Prologue

As he slowly rose from the bed, his senses clouded by drink and sweat. He stumbled over to his leather tunic, carefully picking it up from the floor. The tunic was expertly crafted and adorned with intricate designs, a testament to the skilled artisan.

The man was in a dimly lit brothel on the city's outskirts. He was determined to regain his composure after the harrowing night he had just experienced. He slipped the tunic over his head, fastening it around his waist and feeling the familiar texture against his skin.

As he turned to face the young woman lying lifelessly on the bed, her features twisted in pain, he wondered if she had just surrendered to the unbearable experience he'd subjected her to.

Another victim of his brutal act, she lay there, a broken and violated soul. He couldn't be sure if she had passed out or was paralyzed by the atrocities he'd committed. Desperation had pushed him to the limits, and he'd crossed the lines he never intended to.

With a heavy sigh, he left a handful of silver coins on the nightstand as a token of appreciation and regret before leaving the room.

As he stepped outside, he was confronted by the brothel's guard, a sight he had grown accustomed to as a regular patron. The heavyset man eyed him suspiciously, sizing him up for potential damage he might have caused.

"Two golds for a night's indulgence," the man mumbled, offering the guard an extra piece of gold for his troubles. But the guard shook his head, demanding more for the damage done.

"You damn bastard," he spitted out, "you were watching me, weren't you." He handed him an extra gold, "I hope it at least brought you more pleasure than me, you sick fuck." 

The man, intoxicated and weary, hesitated but ultimately complied, knowing that the laws of the Northern Kingdom allowed such indulgences for those with the means to pay. He handed over two more gold coins, a hefty sum that could sustain a farmworker for months.

The guard, still wary of potential harm, let the man pass, knowing that anything was possible in this city with enough coin.

As he walked through the narrow hallway, the muffled sounds of satisfied patrons echoed through the thin walls, a cacophony of pleasure and gratification. The man, darkened by his earlier actions, proceeded toward his intended refuge: the bustling bar.

Passing through a doorway draped with hanging ropes, he entered the lively atmosphere of the brothel lobby. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the diverse assembly of patrons. The sight of a female dwarf laughing heartily between two furry-eared companions caught his eye. Their laughter was infectious, a stark contrast to his turmoil.

Nearby, a green-skinned figure, scarcely clad, danced atop a table to the cheers of an enthralled audience. The wooden surface creaked and swayed under his energetic movements, adding a rhythmic beat to the lively scene.

On a small stage, a half-elf with pointed ears captivated the crowd with enchanting melodies and stories. His music seemed to fuel the green-skinned dancer's energy, creating a synergy that mesmerized the onlookers.

The man pondered the irony of such diverse races, often at odds with the outside world, finding a semblance of peace in this establishment. Perhaps the universal pursuit of pleasure or gold bridged their differences here.

Taking the only vacant seat at the bar, he ordered the Ethereal Fire, a potent concoction known for its mind-altering effects. He didn't bother to glance at the bartender, lost in his brooding thoughts.

Yet, his attention was captured by the young woman with cascading blond hair in front of him as she turned around to serve him. Her hair swirled gracefully as she turned, leaving a trail of a sweet, intoxicating scent in the air. Her striking presence jolted him from his stupor, igniting a flicker of interest in the otherwise bleak evening.

Driven by curiosity, he attempted to discuss her recent arrival, noting that she was a new face to him. However, she silently responded, focusing on pouring an emerald-hued liquid from a crystal bottle into a wooden cup.

The liquid sizzled as it hit the cup, reminiscent of oil on a hot pan, capturing his attention.

Feeling a shift in his mood, the man tried to engage the bartender in conversation, seeking some form of connection. But his efforts were met with resistance; the bartender offered a brief apology, expressing her wish to concentrate on her duties. The man's interest in drowning his sorrows in the still-sizzling drink waned, replaced by a sense of isolation amidst the lively crowd.

Looking at his glass and back at her, his flirtatious remark was met with indifference. "Playing hard to get, 'ey, just how I like it," he muttered, his frustration mounting.

His attention was diverted by the arrival of a hooded figure who approached the bar with a purposeful stride. The tavern was crowded, but the newcomer navigated the space efficiently, going directly to the bartender, who stood between the man and another patron.

"A glass of water, please," the hooded figure requested in a low, measured tone. "And if you have any leftover bread, I would be grateful to purchase some."

The man scoffed internally at the hooded figure's modest request. In a place where extravagance and indulgence were the norms, such simplicity seemed out of place.

Feeling his importance undermined, he interjected, only to be blatantly ignored by both the bartender and the hooded figure. His annoyance boiled over, and he raised his voice, determined to assert his status. "I am a key figure of the king's administration and an honored guest of the Lord," he declared, demanding their attention. "You will ignore me no more. Remove your hood at once, stranger!"

In a flash, his world turned upside down. A sharp, unbearable pain exploded across his face. He barely had time to register what happened when he found himself slammed against the table. Dazed and in pain, he realized his nose was severely injured, a warm trickle of blood flowing freely.

"You little..." he started to protest but was swiftly interrupted as his head smashed against the table again. The impact was dizzying, disorienting him further.

In a panic, he felt for his nose, only to discover it grotesquely twisted. Desperation surged within him, and his hand instinctively reached for his short sword.

But before he could draw it, his assailant acted again, pinning his face against the table's surface. His vision blurred with blood; his cries of pain muffled against the wood.

"Guards, help!" he cried out, his voice tinged with fear and anger. "He's assaulting me!"

Around him, the bar's atmosphere shifted abruptly. Patrons turned their attention to the commotion, a mix of shock and curiosity on their faces. The bar's once lively and carefree ambiance was now pierced by the man's desperate pleas for help.

The once vibrant room, previously filled with music and merriment, now fell into a hush, eerie silence punctuated only by the man's desperate cries for help. The grip on his head was abruptly released, but in a swift motion, the hooded figure seized him by the neck, dragging him backward with a disdainful ease akin to discarding refuse.

He panicked as he struggled to free himself, proving futile. He reached for his short sword again, only to realize with a sinking heart that it was no longer by his side. His eyes darted around frantically, landing on the discarded weapon on the floor, tantalizingly out of reach.

Hope flickered momentarily as the brothel's guards, armed and vigilant, swiftly approached the scene. They had a reputation to uphold; such a disturbance within their walls threatened their establishment's peace and patronage. The man's importance as a valuable customer was their concern now.

"Yes, seize him!" he shouted at the guards, his voice strained with urgency. But his command was cut short as a shower of gold coins cascaded to the floor. Now emptied of its contents, his pouch had been tossed aside by the hooded figure, sending the room into a frenzy as patrons scrambled to claim the spilled fortune.

Cornered and desperate, he resorted to his final card – his identity, a secret he had carefully concealed to avoid shaming his prestigious family. But now, amidst the chaos and his inexplicable plight, he had no choice but to reveal his true self.

With a voice quivering angrily and fear, he bellowed, "Stop this madness! I demand you recognize who I am!" The room's attention momentarily shifted back to him, a mix of curiosity and disbelief in their eyes.

"I am Henrik Alarichson," he declared, his voice echoing through the silent room, "Son of Friedrich Alarichson of the royal family's fourth branch! My wife, Gisela Hartmann, commands the ninth sorcery squadron under our king!"

His declaration hung in the air, laden with desperation and a faint hope that his lineage would grant him some semblance of protection. The room remained silent, the patrons and guards weighing the gravity of his words. In that moment, Henrik's fate hung in the balance, his future uncertain in the hands of those who now knew his identity.

The scene in the brothel lobby remained frozen in time as Henrik's desperate plea echoed through the room. The patrons and guards, still processing his revelation, watched in silence as his assailant, undeterred by his claims of nobility, continued to drag him away. The grip on Henrik's neck was unyielding, his captor's intentions unclear but unmistakably ominous.

Outside, the night air was crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth of the brothel. The alley, dimly lit by the sparse moonlight, was deserted, the sounds of revelry from the brothel fading into a distant murmur.

Henrik's mind raced as he was dragged further into the shadows. The absence of guards and the isolation of the alley amplified his vulnerability. His thoughts were a whirlwind of fear and desperation, grappling with the reality of his situation.

Then, with a sudden, brutal shove, Henrik found himself on the cold stone floor, the hard reality of the alley a cruel reminder of his predicament. He lay there, the cold seeping into his bones, as a voice broke the silence, its tone laced with bitter satisfaction.

"Thank you for making my job easier, Sir Henrik," the hooded man said as he lowered the hood to reveal his scarred, young face in the dim light. The moonlight cast eerie shadows, accentuating the menacing scar that marked his cheek.

Trembling with fear, Henrik stammered his question, "Wh-who are you?"

The figure before him responded coldly, "I´m but a wingless bird, Sir Henrik, and you, our are a marked man."

The revelation of a bounty on his head sent Henrik into a spiral of panic and confusion. The metaphor of a broken wing was unknown to him, but the danger he posed was unmistakably genuine.

Once filled with power and privilege, Henrik's world had narrowed to this desolate alley and the ominous figure of the figure before him. His future, once so sure, was now as uncertain as the shifting shadows around him.

"But, for tonight, you can call me Raven."

Raven's cold eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he unsheathed the small dagger from his boot. "The bounty on your head is substantial, Sir Henrik," he hissed, "and I wonder if I can get even more if you say that wife of yours your darkest secret."

Henrik, his eyes reflecting the moon's silver glow, searched for an answer, his desperation rising if this stranger knew his wife and could submit solid proof, then it may result in a doom even worse than death.

"How do you know my wife?" his voice trembling.

The Raven's smile was cunning as he replied, "I do not have to know her to blackmail her, now do I? You just told me everything, and I might do the same for your family?"

Desperation-tinged Henrik's voice as he pleaded, "You don´t have any proof, you fucker!"

Henrik´s old self came back to him finally, "Just tell me, what is the bounty on my head? I'll double it, no, let me triple it, let us stop this game and move on."

The Raven's response was chillingly resolute. "There is no sum behind your body, Henrik. The wingless birds either trade their life or their targets; that's the deal."

Henrik's disbelief was evident; he had heard of this before, a secret brotherhood that said it could assassinate even the king himself for the right price; he retorted, "What do you mean, there must be a price? Everything has a price!"

The Raven's tone remained unwavering. "Not everything, Henrik. But there might be one thing that could save you. My life for all in exchange for all the suffering you have caused."

There was a long pause as Henrik calculated his options; if he indeed was of the brotherhood, then no matter what would happen, the only way to survive was to get the Raven to sacrifice his life.

"What say you, Henrik?"

Trembling with fear, Henrik implored, "I'll give you anything; just spare me."

With a haunting finality, the Raven declared, "Anything you say, well, I guess you have yourself a deal then."

He walked toward Henrik and whispered, "Hold still. I accept your offer, but I'll need your pants first; they look quite nice."

Henrik hastily stripped off his pants, tossing them toward the imposing figure before him. "Take them. What else do you want?" he implored, his voice trembling with anxiety.

Raven merely shook his head, his grip on his blade unwavering as he lowered it closer.

With a wicked glint, he mocked, "What is this wretched stench, Henrik? These pants won't suffice." The pants were soaked in urine and blood.

Desperation gnawed at Henrik as he stammered, "What else can I offer you?"

Raven's scrutiny fell upon the half-naked Henrik before him, "your clothes are stained with blood, your face marred, and both your wallet and sword are lost."

A sinister grin crept across his face as he locked eyes with Henrik.

"Can I have it?" he inquired with a hint of madness.

Gasping for breath, Henrik replied, "Yes, as I've said, you can have everything."

The Raven's grip tightened at Henrik's dick and balls.

"No, no, what are you doing!" Henrik screamed, attacking the hands that had a firm grip on his best and possibly only friend that night. "Anything but this!"

"This is the price for my life; now be a good boy and accept it."

The sharp blade illuminated with faint blue runes as it touched the skin. Its sharpness could cut through a stone.

In a flash, the knife penetrated the skin, muscles, and tissues, removing the genitals from his body.

Henrik barely registered Raven's chilling words as consciousness slipped away from him. The alleyway spun, and shadows danced in his blurred vision as he succumbed to the overwhelming pain and shock.

"I'll be taking this," Raven whispered, his voice echoing Henrik's fading awareness. It was a calm, almost casual declaration, but it carried the weight of finality.

As the darkness of unconsciousness crept over him, Henrik's last coherent thought was a realization that pierced through the fog of his pain: if he had only had more affinity for magic, then things might have been different.

Raven's parting words, "Yes, and your wife sends her regards; she hopes you'll never treat another soul as you have," revealed a betrayal that cut more profound than any physical wound, "and she hopes that you will burn in the depths of hell for eternity."

The implications of those words were devastating. Gisela, his wife, was involved. The betrayal of his spouse, the woman he had trusted above all others, was a blow Henrik couldn't have anticipated. Whether willing or coerced, her involvement with the wingless birds was a revelation that shook his understanding of the world.

As darkness claimed him, Henrik's mind swirled with questions and regrets. How had things come to this? What had he done to drive Gisela to such lengths? The answers were lost to him as he slipped unconsciously, his body and spirit broken.

The cold, hard ground of the alleyway was the last sensation he felt before everything faded to black. Henrik Alarichson, once a man of power and influence, was left alone and helpless, his fate to bleed to death next to the place where he had broken so many souls.

Was it Karma?