Chapter 1
The Stag and Horn pleasure house had once been a glittering jewel among the stores and inns lining Loreen’s ancient, winding streets. When the city had been in its prime, Niko had been too young to venture inside. Back then, he’d asked his pah about the beautiful people coming and going from the house’s fancy stained-glass doors. Pah had promptly smacked him across the head so hard his left ear had rung for days. Only when he was older, and had been drafted for war, had he crossed the Stag and Horn threshold for the first time, knowing one thing for certain: he could not die a virgin.
What happened after had left an impression, given him a new appreciation for the male form, and cost him his first month’s military wages.
Niko considered his younger self to be a fucking idiot. He hadn’t died on the front lines, but it wasn’t for the vicious elven force’s lack of trying. There had been plenty of opportunity for sex among the soldiers too. All of it free. Although, in the end, Niko had paid with his heart.
Eight years later, now with twenty-three years and a whole lot of war behind him, he was back at the pleasure house, his head full of shadows as dangerous as those cloaking the streets, and nothing about the once-grand city of Loreen was as he remembered, including the Stag and Horn. The jewel had decayed from a precious gem to costume jewelry.
Pretty people still worked the tables, but their ruffles had frayed, their hair had fallen loose from the multitude of sharp pins, and the paint on their lips had smeared across their cheeks. Patrons were passing spice from hand to hand, openly snorting the blue powder from tabletops, not caring that the drug had officially been outlawed years ago.
The house had become a parody of itself, and Niko wished he hadn’t come at all. He shouldn’t have been surprised. All of Loreen, the city and the land of the same name, was similarly neglected. The city had neglected its people, and it had good reason, the Royal family had neglected it too. Defeat was everywhere—in the peeling wallpaper, the spluttering streetlamps, the hungry beggars, and the sad-eyed orphans.
Most nights he woke drenched in sweat wishing he’d died alongside his brothers-in-arms so he didn’t have to suffer the shame of returning home with the bitter taste of defeat forever on his tongue. Or maybe that was the mead. He picked up his tankard and frowned at its contents. The drink truly was vile.
“I hear they water it down with piss,” a cool, civilized voice said beside him. A heavy-hooded riding cloak cast a thick shadow across the man’s face, revealing only a smooth, sharp chin and the small uptick of thin, pale lips. Niko hadn’t seen him take the seat at the bar. Either he moved with the grace of a snake, or the mead was more potent than he’d realized. Perhaps both. Whatever the case, having seen how far the Stag and Horn had fallen, he didn’t plan on purchasing any company tonight, fearing he’d catch crotch-lice and lose the contents of his pockets in return.
“I’m not interested,” he grunted, sparing the man a glance. Criminals hid their faces. Niko had no time for wretched thieves.
The stranger placed a plump red velvet money pouch on the bar. Its contents clinked, fat with coin.
Niko wet his teeth with his tongue, preparing to tell the prick that if he couldn’t see how Niko wasn’t a whore, then he was either blind, or stupid, or both, when the flash of the man’s ruby signet ring caught his eye. A gold stylized griffin set into obsidian. The royal emblem. The sight of it should have inspired pride and loyalty. He should have dropped to his knee and kissed that ring. But he’d charged into battle with that damned griffin on his breastplate, like a fucking target for every elven blade and arrow. He’d witnessed friends die for that griffin. And it had all been for nothing.
Niko tightened his fingers around the tankard, wishing it were the handle of his sword. Good thing he hadn’t brought his blade or else the royal bastard might find himself missing that finger and its ring. Of course, such thoughts were fantasy. Whoever this royal was, he wouldn’t be walking Loreen’s streets alone at night.
A quick scan of the crowd revealed two potential palace guards, similarly cloaked, making fine wall ornaments while watching Niko’s back. One had pale blue eyes and a sandy blond mop of hair that had likely grown out since his soldiering service, and the other had red hair cut close to his skull. With faces like theirs, they’d make good money in the Stag and Horn.
“For this coin, you will kill a man,” the smooth royal voice said, reminding Niko he wasn’t alone.
Niko lifted the tankard to his lips, smiled, and took a sip. “I’m not an assassin.”
The royal leaned in so close Niko could smell the sweetness of rosewater. “You are whatever I order you to be, or nothing at all,” the man said with the confidence born of having never been denied.
How lovely it must have been to bathe in rosewater. The closest Niko had gotten to such a thing was washing elf blood off himself in a stream.
The royal still had his hand on the money pouch. His fingers were smooth, lean, nails precisely rounded, more accustomed to delicate maneuvers like playing the harp or signing royal decrees of surrender. They’d snap like twigs under Niko’s rough grip. Despite this man’s physical weakness, he had all the power in the building, perhaps in the city, depending on which royal he was. There were several possibilities. Not the king. He never left the palace and his health had been deteriorating for years. That left one of three princes.
Niko hadn’t seen them in years, and then only once during a parade. He had climbed onto the rooftop of his father’s forge and watched the shining procession pass beneath. The young princes had passed by too, all three atop huge white stallions. Chins up, backs straight, resplendent in royal colors. They’d all been boys back then. A few months after, the eldest prince was shipped off to some retreat, keeping him safely hidden as war descended on the land. He’d returned only a few months ago, according to local gossip. By-the-Three-Gods, Niko couldn’t recall their faces, but it was unlikely a prince would visit the Stag and Horn to buy the services of ex-soldiers. It had to be some low-level royal, then. One of those leeches who clung to their name because it had more power than they’d ever earn through blood and sweat.
“Have one of your guards kill your unfortunate victim.” Niko dismissed him, finishing his sour drink. He moved to leave when light fingers clasped his wrist, pulling him back with surprising strength. Niko grabbed the bar, regaining his balance, only to freeze when the man’s next words brushed his cheek.
“Refuse me and I will have you flogged.” The venom with which he spoke was genuine. This royal was not bluffing.
Rage shattered Niko’s already cracked restraint. He didn’t have much patience left, and this prick was already on Niko’s last nerve. He twisted his grip, capturing the man’s wrist. The royal gasped. Niko caught a glimpse of pale blond before the royal turned his head away, hiding beneath the hood.
His anger was a curse, and lately he’d been losing control of it. It unraveled, Niko’s control slipping. “I obeyed for years,” he hissed at the royal. “I lost everything for the Caville name!”
The royal’s thin wrist creaked inside his grip, the bones about to break. He’d done enough for the griffin. He’d lost everything. And this gilded fool thought he could wave a bag of coin around and buy Niko’s loyalty? So typical of the royals. What they could not buy, they destroyed.