A job for mercenaries

It wasn't a door in any conventional sense, there was no frame, no handle, no obvious hinges. Instead, a rectangular section of bricks simply swung inward, revealing a passage beyond. The opening was perfectly concealed, the kind of craftsmanship that spoke of considerable skill and resources.

Daemon looked around one last time, his eyes scanning the alley for any sign of movement or threat.

The feeling of being watched had intensified, and he was certain that unseen observers were cataloging his every move. But there was no turning back now. Whatever lay beyond that hidden entrance, it represented his best chance at the kind of work that might keep him alive.

He stepped through the opening, and immediately felt the temperature change. The passage beyond was warmer, heated by torches that flickered in iron sconces along the walls.

The flames cast dancing shadows that seemed to move independently of their light sources, creating an atmosphere that was both welcoming and deeply unsettling.

The passage stretched ahead for what looked like fifty feet, the walls lined with smooth stone that appeared far older than the buildings above.

The craftsmanship was impressive, each block fitted perfectly with its neighbors, creating a surface that was both functional and aesthetically pleasing.

Daemon's footsteps echoed differently here, the sound muffled and hollow, as if the corridor extended much further than he could see.

As he walked, Daemon became aware of sounds ahead, the murmur of voices, the scrape of chairs, the occasional cough or cleared throat.

The noises grew louder as he approached what appeared to be the end of the passage, where warm light spilled from an opening in the wall.

The passage opened into a large room that defied the cramped confines of the alley above.

The space was circular, with a domed ceiling that disappeared into shadows above the reach of the torchlight. The walls were lined with alcoves, each one containing different artifacts, weapons, books, scrolls, and objects that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

About twenty people were already gathered in the room, scattered across various pieces of furniture that looked like they had been collected from different time periods and places.

There were ornate chairs that belonged in a noble's study, simple wooden stools that might have come from a tavern, and even what appeared to be a throne carved from black stone.

The atmosphere was tense, charged with the kind of silence that preceded violence. Most of the assembled individuals didn't bother looking up when Daemon entered, their attention focused on weapons, books, or simply staring at the floor with the thousand-yard stare of those who had seen too much.

Daemon found an empty sofa near the back of the room, a piece of furniture that had once been expensive but now showed the wear of countless users. The leather was cracked and stained, and the cushions had lost most of their stuffing, but it was better than standing. As he settled into the uncomfortable seat, he became acutely aware of eyes on him.

The sensation was different from the anonymous observation in the alley. This was more personal, more focused.

A woman sitting across the room was watching him with undisguised interest, her lips curved in what might have been a smile.

She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, with the kind of beauty that seemed dangerous rather than appealing. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical bun, and her clothes were well-made but designed for movement rather than fashion.

When she caught him looking, her smile widened, revealing teeth that were too white and too sharp.

There was something predatory about her expression, like a cat that had spotted an interesting mouse. Daemon looked away quickly, but he could still feel her gaze burning into the side of his head.

But it was the man sitting near the room's center who truly made Daemon's blood run cold. The brute was impossible to miss, easily six and a half feet tall, with shoulders that seemed to span half the room. His face was a map of old violence, marked with scars that spoke of countless fights and the kind of damage that came from bare-knuckle combat.

It was the same man who had punched him in the face at the tavern, the one whose blow had sent him reeling and left his jaw aching for hours. The recognition was mutual. The brute's small eyes narrowed to slits as he took in Daemon's appearance, his massive hands clenching into fists that could probably crush a man's skull.

The tension between them was palpable, a crackling energy that seemed to charge the air itself. Daemon forced himself to maintain eye contact, knowing that looking away would be interpreted as weakness. But inside, his mind was racing. What were the odds of encountering the same man twice in one night? Was this coincidence, or was there something more sinister at work?

"I've been sitting here for a fucking hour," someone complained from the other side of the room. The voice belonged to a thin man with nervous energy, his leg bouncing as he spoke. "If this is some kind of joke—"

The complaint was cut off by the sound of another door opening. This one was more conventional, set into the wall opposite the entrance Daemon had used. The door swung inward with a soft whisper, and a man stepped through carrying a black briefcase that gleamed in the torchlight.

The newcomer was everything the assembled mercenaries were not. His three-piece suit was immaculate, tailored to fit his lean frame perfectly. His hair was combed back with precision, and his shoes were polished to a mirror shine. He moved with the confidence of someone who was used to being obeyed, his every gesture calculated for maximum effect.

When he smiled, it was the kind of expression that belonged on a shark rather than a human face, all teeth and predatory satisfaction.

"Gentlemen. And ladies," he said, his voice carrying easily across the room despite its conversational tone. "Thank you for your patience. The Ninth Monarch has a covert job that requires the services of skilled mercenaries."

The room fell silent, and Daemon's ears nearly burnt out.

The Ninth circle Monarch?