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The office carried the sharp scent of machine oil and ink, undercut by something faintly sweet – rosewater laced with the tang of dark red wine.
Mirin hesitated at the threshold, watching as the silent clockwork attendants retreated, their precise footsteps fading into the corridor’s golden hush. The door sealed behind her with the sigh of flawless engineering, muffling the noise of the bustling world outside. Out in the marketplace, her companions wandered among gleaming shop windows, oblivious as their leader slipped away in secret – drawn by an invisible thread towards this enigmatic, dark-eyed man whose smile shimmered with quiet intent.
Two waxen candles flickered on the wide desk – jarring, imperfect things in a chamber bright with calculated light. Their misshapen spines arched subtly toward each other; their orange flames quivered in the gentle draft from a high, half-open window. Mirin’s eyes lingered, drawn by the shadow play, wondering if the flames might ever touch.
A cascade of revelations still spun through her thoughts. She’d come to accept her identity as a bhaalspawn, but the truth of her legacy – divinity? – now blazed before her. Hearing her deeds praised, with awe and unexpected tenderness, left her nerves raw – uncertain whether to shrink away or step closer.
Collecting herself, Mirin swept her gaze around the office, quietly cataloguing doors and exits. Even here – especially here – the urge to be wary never left.
Gortash stood behind the chair at his desk, gripping the wingback as if adrift at sea and the chair his anchor. He looked at her with an intensity she was unaccustomed to, as if he might launch himself at her were she to invite the familiarity.
"You’ve changed your hair."
Mirin flinched at the words, her hand automatically rising to the grey strands brushing her shoulders.
"It’s been growing back since I woke up. Kressa had shaved it off, I think, when she had me. Easier access."
Her words drew a dark look. "And what became of her?"
"Dead, by my hand."
"Good."
Apparently satisfied, Gortash pushed away from the chair with deliberate finality and moved to a polished credenza, pouring two drinks. The blood-red wine glistened in the decanter beside two crystal glasses – a silent sign that he’d expected company long before she arrived.
"You know, I don’t think you’ve been this distant around me in years. You really don’t remember me, do you?"
Mirin wanted to recall him – not out of weakness, but because he must be one of the few who ever truly saw her. The ache caught her off guard, almost indulgent in its pain, proof that even now she could feel deeply for someone worthy of her attention. Her current travelling companions were admirable – kind, loyal, eager to please – but none challenged her, none reflected her brilliance back as Enver once did. Even their devotion felt inevitable, not earned.
Still, Gortash’s gaze lingered with an old recognition; what existed between them had been singular. Not just an alliance: parity – two extraordinary minds orbiting each other, bound by something rare and electric that lesser souls would never comprehend.
He gestured to a pair of armchairs arranged before the fireplace. Even with her fractured memory, she noticed one thing prepared for her: a high-backed chair for comfort, perfectly positioned for an unobstructed view of every entrance – a silent concession to her vigilance. The chair sat a little farther from the fire, as if someone remembered she ran warmer than most. Nearby, a small table held a stack of books; the topmost volume wore a thick patina of dust, evidence that it had long been waiting for her.
She accepted the drink and sank into the chair as though submerging into a hot bath, the upholstery yielding perfectly to her. Gortash sat across, his seat angled precisely to face her – the delicate filigree on its arms glimmering in the lamplight, echoing his absurd gauntlet.
She let the glass stem rest lightly between her fingers, sweeping her gaze around the chamber again – old habits never fading, not in rooms like this, not with men like him.
"Is everything you own so ostentatious?"
A wry, effortless smile – devoid of malice – broke across Gortash’s face, transforming him for a moment into the charming figure on propaganda posters plastered across the city.
"You know, that’s hardly the first time you’ve tried to insult my taste. You’ll need to be sharper than that to surprise me."
Again, Mirin was reminded of the silent contest: not just with Gortash, but against the shade of herself that used to meet his gaze across rooms like this.
"So. I was your ‘favoured assassin,’ was I? Your little blade in the dark? Did you presume to control and wield me with the same ease you manage the nobility milling below?" She took a delicate sip, the tart dryness of the wine lingering on her tongue. Across from her, Gortash reclined, crossing his legs, her combative remark settling him with greater ease than her previous hesitation had. A faint smile played at his lips, as though their verbal sparring was more satisfying than any détente.
"You were my favoured assassin, yes, but I never presumed to own you. I’ll admit I tried – " He paused, swirling his wine. " – but you proved your worth in resisting every attempt at manipulation."
"You admit, openly, that you tried to manipulate me?"
He shrugged with a faint, rueful smile. "What can I say? I’m feeling nostalgic. This operation hasn’t been the same without your blend of malice and precision. Your sister is...annoyingly preoccupied with the trivial."
"Yes. My sister. So now I’m to remove her, and you and I ally again… to what? Rule the city?"
"To start, perhaps. But why stop there? Before your...incident, you were already making your own plans. Isn’t that the heir’s duty? To rise, to surpass the legacy of their maker?"
"We sought to ascend?"
"To cast off the shackles of servitude. To step from the shadows into our own power – not mere pawns in our masters’ games, but sovereign architects of our destiny."
Mirin hummed, turning over this new revelation. Gortash – placid, relaxed, almost insolently composed – sat before her confessing that their audacity had once aimed to challenge the gods, as if he was reminiscing about some cherished fancy of youth.
"So we were co-conspirators."
"Among other things."
Once again, she noticed the personal touches – odd comforts – so at odds with the notorious tyrant. The tailored chair, a soft throw along the arm, the heap of battered poetry books hinting at frequent use, a mat beneath the window beside a balcony door – as though someone frequented the window as a point of exit and entry. On the mantle, a whetstone and cloth beside a terrarium glowing with bioluminescent fungi. These gentle domesticities contrasted with the falcon-sharp gaze fixed on her now.
"Neither of us seems the type to collect friends…"
"No."
"Lovers, then?"
The word seemed to wind through the air like a spell. Mirin saw it land – saw Gortash’s hand rise to an old scar at his neck, his expression twisting with a flash of pain beneath the iron composure. "You once promised to make me your final kill."
Mirin drew a tense breath, her free hand drifting instinctively to the strange dagger she had found amid the rubble below the Open Hand Temple. Its strangely familiar comfort felt as natural as breathing.
Gortash’s eyes flicked to the hilt peeking from her robes – recognition igniting cold and clear.
"Where did you get that?"
"Discarded in a crypt," Mirin replied, voice flat but thick with accusation.
He tensed, primed to spring, his grip whitening on the armchair. The gauntlet dug into the embroidered armrest.
"And you wear it now?"
She cocked her head, calculation flickering in her eyes. "I do. Your work?"
"Forged by my hand. Christened with my blood," he murmured, voice raw as old steel.
A clock chimed gently in the corner – a reminder she could not linger. Stay too long, and her companions’ suspicions would be raised.
She set her glass atop the books, its crimson reflection wavering in the terrarium’s glow, and rose slowly, deliberately. Gortash watched from beneath lowered lashes, speculative and vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen before. In one fluid motion, Mirin unsheathed her blade and pressed the steel beneath his throat – the intimacy of the gesture electric. He didn’t flinch; he leaned in, as if to receive a kiss, surrendering his fate with eerie calm.
A ruby bead welled at his jaw, sliding down the blade to her hand.
"I have other matters – my sister included – that demand my attention. This conversation isn’t over, little lordling."
His returning smile was sly, almost boyish. "I look forward to our next dialogue."
Mirin scoffed; his shameless arrogance was unexpectedly endearing. Maybe she finally understood the gravity that bound them in previous lives – two celestial bodies, forever in orbit. With nothing left unsaid, she slid the blade home and strode from the office, mind reeling with revelations of her shadowed past – and all the possibilities still ahead.