Investment

The waiting room was a murk of faded greens, the air thick and still, heavy with the slow decay of leather and dust. A rusted incense lamp was not coping with the afternoon belch of the canals. Shelves lined the walls, sagging under the weight of cracked spines and brittle paper, their shadows stretching long and deep in the flicker of weak candlelight. A massive glass bottle, half a barrel’s worth, sat against one wall. Inside it, the slow, serpentine coils of something long and patient – thick, sleepy shapes twisting over each other in the stillness, their scales catching the light in dull flashes.   Douglas leaned back in a creaking, wine-stained armchair, his boots scuffed and damp from the rain-slick walkways outside, his fingers rolling a narrow, bone-handled knife between his calloused fingertips. The blade whispered as it turned, the edge catching the light with each flick, comforting against his palm. He watched the great glass jar, the slow, deliberate movements of the snakes within, and felt the refreshing pulse of anxiety stir in his gut.   Douglas's gaze slid to the tall figure a few paces away. Carved from stone, he thought, taking in the sharp jaw, squared shoulders beneath that fine leather cloak. The man's blade whispered against worn leather as he shifted, pale eyes scanning the shelves with predatory focus. Isaac Brihon. Douglas didn't know him personally, but the name carried weight in Bymoor's gutters—fallen noble, duelist, the sort who left scars on both flesh and reputation.   Douglas considered a few opening words, but held them. The highborn rarely appreciate gutter talk, even if their mansions sit on stilts above the same rot.   He leaned back, the armchair protesting, and let his gaze drift to the far door, where their mystery employer will emerge. This meeting had cost him a favor and the better part of a night spent haunting the city’s moldiest, lowest dens, piecing together half-whispered rumors and half-forgotten debts. Whoever this woman was, she had power, and she wanted men like him – capable, unflinching, and willing to trade blood for coin. That kind of patronage could open doors, or, more likely, kick them off their hinges.   The woman who entered moved with a careless grace, her skirts whispering against the rough floorboards. She walked like she knew the floor was rotting under everyone else’s feet — but not hers. Douglas noted the expensive cut of her grey dress, those green slashes that probably cost more than he made in a month. He catalogued her features with a cutthroat's eye—large eyes that missed nothing, small mouth that gave away little, thick brows that suggested she didn't suffer fools. She held herself with the unblinking confidence, appraising her two newest hirelings without a hint of warmth. She made no move to sit, nor did she expect Douglas to rise – a small, unspoken dominance.   “Gentlemen,” she said, her voice clear and precise, the faintest trace of a clipped, noble accent lingering at the edges. “I am Dame Elissa Corienne, though the title is borrowed – nobility, like power, is a thing taken, not given.” She let her eyes flick to Isaac, her gaze as interested and appraising as a butcher inspecting fresh meat. “But for now, you may call me Elissa."   Douglas’s eyes flick over her, the practiced, instinctive scan of a man who’s survived too many knife fights to trust anyone’s apparent lack of steel. He notes the rings – several, fine work, but only one stands out. A worn silver band set with a small, dark ruby, polished by countless hours of wear. Around her neck hangs a necklace, the chain fine but sturdy, the pendant two red stones – one square, one shaped like a cup or cone, their precise angles catching the weak candlelight. No obvious bulges in the folds of her skirts, no telltale glint of hidden steel, but he’s been cut before by men who seemed unarmed. Even the beggars knew how to hide a blade in a handshake.   He didn’t know what he’d expected – a crumbling old man with a crooked staff, perhaps, or a sharp-tongued crone wrapped in a dozen layers of smoke-stained silk – but the woman who stood before him now, her jaw set, her eyes bright and hard, was something else entirely. She looked at them both, and spoke, her words piercing through the thick, cloying air like a blade through soft flesh.   “You’ve both taken the job, so I’ll spare you the theatrics,” she said, her voice measured, looking to the slow, twisting shapes in the great glass jar. “Our target is the ruined mansion of Alastor Rivenhall, a mage whose ambitions reached further than his grasp.” She let the words hang for a moment, her gaze predatory, calculating, as if weighing their reactions. “The mansion has been abandoned for decades, but I have reason to believe that some of his work – notes, prototypes, perhaps even completed artifacts – still remain within its walls. That’s what we’re after.” She let her eyes linger on Douglas, then Isaac, smiling wickedly. “I will claim what should be mine, and you will earn your coin.” She paused, her fingers tapping lightly against the worn, polished surface of the ring on her left hand. “And if you prove yourselves more useful than the last band I hired, perhaps there will be more work for you. The swamps are crawling with wildlife twisted by old magic – nothing you can’t handle if you stay on your toes. Once we reach the mansion, your job is to secure it and keep it clear while I work. Any locked rooms, sealed doors, or traps – I’ll decide what’s important.” She paused again, her eyes narrowing slightly, her angular face cast in deep, flickering shadows. “And keep watch for other groups. Rivenhall’s work has caught someone else’s interest. Another mage might be sending their own party, and if we meet them, I want to know before they know we’re there. Your role is simple – protect me, follow my orders, and ensure that whatever of value still lingers in that place ends up in my hands.”   Isaac tilted his chin, his eyes narrowing, his fingers tightening around the polished hilt of his rapier. “An intriguing proposition,” he says, his tone smooth, his words precise, the faintest hint of his old courtly grace slipping into his voice. “But I would know more of this rival. If they are likely to challenge us, I would prefer not to be caught off guard. And you seem... confident that we will reach a mutual understanding.” He allows a smug grin to touch his lips. “I trust that confidence is well placed?”   Elissa’s attention lingered on Isaac for a heartbeat longer than it would be polite, her head tilting slightly, an appraising edge creeping into her expression. “Some of you have scores to settle, names to reclaim. I respect that. It sharpens the edge.” She paused, looking at Douglas, unreadable, before returning to Isaac. “Do what you see fit to gather intelligence on our potential competition. I do expect some degree of autonomy from both of you.” Her eyes flicked to the silver ring on her finger – the one with the small ruby, the one she rarely took off – catching a brief, flickering spark from the nearby candlelight. “I reward loyalty and competence.”   Douglas let the teeth show below his cracked lips, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his knife as he met her piercing gaze. This, at least, was a language he understood – blood, threats, the deliberate dance of knives in the murk.   “Sounds straightforward enough,” he rasps, his voice low and rough, like the scrape of metal on stone. “Long as the pay’s good, and you’re not dragging us into a snake pit without warning, I’m in.” He leans back again, the knife vanishing into the folds of his jacket as smoothly as a whisper. “And I’ve got a knack for locked doors.”   “No further questions,” Isaac said, his voice smooth, each syllable clipped and precise.   She held their gaze a moment longer, her eyes still alert, still calculating, then gave a slight nod. “Do your jobs well, and I will remember. Do them poorly, and I will also remember.”   ***   As they slipped back into the rickety, winding walkways, the dampness clinging to their boots and the slow, acrid bite of Bymoor’s mold settling into their lungs, Douglas rolled his eyes toward Isaac. The noble’s jaw was set, his expression faux-bored, his fingers casually relaxed near the polished hilt of his rapier.   Douglas spat into the canal, the wet smack echoing off the discolored mildew-stained walls. “Before we drown ourselves in swamp mud and mage traps, I’ve a mind to see what the below-planks have to say. If this rival party’s already on the move, someone’s heard a whisper. The kind of talk only the right ears can catch.” He tilted his head, letting his eyes linger on Isaac’s polished leather cloak, his carefully kept gloves – a man still clinging to old habits, old status. “Though I’d bet yours aren’t the right kind.”   Isaac’s fingers brushed the cool metal of his signet ring, his jaw tightening just enough to catch the light. “Perhaps. But there are faces in this city that still remember the Brihon name – and a few who owe it debts.” He met Douglas’s gaze, unblinking, the faintest curl of a smile touching his lips. “I’ll see what whispers I can pry from the higher-raised corners. I expect your end of the gutter is well-covered.”   Douglas let the corner of his mouth twist, his fingers tapping the bone handle of his knife. “Oh, you can count on it. Just mind you don’t step on my toes – nobles aren’t the only ones with long memories. The Thieves’ Gate, midnight. If I’m not there, I’m dead or worse, and you should keep your blade ready.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “A lesson I figure you learned the hard way.”   Isaac’s fingers brushed the worn, polished hilt of his rapier. “I’ll be there,” he replied, his tone cool, the faintest hint of his courtly leisure slipping into his words. “Just don’t let the canals claim you before we’ve seen this through.”   Douglas let a bitter chuckle slip, his breath fogging in the chilly night air. “Oh, the slums and I have an understanding. It’s the highborn I worry about.”   ***   Douglas kept to the shadows as he made his way toward the docks, his boots light on the warped, uneven planks. He felt the essence of Bymoor settling around him, a subliminal noise of swampbugs chewing through the city’s guts one wooden beam at a time.   He spent hours slipping over and under levels, winding through old stilts, his ears straining for the faintest whisper of useful words. He leaned on old contacts, shook down pole-boat boys, knife-men and cutpurses, muttered threats in the damp-soaked corners of crumbling watchtowers. He followed whispers down half-collapsed staircases, crept through the smoke-choked depths of underplank taverns. But for hours, the whispers yielded nothing – only the skittish stares of hungry-eyed street urchins and the dull, indifferent shrugs of tight-lipped bruisers.   But then, the pieces began to fit – a faint, bloody thread winding through the chocked veins of the town. He heard of cutthroats and pickpockets who had gone missing in the last few days, shadows swallowed by deeper shadows, their blood-soaked bodies washing up days later with empty pockets and tongues removed from their mouths – a warning to those who pry too deeply. The kind of message that sticks in a man’s mind, a bloody reminder of the price of curiosity.   A grizzled, one-eyed fence, his head bent low over a half-empty tankard, muttered of a shadowed figure – a man who moved like a noble but kept his face hidden, his voice carefully neutral, the kind of man who doesn’t want his accent recognized. The fence muttered of enchanted swamp boots, tar-coated leathers, and crates of anti-venom – the sort of gear a man might buy if he planned to tread the muck-choked paths of the deep marshes.   Douglas felt the slow, satisfying click of tumblers falling into place in the rusty lock of his mind. Someone was moving, carefully, deliberately, their intentions shrouded in shadow and threats.   He slipped back into the night, the moldy air filling his lungs, the faint, bitter tang of used up signal smokes in his face, his boots whispering over the trecherous, broken walkways. He felt the bright thrill of anticipation stir in his gut – the creeping certainty that blood and shadows awaited him at the Thieves’ Gate.   ***   Douglas slips through the tangled, shady alleys, the chill of the night settling into his bones as he approaches the Thieves’ Gate – a sagging, half-collapsed arch of old stone marking one of the cobbled squares in the patchwork chaos of Bymoor's architecture. Gate's surface is etched with generations of desperate scratches and half-erased talking graffiti long out of whatever magical juice powered them. The air here is thick with the mingled scents of smoke, piss, and stale sweat. He slides into the shadows beneath the arch, the black folds of his cloak blending seamlessly into the gloom.   Isaac ghosted out of the mist a moment later, the faint clink of his polished boots echoing through the damp clinging air. He paused just outside the shifting circle of light produced by a lantern crawling with bugs of al lshapes and sizes. He tilted his head slightly, his pale eyes catching the weak, flickering glow, and for a moment, his lips twisted in private, reserved amusement.   Douglas let his fingers tighten around the reassuring bone handle of his knife. He leaned back against the rough stone, watching Isaac – noting the stiff, precise posture, the careful way he kept his back to the wall, his eyes never quite settling, always moving, measuring the shadows. A man who knew what it meant to be hunted. Douglas waited for a heartbeat before speaking.   “Found a few whispers,” he says, his fingers toying absently with the hilt of a knife at his belt. “Someone’s been buying up swamp gear – enchanted boots, anti-venom, the sort of kit you’d need for a long, unpleasant walk through the muck. Moves like a noble, but keeps his face covered. And a few of the local rats have gone missing – tongues torn out, pockets stripped. Someone’s making a point.” He lets the words hang for a moment. “Sounds like we’re not the only ones heading for that mansion.”   Isaac’s lip curls in a one-sided smile, the faintest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. “Indeed,” he says, the echoes of his swamp-baroque life slipping into the words. “I’ve had a run-in of my own – Valeria Tenebris. She’s sniffing around, as venomous as ever, and I have reason to believe Lorik Grey is leading a band of killers into the swamps. A soldier, a commander, a man with a grudge that roots deep. A man with no love for my bloodline.” He pauses, his fingers brushing the cool, polished metal of his signet ring. “If he catches wind of us, he’ll make it personal.”   Douglas lets out a low, mirthless chuckle, his breath misting. “Figures. Always someone with a grudge in this damn city.” He shifts, his cloak rustling softly, his eyes narrowing as he considers the paths ahead. “We head for the swamps as planned, then? Or you think we should try to shut this Grey down before he gets his boots wet?"   The first arrow whispered through the fog, slicing the air just above Douglas’s head, the fletching close enough to stir the sweat-soaked strands of his hair. He twisted, his back slamming against the dirty stone of the archway. He dropped into a low, half-crouch, his cloak flaring around him, fingers closing around one of his throwing knives. He rolled his wrist, the blade flashing in the pale moonlight as he flicks it toward the source of the attack – the dim cluttered mouth of the alley where the shadows pool thickest. He aims low, for the chest or gut – harder to dodge, harder to shake off, even if it doesn’t strike true. Douglas hears a grunt - but no more - and the clutter of the knife on the cobblestones. Armor, probably leather.   Isaac shifted beside him, the soft creak of polished leather and the gleeful, metallic whisper of his rapier sliding free of its scabbard. A heavy, pounding footfall echoed through the gloom, and then the brute was upon them – a massive half-orc, his broad, scarred chest heaving with each ragged breath, his thick, calloused fingers clenching a jagged, rust-streaked blade.   The half-orc lunged, his blade swishing in a brutal, downward arc, and Isaac met the blow with a desperate, instinctive parry, his rapier flashing up to catch the brute’s blade. But the force of the blow was too much, the brute’s sheer, brutal strength drove the blade past Isaac’s guard, the jagged edge slamming into his side with a fleshy, crunching impact that sent him staggering back, his blue eyes wide with shock, his gloved fingers clutching at the gash in his polished leathers, the blood already staining his side.   The shadows spit another blade toward Douglas's leg—missed by inches. Trap. The timing, the coordination—they'd been waiting. His instincts scream trap – the sudden chaos, the coordinated strike – and he catches the faint, uneven shuffle of a smaller figure, a third attacker, still in the shadow, likely circling for another attempt.   Douglas bares his teeth, the old, ugly rage flaring hot in his gut – the gutter-born fury of a cornered rat. He can’t let this fight drag on – the archer already has another arrow nocked, and that brute is a step away from finishing Isaac off.   Douglas darted forward, his knife flashing out viciously, the polished edge biting deep into the corded flesh of the brute’s forearm, with a juicy crunch of muscle parting beneath the blade. But the half-orc barely flinched, his scarred lips peeling back in a low, rumbling growl, his pale, piggish eyes locking onto Douglas.   Another arrow sliced through the air, this one closer, the hungry whisper of the fletching brushing against Douglas’s ear as it slammed into the stone behind him, shaft splintering. He felt the probing pulse of fear tightening around his heart, his breath coming in gasps, he twisted, scanning the shadows for the archer’s hidden form.   The brute swung again, his massive, rust-streaked blade coming down overhead at Douglas’s face, and he barely managed to dance away, the jagged edge whistling past his ear. Douglas turned, his blade flashing in tight pirouettes, each slice meant to bleed rather than kill. Make them slow, make them sloppy, then finish it. Old lessons from a hundred underplank fights. Isaac’s rapier darted beside him, the blade whispering through the fog-streaked air, each thrust met with the meaty slap of flesh or the jarring clang of blade on steel.   The half-orc was a wall of muscle and scar tissue, his heavy, rust-streaked blade moving with a brutal, clumsy grace that defied his size. He bled from a dozen wounds, thick, red rivulets running down his forearms and dripping onto the stones beneath his boots, but the brute seemed to feel none of it, his eyes still locked in that dull, murderous focus. Arrows and knives whispered through the fog, like buzzflies that bit into the stones around them, chipped fragments of rock stinging their faces and hands. Douglas felt the slow burn in his shoulder – the kind of pain that told him he was leaking blood faster than he could afford. Isaac’s breath came in rattling pulls beside him, his face bloodless and slick with sweat, his rapier still darting in precise, deadly thrusts, was he smiling?   A sharp, whistling sound cut through the air, and Douglas caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision – a small, skittering figure darting through the shadows. Its thin, child like arm lashed out, the blade of a throwing knife flashing as it sliced toward his head. He jumped away, his balance breaking as his foot caught on a jagged, upturned cobblestone, his body pitching back, his shoulders slamming against the damp ground, his breath exploding from his lungs in a comical grunt. The half-orc almost laughed squaring to finish him off. In a fight like this you don't come back from falling on your ass like a clown slipping on a fruit peel. Douglas would have laughed too, if he wasn’t going to die because of this. Both him and Isaac - who was already beyond surgery with his left side opened up like a purse, ribs to thigh.   There was only one bloody choice.   With a tired, desperate breath, he reached for that unnatural gift that saved his life more times than he could count. He gripped the edges of the darkness around him, let it bleed into his mind, his veins, his very breath, and rolled smartly to the side, his form blurring, and vanishing from existence.   It felt like being pulled through a knotted rope. His flesh twisted, warped, his bones grinding against themselves as the darkness pulled him into its cold, blackened depths, his mind stretching, bending, twisting into impossible angles. He felt himself tearing through the fabric of the world, a jagged, gasping bubble of air forced through the thick, cloying tar of the shadow’s grasp. He felt something stir in the depth – a presence, ancient and watchful, its attention clapping around his soul like a vise. It felt endless and took no time at all, the slow, morbid pulse of the black filling his being.   But then he broke free, the abrasive air rushing back into his lungs, his mind snapping back into the buzzing reality of the blood-soaked square by the Thieves Gate. There will be price to pay, but not today. He emerged behind the brute now, as hoped, his knife already flashing down, the polished edge slipping between the bones of the brute’s neck, the vertebrae snapping beneath the force of the blow.   The half-orc let out a low, gurgling growl, his thick, meaty hands clutching at his ruined throat, the gush of blood already staining the stones beneath his boots. He crumpled to the ground in a slow, ponderous collapse, his life bleeding out into the cracks between the cobblestones.   From there, it was cake. Isaac, still clutching at his side, spins on his heel, his rapier flicking out in a swift arc, the blade catching the moonlight. His hawkish eyes lock onto the smaller shadow, he lunges, aiming to skewer the little bastard before they can slip back into the night. The halfling screams as the blade punches through his chest, and the small figure crumples with a sickening, rattling gasp. Only the archer remained. Douglas knifed the tall man in the gut and watched him stumble away clutching the stinking wound.   Douglas spat, a thick clump of blood and snot hitting the stones, and let the archer retreat, already weighing the cost of this bloody encounter.   He grits his teeth, his mind racing through the twisted canals of Bymoor, the half-remembered bolt-holes and rot-stained taverns that might offer a moment’s respite. But then his thoughts flick to Elissa – the cool, cynical mage who spoke of loyalty and competence. If she truly intends to employ them, she’ll have a vested interest in keeping them alive, at least until the mansion has given up its secrets. And if she’s half as clever as she seems, she’ll want to know what they’ve uncovered about their rivals before they set off into the swamps.   Douglas swallows, the taste of blood still trapped in his mouth, and reaches out, catching Isaac’s arm before the duelist collapses. His voice is low, roughened by the pain still clawing at his torn shoulder.   “Elissa,” he rasps, his eyes gleaming and hard in the half-light. “She’ll want to know what we’ve found – the rivals, the gear, the missing dockhands. And if she’s got any sense, she’ll patch us up before throwing us into the mud." He lets go of Isaac’s arm, his own blood-slick fingers slipping slightly on the man’s torn sleeve, and takes a halting step toward the shadowed walkway ahead.   “Come on,” he mutters, his boots scraping against the ground. “Let’s see if our new employer is as practical as she claims.”   ***   Douglas leans heavily against the rough, splintered edge of a low wooden bench, his shoulder wrapped in a quickly knotted strip of his own cloak, the worn fabric already soaked through with fresh blood. Isaac was worse – the duelist slumped in a small wooden chair, one gloved hand still clamped over the stinking stain on his side, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his breath a shallow, dripping rasp. Douglas could see the slick gleam of raw muscle where the half-orc’s blade had torn through his leathers. The air in the cramped servant’s quarters is thick with the mingled stench of sweat, blood, and damp. No rot on the walls even in this part of the house, not frequented by its lady. A fat-winged marshfly bumped blindly against the fogged glass of the window — slow, stupid, and too stubborn to die, like most things in this gods-cursed city.   When Elissa stepped into the room, her annoyance palpable through the gloom, Douglas felt a flicker of something like relief – a rare, bitter emotion in a man used to walking the knife’s edge of life and death. He catches the slight curl of her lip, the faint, irritated flicker of her eyelashes at the sight of their battered, bloodied forms, and he forces a cute smile onto his blood-streaked mug.   “Ran into some... complications,” he rasps, each syllable a fresh scrape of broken glass in his throat. “Seems we’re not the only ones with an interest in Rivenhall’s mansion. Someone’s been recruiting – thugs, swamp gear, enchanted boots, even anti-venom. Moved like a noble but kept his face covered, like a man with secrets to hide.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he catches her gaze. “Found a few dockworkers who took well-paid contracts and never came back. Someone’s making moves, and they’re not shy about cutting out tongues to keep their secrets.”   Isaac, his breathing still ragged, forces himself to tilt his bloodless face upward to meet Elissa’s cool, appraising stare. “We crossed blades with a small group of their hirelings. They knew we were a threat, and they came prepared. Someone’s pulling their strings, and they’re not afraid to bleed for it. We’re not the only ones hunting your prize.”   Douglas straightens, his eyes still locked on Elissa’s, his jaw clenched tight against the slow, steady pulse of pain in his torn shoulder. “Thought you’d want to know, before we stumble into a damn ambush in the swamps.” He lets the words hang, the unspoken request for aid hanging in the warm, blood-heavy air between them.   Elissa looked over them, taking in the blood-streaked clothes, the shallow, ragged breaths, the tight, pained lines etched into their faces. She gave a pensive nod, the faintest hint of satisfaction flickering in her expression – a shade of... respect?   She crossed the cramped, smoke-stained room in three precise steps, her fingers already reaching for Isaac’s side. She didn’t ask permission, didn’t pause to explain, just twisted her hand into the tear in his leathers and pressed her palm flat against the ragged edges of the wound.   Isaac stiffened, his eyes snapping into focus, his back arching as her magic flooded his body. Douglas watched, his own breath catching, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his pockets as he saw the wound begin to knit itself closed – muscle twisting, bone pulling itself back into place with a snappy sound, torn flesh stitching itself together in a dozen small, rippling waves. Elissa took a deep breath, her eyes closed, and then produced the second spell, Isaac gasping, as the wound vanished entirely.   Isaac let out a long, shuddering breath, his head falling back, his eyes closing for a moment as the last of the magic surged through him, his pale, sweat-slick face settling into something like calm.   Douglas felt his stomach twist, his pulse quicken, the slow, sickening realization creeping into his mind – this was power. Real, undeniable power, the kind that could reach into a man’s guts and pull him back from the brink of death. Countless children, women, and men died in the underplanks from smaller wounds left to fester, infected bruises and the bite of sewerflies. Elissa simply reached into Isaac and unwound death like it was a tangle of thread.   Elissa straightened, focusing on Douglas, twitching her eyebrow, her fingers still stained with Isaac’s blood. She took a slow, deliberate step toward him.   “Sit,” she said, her voice precise, but quiet and raspy, though still a command rather than a request.   Douglas sank onto the bench, his back stiff, his fingers still twitching with the last echoes of adrenaline. He felt the sodden weight of his own blood soaking through his jacket, the raw sting of torn flesh pulling at his nerves with each breath.   Elissa stepped closer, her hand reaching out, the fine, worn silver ring with its small ruby catching the guttering candlelight. She touched his shoulder lightly, her fingers cool, and for a heartbeat, he felt the instinctive urge to jerk away. But then the magic surged, energy threading through his nerves like an icy current, knitting muscle and bone, sealing torn flesh, folding the skin back together.   It wasn’t painful, exactly, but it felt wrong – like a hand pushing through the dense, generational mud at the bottom of a canal, finding purchase where none should exist. He felt his ribs pull together, the ache in his shoulder smoothing into a dull throb, his blood cooling, settling back into a steady, rhythmic pulse.   He caught a flicker of his own reflection in a cracked, soot-streaked mirror across the cramped room – his ill eyes wide, his pale skin drawn and tight, the faint, ghostly outline of old scars vanishing.   Elissa stepped back, her own breath coming in shallow, measured pulls, a faint sheen of sweat glistening at her temples. Her dark eyes still locked on his, a tender smile blooming on her triangular face. “There,” she murmured, tilting her head and brushing her clean fingernail against his stubble, “A new investment.”   Douglas felt a fleeting child's regret, as the last echoes of her magic faded away, his own heart settling back into its rhythm. He rolled his shoulder once, twice, feeling the cool, unnatural smoothness of the freshly healed skin, and allowed himself a fleeting smirk, catching Isaac's eye.   Elissa watched them for a moment longer, silent, then gave a slight nod. "Bymoor eats the slow. Now that we know there is competition, there is no point giving them free time."   “Right,” Douglas muttered, his fingers flexing, the familiar presence of his knives settling against his belt once more. “No sense giving these bastards a head start.”