"Night-knight"

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??? person pov

He was sitting in his guard post as usual, together with his two colleagues who were playing cards. Dink seemed to be winning considering the amount of copper coins piled up in front of him, and even though it looked like a lot, it was just enough for one night in the tavern. Well, it wasn't a bad return for a little game, considering how poorly paid the position was. Fod was not that lucky, and he would probably have to go without decent food for the next few days.

He yawned and looked at the clock on the table. A quick look told him that it was almost time for the next round. Normally, a poor wretch like him would never have the opportunity to get his hands on a watch. This was because clocks were very expensive since they were mostly magical items, but because they had to know when the next circle was, the crown equipped every guardpost with one clock.

He signaled to his two comrades that he would take over the next shift and stepped out of the guard post to do a patrol on the wall. He didn't think this was necessary; in his entire 11-year career as a wall guard, he hadn't noticed anything suspicious.

However, he had heard from one of his colleagues that the fortress city of E-Rantel had recently almost been overrun by a horde of undead. There were even rumors that those responsible were Suranon, the famous death cult, but he thought this was just a rumor. The fact that a single adventure team had settled the matter only seemed to confirm his suspicions.

He leaned against the wall, and another yawn escaped him. This was probably one of the most boring jobs in the whole kingdom. It was uninteresting and poorly paid, but at least it was enough to live on. The best thing was that he was not included in the army during the annual war because the wall still had to be guarded, especially during the war.

He heard a noise on the wall, probably from one of his colleagues who wanted to change with him. He turned around to greet his colleague but froze. On the wall, two meters next to him, stood a figure wrapped in a dark cloak, with the hood pulled low over its face so that he couldn't even see its eyes.

The figure took a step towards him, meneacingly towering over him. Reflexively, he backed away and tripped over his own legs, only to fall and land on his buttocks. The figure came closer and raised its hand as it approached to brush its hood from its face. He shuderted, blood-red eyes that sparkled in the dark light bored into his; it made him want to look away, but there was something hypnotic about them that made him keep staring into that endless red.

"Forget what you saw today," said the figure in a dark and masculine tone.

He wanted to say something back, call his colleagues, or even attack the intruder, but suddenly he couldn't remember why. 

Where was he?

He looked around; the familiar image of the wall seemed to calm him. He remembered the noise he heard right next to him on the wall.

Had he slept?

Really, his colleagues would make fun of him if they found out.

"Ha, it must have been the wind" he murmured, and he started to move back inside the guard post.

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Felix pov

He landed on the other side of the wall and pulled his hood over his face. That really was close; the guard had almost discovered him, but fortunately he had acted quickly. It would really be a shame if he had already been discovered. Of course, he could have killed the guard, but that would have attracted too much attention. Furthermore, he still felt hesitant when it came to killing innocent people since it had not been that long since he had been turned.

He wasn't like his mistress, who could wipe out hundreds, if not thousands, of people without batting an eyelid. Haaah He hadn't seen her in a really long time—not since she left him in the theocracy to continue gathering information. It hadn't been long since he had received new orders and been honored to follow them, and still, despite his new mission, he had no illusions about his place; he was far from the best option she could choose from. spy, bodyguard, or even a lowly servant. She commanded people who were more powerful, skilled, or even clever than him, but that was all right.

He was probably only given the task of finding out more about the eight fingers because he still had a score to settle with them, and she had promised him revenge if he followed her. Still, he didn't resent her for it. It was only fair that she was paid for the effort of transforming him and granting him his revenge, and after all, she hadn't hidden the price for this from him. The price of his humanity and his eternal loyalty seemed so small compared to what he got in return.

He wandered through the streets; in fact, he already had an idea where he would start. After all, the best place to find out about an underground organization was from those who worked closely with it. The further he walked, the more run-down the houses became. Neglected and dirty people lined the side of the street; it smelled of sweat, alcohol, sex, and rotting meat. A smell that was not unusual for a slum and that he was used to, thanks to his background. 

He stopped and looked up. He was standing in front of a dilapidated inn that looked like it would collapse at any moment. On the large sign above the front door, it said in large letters "to the dead dog," a pub in the slum that he knew his father had often visited. He pushed the doors open and entered the bar. The atmosphere seemed to have changed immediately; the other guests started to look at him, and their conversations became noticeably quieter. Without paying any attention, he made his way to the counter to talk to the host.

"What d' ya want?" grumbled the innkeeper.

He looked like a large bear with a thick, long brown beard and large arms that gave the impression that he could break a desk if he hit it hard enough. Of course, you couldn't always trust looks when it came to strength; just because someone looked weak didn't mean they were. Magic casters were a good example of this, and even other species sometimes looked weaker than they were. He ignored the innkeeper's feeble attempts to intimidate him and reached into his cloak to produce a jingling bag.

"Information," he answered.

The innkeeper opened the bag, gave a satisfied grunt, and let the bag disappear into his pocket.

"What can you tell me about the eight fingers?" he asked.

As if it had been a signal, all the people in the tavern twitched, even the innkeaper, and a scrowl spread across his face. 

"Lissen kid, there' a thinks in this world ya shouldn't bother with. This is one of' em"

He could hear two men standing up behind him and creeping towards him. He heard the metal end of a knife being pulled from a belt. Steps came closer, and they were now directly behind him. Without warning, he spun around and kicked one in the stomach, just for the thug to stumble back, hitting a nerby chair. The knife of his other attacker was ripped out of his hand, and a hit threw his opponent against the counter. With a quick motion, he drew the knife through the drunken man's hand so that it got stuck in the wood, resulting in a cry echoing through the bar, but nobody made any arrangements to help.

"I paid for this information; give it to me now," he ordered menacingly.

"Suit ya' self," Grummbelt said, pulling out a piece of paper.

"I don't know much, but I know a guy; he can tell ya what ya want," replied the bear, who handed him the piece of paper.

He pulled the knive out of one man's hand, ignored the cry the insect let out, and slipped the blade into his robe. Then, as if nothing had happened, he made his way out of the bar. The thugs in his path scatter and quickly rush to make amends for him. After he was some distance away, he tock out the paper and looked at it. In scraggly writing, he could make out an address. He snorted and, without hesitation, threw the paper in the trash. The innkeeper really thought he was that stupid; they were in the slums. He had grown up here and knew how things worked. The eight fingers had control over everything here, so it was very likely that the address was a trap.

The inn owner was most likely an informant for the eight fingers and would therefore probably come into contact with one of their agents soon. All he then had to do was follow him. 

Really, sometimes it was just too easy.

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