Chapter 7: The Grey Man

Darkness pressed against the windows of the safe house.

Rain tapped steadily against the glass, its gentle rhythm the only sound disturbing the silence within.

Outside, Blackfen slept beneath a blanket of storm clouds.

Inside, the fire was dying.

A few stubborn embers glowed beneath the blackened logs, casting a weak orange light across the room.

Garran Veyl sat alone before the hearth.

A bottle rested loosely in his hand.

Another lay empty beside his chair.

He stared into the fading flames, his expression unreadable.

Every so often, he raised the bottle to his lips.

Drank.

Lowered it.

And returned his gaze to the fire.

The room smelled of damp wood, old smoke, and liquor.

Rain trickled down the windows.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled across the sleeping city.

Garran didn't move.

The Grey Man.

A name whispered in the darkest corners of Blackfen.

A man whose very presence could silence a room full of killers.

And yet, here he sat.

Alone.

Drinking himself toward sleep while watching the last of the fire struggle against the darkness.

Another mouthful.

Another long silence.

A log shifted in the hearth.

Crack.

A small shower of sparks rose into the chimney.

Garran watched them disappear.

Then he lifted the bottle again.

This time, he found it empty.

He tilted it.

Waited.

Not a drop.

For several seconds, he simply stared at the glass.

Then he sighed.

"Figures."

He lowered the bottle to the floor.

And returned his attention to the dying fire.

Garran's eyes remained fixed on the dying fire.

But he was no longer seeing the flames.

Something stirred behind them.

Memories.

Old ones.

The kind that never truly disappeared, no matter how much a man drank.

For a moment, the orange glow of the hearth became something else.

Fire.

Not the gentle warmth of a fireplace.

The roaring flames of a battlefield.

He could almost hear it.

Steel striking steel.

Men shouting.

The cries of the wounded.

Images flashed through his mind.

A field littered with broken weapons.

Smoke rising into a darkened sky.

Blood soaking the earth beneath his feet.

One memory gave way to another.

Then another.

Deeper.

And deeper.

Garran sat motionless, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the room.

It felt as though he were falling.

Down into a place he'd spent years trying to forget.

And just before he reached the bottom...

Knock. Knock.

His eyes shifted toward the door.

The battlefield vanished.

The safe house returned.

The rain.

The dying fire.

The empty bottles.

Garran blinked.

Then shook his head, as though physically brushing the memories away.

"Right..."

He leaned forward and attempted to stand.

His knees protested.

He steadied himself against the armrest before finally rising to his feet.

Another knock sounded.

He wasn't particularly surprised.

Truthfully, he'd been expecting someone.

Rather sooner than this, actually.

Garran glanced at the empty bottle in his hand.

He set it down beside the chair.

Then made his way toward the door.

His footsteps were slow but deliberate.

As he approached, one hand drifted toward the dagger resting at his waist.

Not because he was frightened.

Simply because a man who'd survived as long as Garran Veyl had learned that even expected visitors could bring unpleasant surprises.

He stopped before the door.

For a moment, he listened.

Rain hammered against the roof.

Water dripped from the eaves.

Garran rested his fingers against the dagger's handle.

Then opened the door.

A gust of cold, damp air swept into the room.

And standing on the doorstep...

Was a rat.

An enormous rat.

His fur was soaked from head to tail.

Water streamed from his whiskers, dripped from his ears, and gathered in a puddle beneath his feet.

The creature stood silently in the rain.

Garran looked at him.

The rat looked back.

Fitch.

Garran's face twisted into an expression of disgust.

"Gods, you smell like rat shit."

Fitch looked him up and down.

"Just as much as you look like shit."

His whiskers twitched.

"May I come in, Garran?"

Garran stepped aside.

Then, with a grand flourish, he bent forward in an exaggerated bow.

"You may, Sir Rodent."

Fitch didn't respond.

He simply stepped inside, bringing a trail of rainwater with him.

He removed his jacket.

Not that it helped much.

The enormous rat was soaked from head to tail, and taking off one wet piece of clothing did absolutely nothing to improve the situation.

He hung the jacket on a coat hook beside the door.

Then made his way toward the fireplace.

The dying embers offered little warmth, but Fitch stood before them anyway, holding his hands toward the remaining flames.

For a while, neither man spoke.

Only the rain filled the silence.

Then Fitch broke it.

"The Black Hooks have left Blackfen."

Garran closed the door.

"I think they're heading south," Fitch continued.

"So what?"

Garran barely looked at him.

Instead, he wandered toward a nearby cabinet, opening it and inspecting the bottles within.

Fitch turned his head.

"Garran, I know you've heard about—"

"Stop right there, rat."

Garran didn't turn around.

His voice had changed.

The lazy amusement was gone.

"I don't know what you think is happening, but the boy means absolutely nothing to me."

He pulled a bottle from the cabinet.

"He's just another child of the Slums."

Garran inspected the bottle.

Still some left.

Good.

He began undoing the cap.

Fitch watched him.

For a moment, the enormous rat said nothing.

Then...

"If you didn't care, then why do you already know—"

CRASH!

The bottle shot across the room.

It struck the stone fireplace beside Fitch's head and exploded into a shower of glass.

Liquor splashed across the burning logs.

The dying flames flared violently, sending sparks rushing up the chimney.

Fitch didn't move.

Not an inch.

A shard of glass struck the floor beside his foot.

Another bounced against the hearth.

Then silence.

Only the rain continued tapping against the windows.

Fitch didn't flinch.

He didn't raise his hands.

He didn't even glance at the shattered glass scattered across the hearth.

There was no fear in his eyes.

Only worry.

And strangely enough, that worry wasn't for himself.

It was for Garran.

For a while, the enormous rat stood silently before the fireplace, watching the flames settle back into their dying glow.

Then he spoke.

"Do you remember our days as mercenaries, Garran?"

He paused.

"What am I saying? Of course you do."

Garran said nothing.

His eyes had returned to the fire.

Fitch watched him for a moment before continuing.

"I'm not saying you have to take the boy as your apprentice, Garran."

He folded his arms.

"But do you know why he was taken?"

Garran's expression remained unchanged.

"Why should it matter to me—"

"He was taken because of us, Garran."

Garran's eyes twitched.

Just slightly.

Fitch noticed.

"I'm assuming the ones who told you what happened were the servants of the Festival Goddess?"

Garran remained silent.

"I've been asking around. Nobody seemed to know who actually carried out the kidnapping."

Fitch glanced toward the shattered bottle beside the hearth.

"Every man they cut down had memory-wiping magic placed on him. Something that would erase what he knew if he died."

He looked back at Garran.

"And the ones who survived long enough to realize they couldn't escape..."

Fitch paused.

"They killed themselves rather than be captured."

The rain continued beating against the windows.

Garran hadn't moved.

But something about him had changed.

Fitch could see it.

The distant, drunken look in his eyes was disappearing.

The memories that had occupied him moments earlier were gone.

For the first time since opening the door, Garran was truly listening.

Fitch lowered his voice.

"But I found out who did it."

Silence.

Garran slowly turned his head.

His eyes settled on Fitch.

No longer on the fire.

No longer on the bottle.

On him.

And this time, Fitch had his full attention.

"The Black Lantern guild only received the information thirty minutes ago."

Fitch watched Garran carefully.

"And the moment I found out, I came straight here."

Garran's jaw tightened.

"Waste no more time, Fitch. Speak, damn you."

Fitch met his gaze.

"It was the Crimson Rooks, Garran."

For a moment, Garran said nothing.

His eyes wavered.

Then, slowly, his gaze returned to the fireplace.

The flames had nearly burned themselves out.

He studied the remaining embers as though searching for something within them.

An answer.

An instruction.

Perhaps even an excuse.

Fitch waited.

He knew better than to interrupt.

The rain continued tapping against the windows.

At last, Garran looked away from the fire.

His eyes settled on the enormous rat standing before him.

"Damn you, Fitch. I knew you would come, nosy bastard."

"Did the Mouse ever tell you where his guild was?"

Fitch chuckled.

The rain never reached this deep into the cavern of Blackfen.

Not directly, at least.

Far above, water poured from rooftop to rooftop, filling gutters and overflowing into the city's sprawling sewer systems.

Eventually, it found its way down.

Through cracks in the stone.

Through drainage channels.

Through the ancient tunnels beneath the capital.

Until the rain became little more than the distant roar of water cascading into the depths.

Down in the Lower Slums, the Rags' guildhouse was fully lit.

Not a single soul was sleeping.

Even from outside, the commotion could be heard.

Shouting.

Cursing.

The scraping of steel against whetstones.

Inside, the guildhouse was in chaos.

Equipment was being dragged from storage.

Weapons were sharpened.

Belts tightened.

Old blades inspected.

Some of the older Rags were arguing over where to search next, while others were gathering whatever supplies they could carry.

And in the request room, things weren't much better.

"SHIT!"

CRASH!

A wooden chair sailed across the room and smashed through its only window.

Splinters scattered across the floor.

Ren stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily.

His enormous fists were clenched.

Tavin, who had been standing nearby, flinched at the noise.

He turned toward Mara.

"What do we do, Mara?"

She didn't answer.

"We've asked everywhere. Nobody knows who did it."

Tavin swallowed.

"What if they die—"

"SHUT UP, TAVIN!"

Ren's voice thundered through the room.

The boy recoiled.

Ren turned away, dragging a hand across his face.

His anger wasn't helping.

He knew that.

But standing around doing nothing was driving him mad.

Mara sat behind the request desk.

Her expression was strained, her eyes tired.

"Has anyone found Kael yet?"

"Who knows?" Ren snapped.

He kicked aside a broken piece of the chair.

"Probably off drinking with girls like always."

Mara said nothing.

For a moment, she simply stared at the desk.

There were requests scattered across its surface.

Jobs that needed doing.

Problems that needed solving.

Things that had seemed important only yesterday.

Now, she couldn't have cared less about any of them.

Two of her own were missing.

Mouse and Lys.

A nine-year-old boy and a thirteen-year-old girl.

Two children she'd promised herself she'd protect.

And despite everyone searching, asking questions, and turning the Slums upside down...

They had nothing.

Mara slowly lowered herself farther into her chair.

Then buried her face in her hands.

"Shit."

For a moment, the request room fell silent.

Ren stood motionless, his fists still clenched.

Tavin stared at the floor.

Mara remained seated, her head buried in her hands.

Everyone was searching for an answer.

A name.

A direction.

Anything that might lead them to Mouse and Lys.

Downstairs, the rest of the Rags were preparing.

Blades were being sharpened.

Armor was being fastened.

Supplies were being gathered.

They were waiting for Mara to give them a name.

Someone to find.

Someone to question.

Someone to blame.

And then...

Something entered their minds.

All at once.

Every Rag in the guildhouse froze.

A melody had begun playing inside their heads.

Not through their ears.

Not from the street.

Not from anywhere they could point to.

It was simply there.

A quiet, chilling tune, threading itself through their thoughts as though someone had reached inside their skulls and begun humming.

Some clutched their heads.

Others looked around wildly, searching for whoever was responsible.

But there was no singer.

No source.

Only the song.

And every single one of them recognized it.

A song passed from parent to child, from older sibling to younger, whispered beneath blankets and around dying fires.

Not a song meant to comfort.

A warning.

A lesson in self-preservation.

The song of the Grey Man.

Then, inside thirty frightened minds, the words began.

"Lock the window..."

Several Rags tightened their grips on their weapons.

"Douse the flame..."

The humming continued between the words.

"Don't speak twice..."

Someone near the entrance went pale.

"The Grey Man's name..."

The room had gone completely silent.

The Rags exchanged confused glances.

Where was it coming from?

Who in the gods' names was putting this song inside their heads?

And why here?

Why now?

Upstairs, Mara lifted her head.

Ren turned toward the door.

Tavin stood frozen.

Then the voice continued.

"Bar the doorway..."

Mara rose from her chair.

Ren and Tavin followed as she hurried toward the stairs.

"Hold your breath..."

By the time the three reached the staircase, the entire guildhouse had fallen silent.

Mara stopped halfway down.

Below her, the Rags stood scattered across the common room, weapons in hand, their attention fixed on the entrance.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody moved.

The voice was clearer now.

Not louder.

Closer.

As though whoever was singing had stepped deeper into their thoughts.

"When Veyl comes knocking..."

The final words echoed through every mind in the guildhouse.

"Answer death."

And then...

The song stopped.

Gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

For one long moment, nobody dared breathe.

Then, from the other side of the guildhouse door, came a sound that every Rag heard with their own ears.

Knock. Knock.