Father always said you get used to killing. Maybe he lied.

  My attacker still lies in the street with blood flowing down through the cracks of the cobblestone. He’s not much younger than me, maybe fifteen. A faint mustache, patchy as a drought-struck wheat field. I would’ve dispatched him nonlethally had I known his age, but my years of training kicked in when I heard metal unsheathing behind me. I spun around, grabbed his wrist, and plunged my blade into his gut in one motion without a thought forming in my mind. Now he’s dead.

  No crowd gathers, but some passersby slow down to catch a glimpse. Most people in Midway have seen a dead body before. I’m done feeling sorry for him. He’s got pockets all over his coat, and I find a note in one of the inner ones that says:

  Zane Steelborne

  Tall

  Red Hair

  The world’s worst assassin’s note. This kid could’ve remembered that little bit of information. Why would he have to carry this on him? Whoever wants me dead must be an idiot. Or maybe it’s something far worse. They wanted me to know. But why? The hairs on my arms stand up at the thought.

  A pair from the Tidewatch, which passes as both law enforcement and military here in Midway, arrives. One is a head shorter than I am, and a comically long beard drapes down to his knees. His blue uniform is crisp, and the silver badge glimmers, freshly polished. Even if I don’t always enjoy getting interrogated, their logo’s shape appeals to me: a giant wave cresting over a shield with an anchor emblem. I’d wanted to be a Tidewatcher once long ago. The top of the beard seems to dance as words escape somewhere beneath the shaggy prison. “You got anyone out there that wants you dead?”

  “I’m a Blood Coin,” I say.

  The Tidewatcher laughs. “You aren’t short of enemies then.”

  “Our enemies are few. We only leave our friends alive.” That’s a pretty good line. I usually think of these later.

  “Your friends being the ones that pay the most? That changes moment to moment.”

  The wit on this guy. I can’t keep going back and forth with him, so it’s time to change the subject. “Is she the brawn and you the brain?” I tilt my head toward the other Tidewatcher. She’s huge and must be seven feet tall with broad shoulders and a ponytail that barely covers a giant maul strapped to her back.

  “She’s the brains, too,” says Officer Beard. “I’m just the mouth.”

  I want to say something like, “What mouth?” regarding the nest of facial hair covering it up, but I’m growing bored by this little quip-fest between him and me. I wonder what fusion they cast together? I eye the distance between them, barely an arm's length. That’s the danger with Tidewatchers; they pair up for utility. If those two clasp hands and complete the circuit, I’ll be facing a spell unique to their specific bond. I could ask what fusion they wield, but that would look like I’m sizing them up. Which, of course, I am.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Am I free to go?” I ask.

  “Sure, if it were your fault, someone would’ve stuck around to give testimony.” He smiles at me with his eyes. The giant lady stares at me with an unforgiving glare as if I killed an innocent dog. “Besides, we know how to find you.” Ominous parting words. I’m afraid I will be seeing these two again.

  Midway is a maze of cobblestone alleys and tall buildings, each in a different material and architectural style. Here’s a brick one. Three stories and a kiln. This next one has logs thicker than any tree I’ve ever seen cut down from some far-off forest. With Midway as an island, every bit of land is precious, and the buildings seem to wrestle with each other for every inch.

  I finally reach the Blood Coin headquarters. Above the door, the blades from former knives and swords shape the words, “Bound by Blood. Sealed by Steel.” Dozens of bronze discs, greened from weathering and the size of small fists, stick out of the wall from the outside. Each represents a Blood Coin who lost their lives while attempting to complete a contract.

  And today, I add my father’s to the wall.

  The roar of energetic conversation nearly explodes through the door as it swings open into the dining hall. Two dozen mercenaries sit at a long table, eating and drinking. The smell of roasted meat hits me like a wave, and hunger rushes over me. At the far head of the table is my uncle, Thorne, with forearms so big I couldn’t wrap both my hands around them. He’s quietly staring into the bottom of his cup before he looks up to see me. “Zane!” The room is silent for a second before erupting once again. A blur of faces, handshakes, hugs, and greetings assaults me.

  Sorry for your loss.

  He’s spilling the blood of demons in hell as we speak.

  Mana from heaven on his lips.

  I finally reach my Uncle, who says, “It should’ve been me.” He looks like my father, except his hair is hazel instead of red. Several scars cover his right eye, almost wholly bleached white now. “It’s good to see you again.”

  It had been almost two years since I started training with the wizards in the academy of Yon’Kor. Casting a spell solo is a powerful ability that few gain proficiency in and even fewer master. “You, too. All of you.”

  Stories get exchanged up and down the table about Father, so many that they’re challenging to listen to one at a time. Funny ones, brave ones. He’d lived a hundred lives by the sound of it. I can’t believe he’s gone, and the sorrow has yet to hit my heart. Maybe it never will. “They’ll want you to lead them,” Uncle tells me between tales.

  I shake my head. “I’ve still got wizarding left to learn.”

  Uncle Thorne laughs. He knows. I’m failing. The truth is that the wizards focus on histories, facts and figures, names of dead people, all things I don’t care about. Just teach me how to throw a fireball without the aid of anyone else.

  The food tastes fantastic. There are mashed potatoes, and the meat is seasoned to perfection. I don’t even want to know what it is or how it got here so fresh. Midway’s cuisine is usually something from the sea, and to have red meat is a rarity. My eyes are closed in caloric ecstasy when I hear someone yell my name over the cacophonous room.

  “Zane Steelborne?”

  The bearded Tidewatcher and his giant accomplice stand at the doorway.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re under arrest!”