Unrepentant

The quill scratched across the parchment, its tip catching slightly as it glided over the ink-streaked paper. The man leaned in closer, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Symbols and numbers lined the sheet, dense and intricate, filling every available inch. He paused, the ache in his wrist shooting up his arm, and he set the quill down, rubbing the swollen joint with a grimace.

His fingers, discolored from the constant pressure, trembled slightly. He had been at this for hours, perhaps longer—he wasn’t sure anymore. Time seemed to blur when he was working, as if the very act of writing consumed everything else.

He glanced around the room, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. The grandeur of his surroundings did nothing to soothe the gnawing unease building inside him. Thick velvet drapes hung heavy at the windows, shutting out the daylight, and the ornate wooden desk beneath his arms was polished to a gleam. The quiet tick of a clock somewhere behind him was the only sound, but it felt distant, as though muffled by the weight of his own thoughts.

His eyes returned to the parchment. For a moment, he hesitated, fingers hovering just above the quill. Why am I doing this? he thought, a sudden surge of frustration rising in his chest. His gaze drifted back to the intricate calculations before him, the endless numbers twisting into patterns he couldn't fully comprehend. There was a reason for it, wasn't there? There had to be. But the more he searched for the purpose, the further it seemed to slip from his grasp.

With a sharp intake of breath, he stood abruptly, pushing his chair back with such force that it nearly toppled over. His hand shot into the air, trembling with indignation, ready to demand answers. His mouth opened, but no sound came. He blinked. The question—the burning need to understand—faded like smoke dissipating in the wind. Slowly, his arm fell to his side, his expression blank and distant. He stared at the parchment as if seeing it for the first time, and then, without another thought, he sat back down and picked up the quill, resuming his work as if nothing had happened.

At the same time within the slums, a large man stirred in the corner, his broad chest rising and falling steadily as he slept. Suddenly, he sat up, his body stiff and his muscles taut, as though responding to some unseen cue. He stretched his arms above his head, his fingers flexing until his knuckles cracked, the sound echoing off the thin walls. Another sharp crack followed as he rolled his neck from side to side, a yawn escaping his mouth.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood, his massive frame taking up most of the room. The wooden floor creaked under his weight as he moved toward the table. A woman was there, her hair matted with grease and dirt, her face streaked with grime. She worked quietly, setting out a bowl of stew and a piece of stale bread. Her movements were slow, as she placed the items down with care. Her eyes flicked upward as the man approached, and she put on a smile, her lips parting awkwardly.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice rising in cheer, the words coming out almost instinctively.

The man, already reaching for the wooden cup on the table, mirrored her smile. “Good morning,” he replied, the enthusiasm in his voice a reflection of hers, as though pulled from some compulsion to respond in kind.

He lifted the cup to his mouth, but it struck his chin instead. He adjusted, tilting his head slightly, but missed again, this time spilling water just below his lip. A faint growl rumbled in his throat, barely audible, before he corrected his aim and finally drank. Water sloshed down the sides of his mouth, soaking into the collar of his worn shirt. The woman’s eyes flashed with irritation, her lips pulling back into a snarl, though she quickly covered it with another smile.

The man lowered the cup and noticed the small fractures running through the wood where his fingers had pressed too hard. His thick brows furrowed, but he said nothing, only frowning at the damage. He reached for the bread and dunked it into the bowl of stew, letting the soggy piece hang in the air for a moment. His head began to lean forward, lips parting as if to drink directly from the bowl.

“No,” the woman hissed sharply, her voice low and venomous. Her hand twitched at her side, fingers curling briefly into claws.

The man froze mid-motion, blinking slowly as he processed the sound. He straightened, pulling back from the bowl, his eyes falling to the spoon that lay beside it. He reached for it with an awkward pinch of his fingers, his grip almost too tight for the delicate utensil. Slowly, he brought the spoon to his mouth, eating in small, careful bites.

The woman watched him, her eyes narrowing as he fumbled with the spoon. The room fell silent once more, save for the occasional clatter of the spoon against the bowl and the man’s steady, rhythmic chewing.

Outside, the faint sounds of the slums waking up began to filter through the window—the distant murmur of voices, the creak of carts being pulled along uneven streets. But within the walls of the small room, there was only the sound of their shared routine, repeated and practiced, day after day.

The man finished his meal, his movements ungraceful, almost animalistic, though he didn’t seem to notice. His hand lingered over the empty bowl, fingers twitching slightly.

Nyx perched on the ragged rooftop, his dark feathers blending into the shadows as he preened his wing. Around him, a dozen other crows shuffled and pecked at their own feathers, some hopping to different spots on the rooftop, others watching the slum below. Nyx’s sharp eyes took in the scene beneath him—bustling, but off. Something in the way the slum dwellers moved, how they carried themselves, didn’t sit right with him. They were energetic in a way that clashed with the broken surroundings.

He mulled over possible reasons for the strange behavior. Maybe it was the way things worked here in Sichal’s underbelly. He dismissed it as quickly as it came—no slum this grim had people walking about with that much purpose without reason. As he pondered, one of the other crows, bold and foolish, edged closer to Nyx, giving him a sharp jab with its beak. Nyx snapped around, his beak clicking in annoyance. He squawked, something akin to, “Not now,” and the offender hopped away, startled by the aggression.

Nyx shook out his feathers, the irritation fading. He cast a brief thought to Zinnia. She was likely among the moneybags of the city, fishing for answers. He wasn’t concerned about how she’d fare. A crook like her would probably find something. And if she didn’t, well, it wouldn’t surprise him. His expectations were low, and they didn’t need to be any higher.

His attention snapped back to the slums, eyes narrowing as he observed something peculiar. The slum dwellers—they only smiled when they were inside their homes. But as soon as they stepped out, their expressions darkened, their faces drawn and sour. The difference was striking, almost as if they’d switched masks at the doorway. Inside, they played at being happy, mimicking some half-remembered routine. Outside, they became the bitter workers they were expected to be. But why? Nyx couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was at play.

With a flap of his wings, Nyx swooped down to a lower perch, settling on a ledge just above a gathering of laborers. They were clustered around a city official who was offering work—street cleaning, judging by the tools scattered around. The pay was five hundred Reshal for the day, enough to feed a family of four and afford some cheap drink. As the official spoke, a grunt rose from the crowd. The official turned, offering to lower the pay. More grunts followed, the price dropping steadily.

Nyx tilted his head, watching as the bidding dropped to one hundred and fifty Reshal—barely enough to feed one. He clicked his beak in amusement. It was a game of desperation, one where the workers undercut themselves just to survive. He decided to test something. He threw his voice, sending out a grunt from the crowd, subtle but distinct.

The reaction was immediate. The laborers froze, confusion spreading across their faces. They looked around, bewildered, as if they’d forgotten how to respond. Their confusion deepened when the official muttered, “Been a while since someone went lower.” He asked again, offering the chance for anyone to bid less, but the laborers just stood there, scratching their heads, backing away in uncertainty.

Nyx squawked quietly to himself. The reaction was far more than he expected.

Eventually, the last laborer who had bid before Nyx’s interference stepped forward. His face was blank, almost dazed, as he told the official, “I’ll take the job.”

The official frowned. “Did you bid against yourself?”

The man nodded, his response mechanical. “Yes.”

The official shrugged, handing over the tools as if this strange interaction were just another part of the day. Nyx scratched the back of his head with a wing, watching the man walk away. It didn’t make sense. The laborers had fallen into chaos over a simple sound, something that should have barely registered, yet here they were, acting as though a declaration of war came to the Empire.

“Huh…” Nyx squawked, ruffling his feathers.

A voice grated through the market, rough and high-pitched, laced with frustration. The owner's thin hair wafting on the breeze, the mustache perched above his lip twitching with every angry word. His thick fingers jabbed toward the crystal supplier across from him.

“Late again! You think I’m blind, don’t you? Price gouging, broken promises—this is the third time this month!” he snapped, his face red with fury. The supplier, a smaller man, flinched but said nothing, his eyes fixed on the ground as the merchant ranted.

Behind the merchant stood a young woman, her head lowered, hands folded in front of her. She wore a plain grey dress, her demeanor meek, invisible in the morning market. She was meant to be no one of consequence, a simple maid waiting for her master to finish his business.

But the truth beneath that illusion was something else entirely. Zinnia, hidden beneath the layers of her disguise, kept her gaze lowered, listening to the merchant’s ranting with the patience of someone who had already won the game.

Henkel, the old pervert, had no idea who he was dealing with. She knew him well—better than he’d ever know. Years ago, she had smuggled young Human girls and aged Elves for him, feeding his disgusting appetites. She had learned how to play him back then, how to manipulate him.

Taking on the appearance of the kind of girl he liked—modest, quiet, desperate for work—was laughably easy. She had spun a story of a younger sibling to feed, a poor lass down on her luck, and Henkel had devoured it. The bastard had barely kept his eyes off her since she first approached him.

Perfect.

She followed a few paces behind as he gestured angrily to the supplier. The argument dragged on, Henkel’s voice rising and falling as he accused, demanded, and threatened.

Zinnia let the sounds blur in her mind, her focus elsewhere. Soon, she’d have what she needed: access. Henkel believed he was bringing home a new servant, someone to clean up after him, to wait on him and more than likely screw him. But Zinnia had no intention of being his maid for long. She’d have him knocked out and hogtied the instant the door shut. A few seconds, that’s all she’d need.

Once he was down, she could search his home, room by room. And get some nice souvenirs. Henkel didn’t know it yet, but he was about to lose a lot more than his new “maid.”

The merchant finally waved the supplier off with a dismissive snort, turning with a grimace. Zinnia followed as he made his way toward the Artificer’s Guild. His exclusive contract with them was what made him a powerful player in Sichal. He was their sole supplier of materials, and in this city, that meant he had sway. If anyone was going to be involved in a town wide mess, it was going to be him.

Henkel went into the guild, staying inside longer than usual. When he emerged, his face was twisted in a frown, deeper than the one he wore earlier.

Something hadn’t gone his way, it seemed. Zinnia noted the change, watching him closely as he made his way back through the market, walking faster now.

Noon was approaching.

By the time they reached his home, Henkel’s pace had slowed. He was muttering to himself, though Zinnia couldn’t catch the words. His mind was clearly preoccupied with whatever business had soured his mood at the guild. Zinnia smirked beneath her illusion, knowing she could exploit his distraction.

Once inside, it wouldn’t take long. A quick choke, bind his wrists, and gag him. She figured she had a solid window to search for any clues to what was happening or valuables he might be hiding.

Although, he’d regain consciousness soon enough, but perhaps with his own undergarment ripped off and shoved into his mouth, there wouldn’t be much he could do about it.

But as they reached the door, something strange happened. Henkel placed his hand on the handle, twisted it, and pushed the door open. Then he stopped. Slowly, he turned to face her, his expression calm, serene. His eyes, which had gleamed with lechery just moments ago, now seemed distant. His lips curled into an unsettling smile.

“I have important work to do,” he said softly, almost reverently. “I will require no maid to disturb me.”

Before Zinnia could react, Henkel waved a hand at her, a gentle shooing motion, and then stepped inside, slamming the door behind him with a finality that left her standing in stunned silence on his doorstep.

She blinked, staring at the closed door for a long moment. Slowly, her hand came to rest on her hip, her mind still trying to make sense of what just happened.

“What... the... fuck?” she muttered aloud, her voice heavy with disbelief.