1-3

Panthonia sat in the back row of this underground tavern's hall, waiting for the next performer to take the stage. Smoke wafted through the dim light, rising slowly to the ceiling; it came from the tobacco forbidden within Stormwind City, escaping from the cracked lips of the patrons. Nearby, someone pushed out their last chip with two fingers, everything in their narrow field of vision gradually fading away. A crowd gathered around a round table in the center of the room, seats arranged in a hierarchical manner, the leader increasingly convinced that he alone was the center of this world under the stimulation of alcohol. A row of small rooms lined the second-floor corridor, one door open, a man with a bleeding nose stumbled out, finding the stairs on all fours. A maid, taking a tip, tried to smile less awkwardly, knowing that the patrons before her were more accustomed to taking than giving. This was a place that the residents of the Queen's District usually didn't have the courage to step into.

On the left side of the hall, several people, dressed entirely out of place, occupied two tables. They tried their best to appear ordinary, but the quality of their fabric and carefully styled hair betrayed them. The leader was a young man who looked less than twenty years old—more accurately, he was under the protection of those around him. Very frail, although his back was straight, he still seemed like a small wad of paper accidentally caught in the chair's crevice. He sweated profusely, and a person next to him pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead several times in a minute. Although he was used to this kind of attention, it still annoyed him. When the so-called emcee announced a name on stage, the young man used the back of his left hand to push away the servant's handkerchief, then bit his nails.

Panthonia's attention was also focused on the stage. A woman walked out from behind, keeping her head down until she reached the center of the stage. This was not the place to wave to the audience for a reaction, but she knew how to smile moderately. When she lifted her eyes, a sharp and short whistle sounded somewhere in the audience. Only one whistle, as if it realized it couldn't be too conspicuous here and hid itself.

She started to sing. A folk song that had circulated among the common people of Lordaeron many years ago. It sang of white birds and full lilac leaves. Not everyone in the tavern was attracted to it; but for those willing to listen, her voice was worth temporarily restraining their usual aggressiveness. The peculiar morality of criminals: they also had parts in their hearts that the most direct sensory stimulation couldn't fill, and they knew to abide by the rules only for this part—just like a storm blowing away a large area of tents on the battlefield but just missing the upright banners.

Panthonia had heard this song before, although no one had ever sung it just for him in the past. The song itself was not his purpose for coming here today; he had come for the female singer. However, he remembered that there used to be a maid at home who hummed this tune every day, which ended up earning him a thrashing from his father, who hated all music.

He noticed that the thin noble youth, who was not a descendant of Lordaeron, was the most attentive listener.

"Brother Shawl," after four songs, a short man pulled up a chair and sat down beside Panthonia. "I didn't expect you to come here."

Panthonia glanced at him and continued to gaze at the female singer.

"It's not safe here. I heard Salvaney is eager for your head. He's offering one hundred and fifty gold coins."

"When did you hear this news?"

"Just recently. I heard it this morning." He grabbed a handful of nuts from the dish on the table and put them in his mouth, chewing for a few moments before continuing. "He was really pissed off by the last time you raided his warehouse."

"Have you heard anything else?"

"Nothing."

After a moment of silence, the short man continued.

"Do you also enjoy listening to this woman sing? Did you come specifically for her? To be honest, I'm not that into singing, but you can't see a woman like her anywhere else. That face, that figure... just thinking about it feels like a waste. If she wanted to, she could have become the second 'Queen' of the Queen's District... Of course, I'm not cursing her to death."

Panthonia understood what the short man meant. "Queen" was the most famous prostitute in the district many years ago, and two gangs fought over control of her. After a war of attrition, the two sides decided to reconcile; as a gesture of goodwill, they disfigured and buried the "Queen" alive. The current Queen's District was named after this incident. Like naming a child, this name represented hope that you were honest and brave, that you were happy all your life, and that you were beautiful and pleasant, but that everyone remembered that there were innocent bodies buried in your belly.

"Brother Shawl, my sister is sick again. She's been coughing up blood since early this morning." After a while, the short man tugged at his collar. "Look at this, all red. When I was supporting her, she spit it out on top of it. I have to take her to see a doctor, but I don't have any money."

"I gave you money last week. You remember our agreement."

"I remember, of course I remember, but if this continues, my sister won't make it. She's my only family. Considering I've told you quite a big piece of news today, can't you help out?"

Panthonia took out two silver coins, and the short man, still wearing an awkward smile, took them. He then took out two more.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you. You've been so kind to me. You keep enjoying yourself here, I'll go home."

The short man got up and left with the coins. Shortly after, Panthonia left his seat as well.

He caught up with the short man in a narrow corridor outside the tavern. "I'll send the money to your house," he said, before plunging his dagger into the man's heart. It was dark, and he didn't see the dying expression. Even without disposing of the body, there would be no investigation as to why someone who begged during the day, gambled and drank at night, ended up dead in the alleys of the Queen's District. Avoiding the spilling blood, Panthonia intended to search for the four silver coins; but he quickly changed his mind. He wiped the blood off the dagger and turned back.

This man had to die. Panthonia's first principle in dealing with informants was not to accept extortion, not even a hint of it, even if the informant was valuable. The bounty of one hundred and fifty gold coins might not even be real, but whether the information was true or false, the deceased had been trying to exploit it.

Back at the tavern, the singer's performance had ended. Now on stage was a clown and a very small pig. "Today, my beloved and I finally got married," he said as he leaned over and tied a red ribbon to the pig's ear. "My little darling, do you love me? How much?" The piglet squealed twice. "Ah, everyone listen, she says she loves me like she loves a donkey's tail!"

Panthonia stood up and walked from the hallway outside the hall towards the back of the tavern. He saw several recognizable figures approaching straight ahead, so he hid in the shadow of the stairs. As they passed, he heard their conversation.

"...Young master, that woman was too rude. How dare she refuse your gift. Besides, you shouldn't have come to such a place that damages your status..."

"Shut up."

A barely audible slap, then a series of coughs. Panthonia could imagine that just that one action had robbed the frail noble youth of the strength he used to stand.

"I'll make Father... punish you..."

After those people went far away, he revealed himself and continued inward, eventually coming to a brown door. The door was only closed, so he opened it.

As soon as he entered, the female singer who was removing her makeup at the vanity turned around. Her eyes were full of alertness, and the calmness she demonstrated with her limbs concealed her fear. If it weren't for her ability to quickly calm down in the face of intruders, she wouldn't have had the courage to take the stage.

"You... who are you?"

"You're Hilsbeth?" he locked the door.

"I am." Reluctantly, the female singer had to admit it. She used a pseudonym on stage. "How did you know..."

"I have something to ask you."

"Wait, you..." Hilsbeth stared into the other's eyes, four fingers of her right hand slowly curling up on the tabletop. "I know you. You're with Aretta... Yes, I remember your face. You're Panthonia, right? Panthonia Shawl?"

Although Panthonia intended to speak, Hilsbeth evidently had a stronger desire to express herself. She kept talking.

"What are you doing here? Aretta... Aretta was killed by you. She didn't do anything wrong, why did you treat her like that? She told me everything. She was so pitiful, experiencing so many terrible things, yet..."

"I regret what happened to her. I didn't make her die."

"You didn't! Of course you didn't! But you gave her so much hope, then discarded her like trash. I couldn't persuade her no matter what. You bastard... you beast." She picked up the powder box and smashed it against Panthonia's chest. "Get out. Get out. Go away."

Although her words were brave, when Panthonia approached, Hilsbeth almost fell backward. "Don't come near." Her back was against the edge of the table. "I'll call for help..."

Panthonia reached out his left hand and covered her mouth. His palm was large enough to almost cover her entire lower jaw. At that moment, the innkeeper's voice came from outside the door.

"Hilsbeth, what are you yelling in there? What's going on? Didn't I say not to lock this door? Open up for me."

Hilsbeth tried to shake off the hand holding her, but failed. She couldn't resist the man in front of her, a fact she had anticipated when she recognized him. Allowing someone else to end their life required a far greater, more corrosive force than killing with one's own hands. Panthonia pulled out the dagger with his right hand and pressed it against her cheek. The blade sank into the skin sideways. Fragile, fragile, fragile skin. The first line of defense of life. As someone living in the Queen's District, she could smell how much blood the dagger had been tainted with.

Panthonia looked into Hilsbeth's eyes. Although they were filled with fear at the moment, he could still glimpse the folk songs she had just sung, glimpses of the land where those lyrics were born.