The sun had barely crested the edge of the city walls when Garrick pressed a quill into Kalem's hand with a frustrated grunt.
"You need to learn how to read and write like someone of your standing," Garrick said, gesturing to the desk, where a fresh sheet of parchment lay like an unspoken challenge.
Kalem stared at it, then back at Garrick. "Why?"
Garrick pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a long, deep breath. "Because—dear spirits help me—you're not just some wandering smith anymore. You're known. You need to write with intent, not like a hedge-bandit leaving a threat carved on a door."
Kalem looked unimpressed. "Just tell me what to write."
"No. You write. I want to see what you think an invitation should sound like." Garrick folded his arms and slid the parchment forward.
Kalem let out a soft sigh and picked up the quill. A few moments passed as he scratched out something on the page. Then, satisfied, he pushed it across the table.
Garrick took it, read the lines, and groaned.
"Spirits preserve us... 'Come to Northern Plaza. I want to meet.' That sounds like a duel invitation. Or worse—a threat scrawled in blood."
Kalem shrugged. "Am I writing to someone unknown?"
"Yes."
"Then I adjusted it," Kalem said simply, grabbing a second parchment and scribbling for a moment. "Here."
Garrick read the new note, and this time, his brow lifted with mild surprise. "'To the bearer of this letter, I request your company at the Northern Plaza at midday. I believe a conversation between us would be fruitful. – Kalem.'"
"See?" Kalem leaned back. "I'm not a complete idiot."
"You're still half an idiot," Garrick muttered. "But at least now you sound like a literate one."
Kalem smirked.
Garrick folded the letter and sealed it. "Now, what was it you actually wanted to talk about?"
Kalem stood and walked over to a covered sack in the corner of the room. With a casual motion, he flipped it open and rolled out its contents across the table—seven severed heads, cleanly removed, eyes shut as though still asleep.
Garrick blinked once. "That's… quite a display."
"They keep showing up during the night," Kalem said. "Not particularly skilled, but annoying. I'd rather not be woken in the middle of my sleep again."
"These are organized," Garrick said, kneeling beside the heads. He examined the napes of the necks, frowning. "Insignias burned into the flesh. Subtle, but not something amateurs would do. These aren't sellswords. They were marked."
Kalem folded his arms. "Exactly. They're nothing to me in combat. But if someone sends seven shadows in two days, it means there's either desperation—or arrogance."
"I'm leaning toward the latter," Garrick murmured.
A pause.
Kalem tilted his head. "By the way, what do people believe my strength actually is?"
"Well," Garrick said, standing and brushing his hands off, "thanks to that cursed black armor of yours, most assume you're a swordmaster—some wandering war knight with a tragic past. A handful of the better-informed think you're a weapon-forger, based on what we all saw at the academy. Some remember your 'Resonance Blade'—though they can't explain it—and a few even whisper about your mastery of nearly every weapon type."
"Except bows," Kalem muttered.
Garrick nodded. "Except bows."
Kalem grimaced. "They just don't listen."
"No, they don't." Garrick chuckled.
Kalem narrowed his eyes. "Are there any Lords of War who might try something like this? Assassination in sleep?"
Garrick rubbed his chin, thoughtful. "Not personally. Most of them would see such an act as beneath them—or too public to risk. But followers, loyal houses, fanatics? That's another matter."
He tapped a finger against the table. "You're a threat whether you walk openly or not. Anyone seeking to challenge the balance of power could see you as an unpredictable factor."
"And unpredictable factors," Kalem said slowly, "tend to be removed."
Meanwhile, at the Arsenic Guard Barracks
Lord Elric sat in his chambers, reading a sealed letter that had arrived via hawk courier from the southern provinces. Vollen stood beside him, brow furrowed in confusion as Elric's face turned pale.
"…Sire?" Vollen asked.
Elric slowly set the parchment down. "They want us to neutralize the Abyss Killer."
Vollen stared. "Neutralize…? As in…"
"Yes," Elric confirmed hollowly. "In his sleep. Tie him up like a hog and deliver him to their agents."
A silence followed. A long one.
"Are they mad?" Elric finally barked. "Did they forget who he is?!"
"Well… technically no one outside the higher circles has seen him fight in years," Vollen offered weakly.
"Elven rot, Vollen!" Elric snapped. "The man threw a mercenary across a square like a doll, and then asked for sweets! And they want me to walk into his room at night, stab him with a sleep-dagger, and deliver him?!"
"They didn't even offer compensation," Vollen muttered.
Elric threw his hands into the air. "I knew becoming City Lord was a mistake. I should have married that baker's daughter and moved to the coast."
A long pause. Then, quieter, Elric muttered, "Do we send a reply?"
"No," Vollen said firmly. "We burn it and pretend we never received it. Or better yet—put it in Kalem's room and let him decide."
Elric looked at him with horror.
"…Joking," Vollen added quickly.
Back with Kalem and Garrick
"So," Kalem asked, pouring himself a cup of tea. "What's the plan?"
"We keep your presence quiet," Garrick said. "No declarations, no open demonstrations of power."
"Too late for that," Kalem replied.
"True," Garrick sighed. "But no more plaza duels or child drawing lessons."
Kalem raised a brow. "The children liked the circle patterns."
"Because they thought you were drawing spells," Garrick said.
"I was drawing spells."
Garrick groaned again.
"I'll do what I can," Kalem said. "But if someone else comes at night, I won't bother waking you."
"That's fair," Garrick admitted.
Kalem took a sip of tea and leaned back. "Let's see which old ghost sends the next head."