Haern shook his head. Such foolish anger had no place in battle. Focused anger, perhaps, but never uncontrolled idiocy. The half-orc still had much to learn. The killing was far from done.

Beyond the entryway was a much grander lounge. Red and blue pillows covered the floor. Thick red curtains sectioned off parts of the room for privacy. On the far side stood guildmaster Thren, a near perfect image of Haern, barring the aged look of his hands and his bulkier stature. Twenty members of the spider guild formed a shield between them.

“It is time to die, Watcher,” Thren said, his voice calm, unwavering. “The honor of thieves must be restored.”

He snapped his fingers. In one single mass, the twenty charged. Haern saluted their deaths with one saber, and then stunned them all by pulling his hood from his face.

“Halt!” Thren shouted. “By the gods, put down your weapons!”

Haern chuckled, shaking his gold hair loose.

“I have kept my face hidden for a long time,” he said, his voice no longer a whisper but strong and firm. “I feel it right you know the truth before you die.”

The members of the spider guild halted and glared. Many more spat and gestured obscenely, especially those that had grown up training with the guildmaster’s long lost son.

“You were to be our savior,” Thren said, pulling back his own hood. His hair was gold, and his eyes an ocean blue. “Every man and woman would have quaked at the sound of your name.”

“I am Haern, Watcher of the King. Men do quake at my name, but only those who deal in shadows and death.” He bowed to his father. “You have hurt those I love and I will not risk their harm for my sake again. Look upon my face, all of you. Those who see my face must die. May Ashhur take pity on your souls before casting you to Karak’s abyss.”