me instead of handling things yourself.”
The last mission Jamil was involved with had ended successfully, but he had been halfway through the enemy troops before Gran had caught up. The mission before that, he’d busted the bandit ring and dragged the leader kicking and screaming to their feet.
It was nothing but a drive for efficiency, working alone, and the ever-burning desire to not dirty Master’s hands any more than necessary. An honorable, upfront clash between knights suited Gran. The dark, petty underbelly of society was better left to him to finish off.
A subtle spark ignited in Gran’s eyes, and he leaned forward with a mischievous bent. “Come to think of it, if we wrap it up fast enough, we’ll be free just in time for Christmas Eve. What if I were to give you a reward for handling the mission well?”
Jamil blinked. It was useless to respond that a shadow needed no rewards, not when Gran so obviously wanted to set one.
“A gift that Jamil might show some restraint for...ah, how about,” he held up his fingers, “two, or maybe three? New daggers. I’ll even let you strap a few more onto me. Plus, you get a front-row seat on my burgeoning assassin skills.”
From the eager look on Gran’s face, Jamil felt he was expected to laugh, so he managed an amenable cough.
Jamil was trained to remain still for hours, but being in front of Gran made him want to move his hands. Seeing the tray of snacks before them as something to do, he reached for the spread. With a few strokes - did a butter knife count towards dagger proficiency? - he buttered toast while keeping a little light on the jam, his Master’s favorite. When he looked up again, he was greeted with the end of more toast in his face. Holding between them what Jamil realized was his favorite bread, if he had what could be counted as a favorite, Gran grinned back with his own offering.
“If you’re trying to feed me first again, I’ll have to sneakily return the favor.”
And it was moments like these that Jamil’s heart would give a squeeze, and for once the scenery would wash away before the glow of that smile.
–--
Working with Master, with Gran this closely meant those moments were blessedly frequent. Gran dispensed his smile like candy, even if Jamil bristled each time Gran treated his (potential) enemies the same. The rapid switches between hot and cold were not good for Jamil’s heart, but a selfish part of him did not want to calm down.
The mission was proceeding so well, any lesser assassin would have been lulled into a sense of false security.
On the first day, they had confirmed with the townspeople that the local baron had been acting a bit more paranoid than his usual stuffy self. They were open with their stories of the history of over-taxation - all the signs of petty corruption and the seeds of power abuse.
Judging from the state of discontent, the mysterious tip they received could have come from any of the wronged families. What was more concerning were the rumors of those targeted disappearing, an overly ambitious overextension of small lord tyranny indeed.
By the second day, Jamil had confirmed that the manor’s guard schedule was not without its openings.
On the third day, as if the mood flipped a switch, it began to flurry.
The weather was in short, gross. Even beneath a hood, it was impossible to escape the omnidirectional drizzle of wet snow, which dampened the world to a distant blur. Mists like these were dangerous, and Jamil had to concede to backup. With the light from the street lamps scattering into the fog, extra pairs of eyes were worth the risk of extra footsteps.
More so than the glint of armor or watchful eyes, the ominous haze shook Jamil. It felt like if he wasn’t careful, he would lose Master’s outstretched hand to the white clouds.
He brushed off such ill omens now. Crouched low on a nearby roof with the cloud layer obscuring all but the view of the gates, he confirmed the visibility was no better for the enemy. At his nod, Vyrn flew stealthily to where Gran was waiting below, wingbeats muffled as he dipped from sight. Jamil held his breath until he could spot his Master boosted onto the shorter of the ledges. There were no loose rods among the iron grates, but surveillance was as good as useless if he slipped above their gaze. Tonight, the stars themselves were blind.
With one last wary glance, Jamil slipped below the eaves and swung himself over. To his credit, Gran didn’t startle when Jamil landed near silently next to him and gave him a grateful once over. Together, they crept along their pre-planned route, a mental map taking over where the eyes lacked.
In times like these, Jamil’s bad habit of observing his Master takes over. As his senses automatically switched to monitoring their surroundings, his mind was freed up to wander.
To state that his Master was young was a bit hypocritical when Jamil himself was around the same age. Jamil may be well brought up, but he was no poet - Gran’s hair was brown, and tucked into the hood of his cape that folded seamlessly into the cover of darkness. The shorn curls ran a little short of Jamil’s own combed length, he noted in passing.
Gran’s eyes were brown too, but warm with a light untinted in the ugly colors of humanity. At times it was a mirror, reflecting the best version of yourself in his pupils, the version Gran saw of you.
The Jamil in Gran’s eyes was stained in tomato sauce and sometimes wine for the late-night Raduga patrons, not blood, so he put a little more effort into sidling with caution. As they reached the far window, he slid dagger number 1 under the crack and jimmied enough of an opening to force the lock. Bracing both legs against the sides, he lifted the pane and ducked a head inside.
The curtains parted enough to show they were right on the mark. An overly stuffed chair, an ostentatious desk studded with polished stones, with documents littered on top like a chicken coop; there could only be one person to afford all that, making the room the baron’s personal study.
Jamil waited for a heartbeat for any signs of life or traps, then wasted no time in lowering himself down. Only after a careful sweep did he help Gran drop in as well.
The two of them fell onto the desk with a singular focus. Gran skimmed the documents, careful not to disturb the haphazard order. Jamil used the hilt of his weapons to tap the wood instead, an ear against the grain. At the table’s feet, he found the hollow thunk he was listening for.
With a well-oiled spring, the hidden drawer popped out neatly after a brief jiggle with a lock. Jamil signaled Gran over, who couldn’t keep the impressed look off his face. Or perhaps, when Gran knelt beside him and gave him a nod, it was a way of commending him.
Gran fumbled a bit through the papers, bringing Jamil’s attention back to the contents. For confidential documents, they numbered rather few. Aside from some ledgers they pocketed after a glance confirmed they were likely forged, there was only an unsealed letter left at the bottom.
A sharp intake of breath brought Jamil’s head back up. From behind Gran’s shoulder, he scanned the increasingly worrying correspondence.
In a flourishing pen that must’ve been gripped so tightly it dripped of ink, it read:
Dear Baron Dormer,
Word of your peculiar investments have gotten out, and I fear it has already reached unwanted ears.
I know you care not for who uses the moniker of unscrupulous regarding yourself, but surely you can stand to care about the opinions of a few peasants when they’re rallying at your door?
I send this as a warning from one shareholder to another.
Make sure that none of your live charges get lost, or it’s not just the skeletons coming out of your basement. Your last shipment came up a bit short. Whether it was light in bodies or bodyweight, you are expected to make up the difference. You aren’t forgetting who your sponsor is, are you?
Do not disappoint me next time.
Second Lieutenant Stafford
“I thought we’d find some evidence of embezzling or an easy charge of blackmail for further investigation,” Gran sucked the air beneath his gritted teeth. “Live charges...he must mean...slaves.”
Jamil’s throat closed.
Human trafficking was outlawed throughout the entire Pantagrande Skydom, punishable in every territory. To think they would stumble upon titleholders secretly operating a ring under the Enforcers noses out of this secluded island.
The paper crumbled in Gran’s careless grip, and Jamil gently pried it from his hands to smooth away for later. “We know a few key clues from this,” he whispered tersely, thinking aloud and at the same time calming Gran towards the rational next steps.
“One. He is backed by a powerful figure, an Erste Empire army veteran. From the sound of things, the baron’s currently fallen out of favor. He’s likely desperate and moving a large shipment soon. That means two, we know there must be something we can bust in that basement he mentioned.”
Jamil’s eyes followed the shudder that traveled up Gran’s arm as he asked, “What’s number three?”
“When did I say I had a number three prepared?”
Gran’s mouth eased into a smirk, “Because you always have a three.”
At that, Jamil couldn’t suppress his own lips from turning up at the corners, “Number three is currently unknown, but we’re good at facing the unknown.”
And just to emphasize that, he lifted his fingers and gave the key he found a silent twirl between them.
–--
For all of the security they had on the outer grounds, they ran into virtually none on the trip to the ground floor. There were the night maids, and perhaps a post of guards down the corridor towards the baron’s quarters they did not take.
The eerie silence allowed Jamil to judge how far Gran’s practice has come, which was a marked improvement over the first time he darned the garb and held his knife in a flashy imitation of himself. Mentally, Jamil chuckled as that image of Gran overlapped with the one before him now who hugged the walls with something akin to grace. It felt strangely reassuring to see his Master stumble and steadily improve without the same pressures Jamil trained under.
The basement was also not hard to find. As Jamil predicted, the more conspicuous it was, the less suspicious, so they descended unbothered into what looked like an ordinary storeroom of a chamber. Another room scan later revealed the lever they were looking for that creaked open the real hideaway stairs.
It had been cold enough to see their breaths outside, but here the temperature took a sudden dip. Despite taking every precaution to avoid disturbing the silence, sounds of scuffling echoed eerily against the stone walls.
To Jamil’s horror, he soon realized the scuffling was not their own. Gran flinched, apparently coming to the same conclusion just as a shadow fell around the bend. The two immediately pressed themselves into the nearest groove behind the columns.
“Too light!” The muttering started out of sight, “and the good Lieutenant has the nerve to critique the quality of the slaves! What sort of people does he think falls into my lap, hardy laborers?”
Jamil subconsciously shrank further into hiding, and it wasn’t until an elbow dug into him that he was aware he was crushed against Gran. The two blinked at each other, adrenaline humming faster than their brains could catch up. Both of their bodies were thankfully slight and jigsawed uncomfortably into the gap. The chill of the underground served to further highlight Gran’s body heat pressing against him, and he fought his own blush at the unexpected comfort.
Caught up in their thoughts, the baron’s exit was uneventful in comparison. Jamil gently rearranged his limbs to take a step back, reluctant to shake off the lingering heat. Although a thousand of his usual apologies stumbled themselves to the front, for some reason they were stuck on his tongue. Gran flashed him a reassuring smile that came up a little short, red flush peeking above his collar.
Seemingly carried by this unnamed momentum, Gran pulled Jamil’s hand into his and led him down the corridor, his face stubbornly facing forward. Jamil had no complaints, as he was used to being subject to the whims of his Master; this rising feeling, however, was new.
Feelings, vaguely pleasant ones or not, were wiped away as soon as the end was in sight. As it turns out, the baron was keeping more than a few skeletons in the basement. What could only be called prison cells were fashioned in unyielding steel. Gaunt bodies, some children, were huddled listlessly against the bars. All he could think of was the ghost-like pallor of their faces would have scared Lyria.
Gran rushed forward as if possessed, his hands reaching unthinkingly towards the bars separating the villagers. Before Jamil had a chance to yank him back, an ominous beeping shattered the dead air.
Angry metal hands materialized out of the sides and trapped Gran between them, breaking any illusion that they could escape unseen.
Jamil inwardly cursed - this was unforgivably careless even for himself. There were only a few paces that separated the two of them, but Gran was already shaking his head furiously. Within seconds, they heard footsteps stomping towards them.
Desperately, Jamil reigned in his emotions and judged the situation with the professionalism he was known for. The steel sentinels must have a mechanism to turn them off, but clashing with it was noisy and would take time. As of now, he was still undiscovered, the one edge they had to get Gran and the rest of the captives out unscathed.
The rational assessment warred with the instinctual. Seeing Gran struggle futilely as his arms were pinned had him wavering, frozen in dangerous inaction. In a few more seconds, the decision would be taken away from him.
Gran made eye contact and perceiving his state, shouted an uncharacteristic, “Get your metal minions off me, baron.” Jamil snapped back into himself and sidestepped the portly man that bustled in just in time.
“And who might you be, little rat?” The hateful man blustered, accompanied by a retinue of guards in comically large helmets. At his wave, the metal contraption lifted Gran higher into the torchlight.
Gran raised his voice, insistent, “How dare you take away these people’s freedoms? If they could, they would run from you and not look back.”
Jamil turned and fled from the rest of the villain speech that followed, hating every foot he took away from his Master.
–--
Outfitted with a new pair of handcuffs behind bars, Gran sighed.
His head smarted from the rough treatment, but luckily the baron wasn’t particularly bright, and he did not have a lot of information to offer himself. After throwing him around a bit, Baron Dormer was sufficiently convinced Gran was merely a cheeky skyfarer that had acted alone. It certainly wasn’t an act that he had been shocked and disgusted at the state of the makeshift dungeon.
There was no natural light or windows to judge the passing of time, so Gran absently counted the minutes. Despite the consternation on Jamil’s face, he had obediently scrambled off instead of diving headfirst as promised, which was new. Gran would have to get something much fancier than a few daggers as a Christmas gift now.
Of course, Jamil deserved a lot more than daggers. Jamil could be unbearably cute, and completely unaware of it. If they weren’t in a life-threatening situation, Gran would’ve liked to take his time to give him a proper hug. Maybe a few more lessons in handholding and accepting other acts of friendship, although it resulted in the opposite of relaxation. Truly unfair.
There were a number of thoughts Gran tried to keep off his face in front of the children. The first thing he had done out of earshot was comfort them that they had a plan, or what was left of it. He had confidence Jamil was workshopping the rest.
For now, he was probably the calmest prisoner in existence.
–--
It was less than an hour later or so when the fireworks started up outside - he had lost count while narrating a tale to keep the villagers’ spirits up.
Gran stood up, slapping feeling into his legs with reenergized vigor. He could pick out the clink of Rackam’s bullets and the incantations of Io’s magic; the sounds were like a soothing battle song at this point. Through their shared connection, he sensed that Lyria had joined the fray after all, no doubt at Katalina’s side.
From the start of the battle to the time it took for an enthusiastic crew to crash down the security, it was a tense fifteen minutes in total of waiting. The numbers and strength were overwhelmingly on their side. Gran sang a song until Vyrn slipped between the bars and joined them, delighting the children with the novelty of a flying lizard.
Gran didn’t have to look to know Jamil was at his side again as cool, deft fingers made short work of the cuffs restricting him. His sword was placed by his hands, but for a moment he held onto Jamil’s.
“I knew you’d do the right thing,” he tried to put everything he wanted to convey in his grip. “Oh, and Merry Christmas.”
Behind him the downtrodden villagers were standing up, revealing they were armed with a dagger glinting in their hands.
Jamil rested his head against Gran’s, laughing for the first time that night, “You would have that up your sleeve.”
–--
If they weren’t the remaining two in the cells, having shepherded the last of the weak to safety, they wouldn’t have sensed the change in the atmosphere.
Having long been exposed to it, they were sensitive to the presence. In unison, they stiffened: dark essence.
“You don’t understand,” the distorted voice growled two decibels lower and was falling still, “they sold themselves into slavery. They walked into the shackles themselves willingly, promising their life and everything in between to call me master. I was simply taking my due.”
Gran readied his battle stance as Jamil found his footing next to him, daggers three and four held aloft.
“They signed contracts!” Teeth and fangs lengthened past the point of distinction, and fur began sprouting at random. “It wouldn’t be a bad life, being placed as servants in some wealthy man’s house with a penchant for collecting. There are worse fates out there - they could be sold to mines. They were fed - at home, they were starving.”
“You will never know what willingly serving as an equal means.” He gritted out. The beast roared in response and charged, past the point of sanity.
As one, they split. Gran’s blade flashed in swift slashes, shearing toughened skin. Before he could dodge back, the hulking form of the baron bore down on him and swiped. The sheer size of the claws caught Gran on his shoulder, ripping through cloth too easily to be human.
The blood made Jamil see red, and he cut in to shove the assailant off. A critical misstep as it turned out, as Jamil stumbled under the unexpected weight of the attack. Senses sharpened, the baron turned on him.
This time it was Gran that threw himself at him. They landed in an ungainly heap on the ground as the transformed baron crashed himself into the wall, leaving a sizable crater.
Gran rushed to get up and receive the next blow, but it never came. Jamil’s daggers had found their mark, all four of them.
When Gran pulled him up and allowed Jamil to fuss over dressing his (thankfully, light) wounds, he was all sunbeams.
“You called me an equal.” Gran’s smile was dizzying, or maybe it was the aftermath of the fall ringing in his ears.
“I apologize, but he was insulting those that serve a master! I couldn’t stand by and let him go on. In terms of assassins, perhaps you might allow being considered equals, but I didn’t mean to presume-”
“No, go back to that. It was nice.” Gran winced, “I’ve done nothing special to be called master either. Next to you, I’m just Gran.”
Jamil’s hands faltered over Gran’s bandages, before patting him fondly on his head, as they itched to do all night. “Then just Master Gran, would you please take your own advice next time and not run into the enemy for me?”
–--
They walked out together to the dawn breaking on a field of white, the freed in tow.
The snowfall had thickened overnight and was still going strong, although the piles were lumped suspiciously all over the ground.
“By the way, how did you get so many people past the sentries up front without them sounding the alarm?” Gran asked, mildly curious.
“Oh, that was simple. We hid everyone inside snowmen and inched forward until it was too late. They never saw it coming. You said I'd always have a number four, right?”