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Enver Gortash looked at the world and saw possibility. Businesses could be made more profitable; policies could be more persuasive. Above all, he prided himself on his ability to forge something raw and unpolished into something useful, something valuable, something worthy.
He enjoyed tinkering with metal and smokepowder, with glass and resin. His favorite material, however, was people.
One afternoon, his path was blocked by a red-skinned tiefling who lifted her opponent off the ground and effortlessly hurled the boy into a stack of crates.
Gortash smiled. Looking at the street rat in front of him, he saw tremendous potential.
Her name, she told him, was Karlach. Karlach Cliffgate, she hastened to add, although she admitted her family had never lived in Brampton near its namesake. She was a few months shy of nineteen years. She hauled cargo. She took odd jobs working protection when she could find them. The spat on the street was unrelated—just a bit of fun.
She spilled all of this with only the gentlest prompting. By the end of it, she was grinning, her earlier ferocity eclipsed by friendliness.
Gortash handed her a card with his name and an address in the Lower City.
Karlach took in the warehouses and the polished mahogany of his office through bright, wide eyes. The amber of her irises practically glowed, and the slitted pupils that bisected them reminded him of a dragonborn’s. She wore her best clothes and tugged nervously on the cuffs of her sleeves when she thought he wasn’t looking.
When their tour concluded, Gortash placed three gold coins on the desk in front of her.
“I value loyalty, Karlach. I value people who think. Let us consider this tenday a trial period.” He paused and smiled. “I think we will accomplish great things together.”
When she had passed his initial tests, training under his most loyal men and navigating the treacherous tunnels and clandestine meetings of the Undercellar, his first act was to outfit her properly. The condition of a weapon reflected upon its master, after all. Karlach chafed at the idea of armor, and Gortash did not press her; new tunics, leather bracers, and a sturdy jacket were far cheaper.
He found satisfaction in it: Karlach protected herself with sheer muscle, while his rivals covered themselves like cowards. When the fight inevitably erupted, she ripped away crossbows and cracked heads with a grin.
Time passed, and the masterpiece Karlach might become began to take shape, more refined with each tenday. As quick as she was to crack a joke, she learned when to bite her tongue. He even caught her listening, brow furrowed in thought, when he spoke of Parliament and the critical need to elevate more peers and counsellors representing the Lower City.
Afterwards, she was quiet. Gortash practically saw the cogs turning in her mind—slowly, but turning nevertheless.
“What troubles you, Karlach?” he asked.
She frowned.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m glad the common folk have you on our side.”
When the work allowed, she chattered: with him, with strangers, with the rest of the crew. After a particularly successful venture, they celebrated. Gortash outwardly regarded the festivities with fondness, but his thoughts already flew to the next stage of his plans.
“I wish my mum and dad were around to see this. To meet everyone. They would’ve loved it.”
Gortash paused his scheming to find Karlach sitting across from him, clutching an empty mug and looking lost.
He saw an opening and took it.
“I remember how difficult it was to lose my parents. You’re doing splendidly, my dear.”
From the earliest days of her employment, Gortash knew Karlach’s talents were poorly suited for certain tasks. Some jobs required finesse or patience that she simply did not possess; some required an air of sophistication, the kind he had learned to copy. A towering tiefling whose horns stretched as wide as her shoulders would not impress the true blue-blooded aristocrats among the patriars.
And yet, while she was too rough, she was also too soft. He could not trust her to collect debts owed or secure wayward merchandise.
Karlach showed few qualms about trafficking in weapons. People were another matter.
Despite it all, he liked her. He liked her boisterous laughter and the rage that simmered underneath. It burst through when the fire was stoked properly; at times, a few whispered words were sufficient. He liked to set her loose against some perceived injustice and watch her try to defeat it with violence.
For the briefest moment, he considered bringing her into the Church. The thought was quickly dismissed; she lacked the necessary respect for authority, let alone the self-control.
Still, he liked her. When the opportunity arose, he never hesitated—but he might miss her, occasionally, in his way.
Gortash read the contract for the third time, and between the lines of elaborate script he saw endless possibility that only he could seize.
For once, an archdevil desired not a mortal soul, but a living mortal body.
And that was not all: Zariel wanted a mortal who was pure of heart, filled with the righteous fury she believed she still retained. He had such an asset in his possession: a fierce warrior already accustomed to infernal fire and iron.
If she managed to survive, Karlach might even be stronger for it. After all, he was.
He signed the contract.
The moment arrived without pomp or ceremony. The devils arrived at his office precisely on time, disguised as ordinary mercenaries not worth a second glance. Gortash knew immediately; the subtle stink of the Hells twisted his stomach. He choked down the ancient impulse to run.
When they first put their hands on Karlach, she did not struggle. Her eyes only widened.
“Boss?”
Fight, Gortash thought. Zariel would think he had cheated her.
A portal opened, and, finally, Karlach roared and flailed. Gortash tightened his grip on his payment.
One half-finished weapon bought him infinite possibility. He would not regret it.