Fates of Grenora: Return of the Night

Torvina watched silently in her place between the realms, her Discerning Eye skill tracking every movement. Two women wrestled across the lavish second floor of a noble estate, their battle leaving chaos in its wake. Tables shattered. Curtains tore. A chandelier hung dangerously, swaying only by a single hook.

One woman wore black dragonscale leather, a rarity in this part of the region that could only have been smuggled in or earned through very bloody means. The other was adorned in a flowing blue-and-gold robe, silk embroidered with subtle runes that shimmered whenever light kissed the fabric. Torvina knew those enchantments weren't decorative but hid danger.

Despite the magic, Torvina already knew the outcome. The one in black dragonscale leather, Moira, wouldn't lose.

CRASH.

The two women slammed through a sitting room divider, rolling into a long, stone-tiled hallway. Vases and portraits toppled around them. They landed hard, side by side, both panting from the exertion. The noblewoman, only in title, not in conduct, was faster to recover. She jerked her hand up, muttering the words of a spell. Moira lunged sideways, trying to stop her, but it was too late.

A Water Bolt, sharp as a spear, punched through Moira's abdomen. Her body jerked. Her pupils dilated from the sudden pain. She crumpled forward, landing heavily atop her opponent, blood seeping from her armor. The noblewoman shrieked in shock, pushing the dying weight off her. She stood shakily, sneering at the assassin with disdain. "You're not so dangerous after all," she spat, the words laced with spite.

The noblewoman turned to leave.

Moira's body shimmered.

Before the woman could take another step, Moira sprang up from the ground in front of the noblewoman and rammed a dagger into her stomach.

"Hurts like hell, doesn't it?" Moira whispered, breathless from exertion.

The noblewoman's scream died in her throat. She stumbled forward, hands clawing at the embedded blade. Her mouth opened, but Moira was already snapping her fingers.

The fallen body that had soaked her robe a moment ago shattered into glass, a perfect illusion thanks to her skill, Mirror Image. A second snap echoed as the full-length mirror in the hallway cracked. Its shards vibrated in the air, swirling around Moira's outstretched hand like angry bees. Each fragment gleamed with cold precision, angling themselves toward the beaten noble. The noblewoman's hand surged upward to cast again, but Moira didn't wait as she flicked her hand forward. The shards launched, skewering the noble from all angles: thigh, shoulder, side of the sternum, abdomen. One final shard pierced her throat, stopping her spell mid-chant.

Silence followed after the thud of the body when it hit the ground. Moira exhaled slowly, walking toward the body without haste. She pulled out a small leather-bound booklet, its corners frayed from use. Flipping to the center, she drew a line through a name with charcoal.

"I'm never going to finish in time," she muttered, skimming through the names on her assassination ledger. But as she stood there, staring between the names and the glass shards embedded in the woman's chest, the familiar silence settled in. The hollowness of the silence welcomed her like an old friend. No cries for justice. No final words. No retribution. Just stillness. She took a breath and closed the book with a snap, tucking it back into her Inventory.

She hated the next part. She bent to retrieve her dagger, pulling it free with a wet squelch. Blood dripped down the hilt. Her fingers tightened around it, but she didn't sheath it. She just looked at it for a second longer than necessary. "Used to be, I'd only take contracts on the worst of the worst," she murmured aloud. "Now it's just names. Faces. Gold." There was no judgment in her voice. Just tiredness. The weariness of someone who had lived too long ‌between the lines of what's right and what pays.

"Finish what?" Torvina appeared in her pink fae form.

Moira whipped around, dagger in one hand and a spell ready in the other. She narrowed her eyes once she saw who it was. "Torvina! I hate it when you do that! What do you want anyway?" She asked, crossing her leather-clad arms.

Torvina gave a tinkling little laugh. "I've got a mission for you from the big man himself," she said, looking past Moira and at the body of the woman with sharpened mirror pieces in her.

Moira quirked her eyebrow. "Who needs to die?" She uncrossed her arms and placed a hand on her hip.

Torvina vehemently shook her hands and head. "Nobody! It's a protection mission," she coyly smiled.

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Moira rolled her eyes. "Ugh, I hate those too…"

Torvina looked at Moira, all sense of mirth vanishing. "Moira, it's serious. House Morntash requests it and will absolve you of all debts owed to them."

That made Moira pause as she dropped her hands to her side and stared at Torvina for any hint of it being a trick. "All debts?"

Torvina nodded. "Every last coin."

Moira looked at Torvina, trying to hide the shock that wanted to make itself known. "Who is in need of protection?" Moira asked, her voice losing any sense of sharpness as niggling hope replaced it.

Torvina fully smiled. "I can't exactly say in case of scrying-," she pointed to her eyes and ears, "but your mission target is important enough that you must ensure he reaches the Forbidden Continent."

Moira nodded. "Where do I begin?"

Torvina nodded in return. "Wait in Ebira. That's the target's next destination. I can assume you know the next steps afterward?"

Moira nodded again. "Any special parameters?"

"Keep the group the target travels with safe as well. They are important and will be worth a 500 gold bonus per person," Torvina informed.

Moira's facade broke again. "500 gold per person? Who in the hellplanes is the target?" She asked incredulously.

Torvina pursed her lips into a thin line. "I told you, I cannot say."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both," she smiled thinly.

"Target description then?"

"I can only give a little, but his carriage has an identifying mark from a mutual friend of ours," she said.

Moira rolled her eyes at the cryptic answer. "Anything else?"

"Make sure your target catches your scent more than once if you can help it. Trust me. It will help," she grinned, then vanished in her usual pink smoke.

Moira uncovered her eyes and shook her head. "What does my scent have to do with anything?" she muttered, looking at the space Torvina just occupied a moment ago. Looking down at her deceased target, she got out a small pocket knife then cut off her target's ear and a lock of hair, putting both items into her Inventory.

She turned, caught by her reflection in a nearby broken mirror—cold, splattered with blood, storm-grey eyes too sharp to feel anything was the thing that stared back. She shook her and pressed her hand flat against the nearest mirror, whispering a word she didn't dare speak aloud. Her reflection twisted, shimmered, and cracked like rippling glass disturbed from within, swallowing her in blackness.

Mirror Hop wasn't like falling. It was more like being sliced between reflections, slipping through razor-thin corridors of light and shadow as reflections of people stared unknowingly at her. Worst of all, echoes followed her in the dark, whispers of versions of herself that had never made it out. Don't look back, she reminded herself. Never look back in the mirror. She knew she was getting close when the sensation became cold and sharp, like wind over steel. Then a sharp jolt.

Moira stumbled forward out of the mirror in her Ebira hideout, breath hitching in her chest like she'd just swum through ice before she looked around for anything that might have been moved since she was last here. There was only a four-poster bed, an end table, a wardrobe where she kept her weapons, a dresser for her clothes, and a mirror. The rest of the room was cream-colored walls and dark wood flooring. Moira took one look around. "One day…" she said to herself as she looked at the empty room.

However, before she did anything else, she took a finger sized diamond-shaped obsidian gem from her Inventory. She whispered two words of power into it that took from her pool of magic as it released a black vapor that coalesced into the form of her handler. Her handler always appeared from the vapor the same: a red mask with a black hooded robe. The black vapor seeped off the edges of the man in front of her. "It's done," she said, taking out the ear and lock of hair to hold out in front of her as proof.

The man flicked his visible brown eyes from her and the proof of the kill. "Well done," the man said coldly. "Are you ready for your next assignment?"

Moira shook her head. "I have a personal matter that has recently come up."

The man nodded stiffly, waving his hand over the items. The items turned to black vapor, absorbing into the man, but in their place, a sack of coins sat in Moira's hand. Her payment for the job. "When you're ready then," he said, cutting the connection between them as his form dissolved and returned to the black gem.

She placed the black gem back in Inventory and went to the dresser first to pull out a white shirt and brown pants to wear as she removed her dragonscale leather armor. Changing into them, she stepped out of her one-bedroom apartment and into the hallway. Across from her, the old lady, who was watering her plants, gave her a cursory glance, her blue eyes flashing once.

"Afternoon, Ms. Higs," Moira waved to her as she walked by. Ms. Higs grunted her greeting and shuffled back into her apartment. Moira walked down the creaky, rundown steps, hearing shouts and banging from the other denizens of the building. There was a scream that abruptly cut off. "Never a dull day in Ebira," she muttered, descending the last rickety step of the boarding house. Her boots landed on cracked stone tiles stained from years of spilled liquor and older blood. A faint copper tang still lingered despite the heat.

At the entrance, three men lounged with the lazy confidence of those who knew no law could touch them. Ragged patchwork coats and torn sashes marked their gang, a minor outfit, part of one of the five gangs that ran Ebira in a loose coalition. This group wore purple armbands that fluttered lazily in the wind like they were daring someone to test them.

Moira didn't flinch as she walked by. She flipped a silver coin without slowing, letting it arc between them like a peace treaty. One caught it midair and gave her a curt nod.

She hated the way Ebira worked, with every interaction a deal. Every favor became a game of debt. Even a glance could cost you a tooth.

Out on the street, the chaos of the port town greeted her like an old lover: loud, overwhelming, and always a little dangerous. The scent of fried sea serpent meat. Stall vendors barked over each other in clipped accents. Drunken pirates stumbled arm in arm with the painted ladies, as she called them, but everyone knew what they were and what their trade of choice was. Shouts turned to screams just out of view—and no one looked twice.

Ebira was a crucible. A place where gold, vice, and secrets traded hands faster than daggers. The city didn't love you. It didn't even hate you. It just didn't care.

No expectations.

No questions

Just survival.