The room reeked of old leather and stale pipe smoke, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you left. Guild Master Marcus Bckthorn stood behind his desk, a mountain of a man with silver threading through his bck hair like he’d been kissed by the moon herself. His desk was a mess of parchment, quills, and little trinkets that probably meant more than they looked. I could tell he was the kind of guy who didn’t tolerate bullshit, not even on his best days.

  I stepped forward, my boots creaking on the wooden floor like a damn death knell. My hand trembled just enough to notice, but I damn well wasn’t gonna let it stop me. I held out the letter, sealed with wax and everything, and hoped to hell it wasn’t about to get me killed. His eyes flicked up, those sharp, calcuting eyes that made you feel like he could see right through your lies. He raised an eyebrow, and I swear the room got colder.

  “Guild Master,” I said, trying to sound steady. My voice came out more like a pubescent squirrel, but hey, it was a start.

  He took the letter, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. His eyes scanned the paper, and I watched as his expression went from mild curiosity to something else—something I couldn’t quite pce. He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and looked at me like I was some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve. I felt like a rat in a cage under that gaze.

  The silence stretched out so long I started to think he’d forgotten I was there. Then, without a word, he reached for his pipe, packed it with tobacco, and lit it with a taper from the fire. The first puff of smoke curled up, and he finally spoke.

  “So, you’re the one they’ve been talking about.”

  I swallowed hard. “Talking about, sir?”

  He smirked, a small, knowing tilt of his lips. “The boy with more balls than sense. You’ve got a reputation, Samuel Thornwood.”

  I shifted my weight, trying to py it cool. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

  He chuckled, low and smooth, like a man who knew a secret I didn’t. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” He set the pipe down and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the cluttered desk. “So, you want to join the Guild.”

  “It’s more like… I want to be useful,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “I’ve got skills, Guild Master. Skills I think could be an asset.”

  He raised an eyebrow again, clearly unimpressed. “Skills, you say? And what, pray tell, makes you think you’re ready for this?”

  I took a deep breath and let it all spill out—every heist, every close call, every time I’d talked my way out of trouble. By the time I finished, my mouth was dry, and my heart was pounding like a bcksmith’s hammer. He listened through it all, his expression unreadable, puffing on that damn pipe like he was considering the meaning of life.

  When I finally ran out of steam, he leaned back again and steepled his fingers. “You’ve certainly had an… eventful life, Mr. Thornwood.”

  “And?” I prompted, my impatience getting the better of me.

  He smirked again, that infuriating, knowing smirk. “And you’ve got potential. But potential’s a dangerous thing. It can get you killed just as quick as it can make you rich.”

  He stood, his movements slow, and reached for a quill and parchment. His hand moved with practiced precision, scribbling out something in sharp, angur script. I watched, fascinated, as he sealed it with a stamp of bck wax, his signet ring glinting in the firelight.

  He handed me the note, and I took it with a shaky hand. “A recommendation,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Mistress Ashara’s compound isn’t for the faint of heart. But if you’re half as resourceful as you say you are…” He shrugged. “You might just survive.”

  I stared at the parchment like it was a map to buried treasure. “Thank you, Guild Master. I won’t let you down.”

  He leaned back in his chair again, picking up his pipe. “See that you don’t. Now, don’t waste my time. You’ve got a journey ahead of you.”

  I nodded, turned on my heel, and got the hell out of there before he could change his mind. As I closed the door behind me, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. That had gone better than I thought. Maybe I wasn’t as doomed as I felt.

  But then again, I had a feeling this was just the beginning.

  I stepped out of Marcus’s office, the heavy door thudding shut behind me like a death sentence—or maybe a new beginning. Hard to tell. The guild master’s parting words echoed in my head: You might just survive. Fucking reassuring.

  “Hey, kid,” Marcus called out, his voice smooth as always. I turned, and he was leaning against the doorframe, his pipe clenched between his teeth. “Ashara’s compound isn’t exactly in the town square. You’ll need to head east, toward the outer wall. Can’t miss it—or maybe you can. It’s not exactly... advertised.”

  He paused, taking a slow drag from his pipe, the ember glowing like a tiny fire demon in the dim light. “It’s a decent ride. Take the frozen winding streets, cut through the merchant’s district, and keep going until the buildings start looking like they’d rather see you dead than welcome you in. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “Got it,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Frozen streets, decrepit buildings, ominous vibes. Check.”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow, a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful.”

  He didn’t say what to be careful of. The journey? The compound? Ashara herself? With Marcus, you didn’t ask questions. You just nodded and hoped for the best.

  I did just that, turned, and disappeared into the icy grip of the city.

  The sun was a dying ember in the sky by the time I set off, its pale light bleeding over the rooftops like an open wound. I pulled my heavy cloak tighter, the fabric stiff from the cold, and clicked my tongue for Bertha to move. My trusty mule gave me a look that could only be described as judgmental, but she plodded forward, her hooves cttering against the frozen cobblestones.

  The city was a different beast in the cold evening air. The sounds of merchants and traders were gone, repced by the howling wind and the occasional ctter of a shutter or the distant bark of a dog. The streets were empty, save for the odd figure darting into an alleyway or the silhouette of a guard keeping warm by a fire barrel.

  As I rode, the buildings around me started to change. The polished facades and brightly painted signs gave way to crumbling stone and peeling pster. Windows were boarded up, and the few that weren’t stared out like empty eyes. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper, and the silence thicker. I could feel the weight of the city pressing in around me, the excitement of the unknown wrestling with the growing knot in my gut.

  I leaned forward, patting Bertha on the neck. “Almost there, girl,” I muttered. “Just a little farther.”

  She snorted, and I took that as a vote of no confidence.

  The path narrowed, the buildings closing in on either side until it felt like I was riding through a tunnel of shadows. The walls were cracked and overgrown with ivy, the stones slick with frost. Every step echoed, every creak of the saddle sounding like a shout in the stillness. I could feel eyes on me, though every time I turned, there was no one there. Just the wind. Just my imagination.

  But I knew better. In a pce like this, you couldn’t trust your instincts. You just kept moving.

  And then, up ahead, the path opened up into a small, circur courtyard. In the center of it stood Mistress Ashara’s compound.

  The building loomed before me, its high stone walls topped with jagged iron spikes that gleamed like teeth in the fading light. The entrance was a sb of a door, heavy and ominous, with an iron knocker shaped like a snarling lion’s head. I gave it a solid thump, the sound echoing through the stillness like a challenge.

  “Hello, hello,” I muttered under my breath, stamping the cold from my boots. “Anyone home? Or is this pce as dead as it looks?”

  The door creaked open, and a blonde boy—no older than me—slid out. His outfit was so skimpy it made my armor look like a bnket. Bck leather hugged his frame, leaving little to the imagination. I blinked, my brain taking a moment to catch up.

  “Well, well,” I said, grinning. “You the welcoming committee?”

  The servant, for that’s what I assumed he was, gave me a look that could freeze water, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe.

  He stepped aside, revealing a courtyard that looked like it hadn’t seen the sun in years. Frost clung to the ground, and the air had a bite that made my balls retreat.

  “Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward a doorway. “Mistress Ashara’s waiting.”

  I followed him, his ass cheeks were exposed in that outfit, they looked red, as if he had just been spanked or maybe it was the cold. The parlor was a stark contrast to the cold outside—roaring fire, plush chairs, and a warmth that made me want to strip off my cloak and stay awhile.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, his tone as warm as the room. “She’ll be with you soon.”

  I nodded, taking in the space. It was cozy, with crimson accents and dark curtains, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, like a knife hidden in the cushions. I leaned back in a chair, trying to look casual, but my heart was pounding like a bcksmith’s hammer.

  “Samuel Thornwood,” I muttered to myself, “what the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

  The door creaked open, and time seemed to slow. It wasn’t just a woman entering; it was an event. The air in the room, already warm, suddenly felt supercharged, crackling with an almost visible energy.

  And then I saw her.

  Mistress Ashara.

  Forget everything Marcus had said. Forget the rumors and the warnings. They didn’t come close to preparing me for this.

  She wasn’t wearing robes, or armor, or anything remotely practical. Instead, she’d chosen what looked like a shadow woven into fabric. Bck lingerie, a bodysuit, that hugged her every curve, a garter belt with...things attached that I dared not name and made my brain stutter. The darkness of the fabric accentuated her skin, making it seem impossibly smooth and pale.

  But that wasn’t even the half of it.

  It was the fur, the ears, the tail. Bck as night, sleek and luxurious, they marked her as… a fox-woman. But not like in the stories, not some cackling crone. This was… well, it was something else entirely.

  My eyes flickered between the curve of her hip, accentuated by the garter belt, the plush bck tail that swayed behind her as she walked, and the piercing gold of her eyes, now fixed on me. I’d never seen eyes so intense, so… predatory.

  God damn she was beautiful. And terrifying. It was a potent, dizzying combination that short-circuited my brain. I’d stared at the boy, who was wearing less than her but it was nothing to compare to this. Ashara radiated that aura of danger that could probably melt steel, but I’d melt with it.

  I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. My heart, already a frantic drummer, threatened to break free of my ribs. Everything felt too tight, too hot. I suddenly wished I’d worn less of my own gear.

  She moved with the grace of a cat, each step deliberate, each pause a calcuted move. It wasn’t just walking; it was a performance, a silent decration of power.

  I scrambled to my feet, the chair scraping against the floor like a dying animal. I stammered, trying to find my voice. “M-Mistress Ashara.”

  She didn’t acknowledge my words, her gaze locked on mine, assessing me with unnerving thoroughness. I felt like a bug under a magnifying gss.

  Finally, she extended a hand, her long, bck-cquered nails gleaming in the firelight. The gesture was simple, but undeniably commanding.

  I fumbled with the note from Marcus, my fingers clumsy and uncooperative. I nearly dropped it – twice – before I finally managed to shove it into her cool grasp. Her touch sent a jolt of something that wasn’t quite unpleasant through me.

  She took the parchment, the soft rustle of the paper somehow loud in the sudden silence. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the words, her expression unreadable. I watched her face, trying to decipher some clue, some hint of what she thought of me. Was I a promising student? Or just another pything in her twisted game?

  All I knew for sure was that I was in way over my head. And a part of me, the part that was suddenly very awake, was starting to like it.

  When she finally looked up, her golden eyes pierced me. It wasn’t just a gnce; it was a viotion. Like she was peeling back yers of my skin, examining the muscle and bone beneath. The air thickened with an almost palpable tension. She circled me, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. I felt exposed, vulnerable.

  “So, Samuel Thornwood,” she said, her voice a silken whisper that sent a shiver down my spine. “Marcus says you have potential.”

  The way she said “potential” made it sound almost like an accusation, like I hadn’t lived up to it yet. A challenge, perhaps.

  She stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I could smell her: a heady mix of spices, leather, and something wild and untamed. I fought the urge to take a step back, to create some distance between us.

  “But potential,” she continued, her gaze unwavering, “is useless without direction. And direction requires...discipline.” Her lips curved into a small, cruel smile. “Something I suspect you ck.”

  I bristled at that, but I kept my mouth shut. Arguing wouldn’t get me anywhere.

  “I don’t teach half-measures, Samuel. I don’t hold hands. I break down, rebuild, and mold. What you think you’ve learned from the Guildhall or that backwater school of yours... it means nothing here. I will erase it all.”

  She stepped even closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that only I could hear.

  “With me, you will become something new. A weapon honed to a razor’s edge. A shadow that moves unseen. A temptation that brings kings to their knees.” Her hand rose, her fingers trailing lightly over my jawline. The touch was feather-light, but it burned like fire.

  “But it will hurt. There will be pain, both physical and...otherwise. You will be tested. You will be pushed to your breaking point. Your body, your mind, your will... all will be mine to command.”

  She paused, her eyes locking onto mine, and that’s when I saw it. The glint of something dark and hungry lurking beneath the surface. Not just a mentor, but a master. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just about training me to be a rogue. It was about… something else entirely. Something far more personal. Something that sent a shiver of both fear and...arousal coursing through me.

  Her face was close, so close I could feel her breath on my skin. “Do you understand, Samuel? To be mine, you will give me everything. And in return... I will make you extraordinary. If you survive.”

  I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. My pulse pounded in my ears. The words felt heavy with unspoken promises. I wanted to back away, to run, but I couldn’t. Something about her, something about the challenge she presented, held me captive.

  “Do you have any questions?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, amusement dancing in her eyes.

  I could only manage a weak, “N-no.”

  She raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Good. Because I despise questions. Now, stand still and let me asses the merchandise.”

  Ashara turned to a small table, grabbing a piece of parchment. “You’ll be staying at the Crooked Nail. It’s...cozy, and the owner, Maple, she’ll take care of you. It’s more than adequate.”

  The silence hung heavy in the room, broken only by the crackling fire. I tried to read her expression, but her face was an impenetrable mask. The weight of what I was agreeing to settled on me like a lead bnket.

  AnnouncementComments? 14 chapters left in this lil novel, then the next one begins.