Redbryne Zachheim

The night in the capital smelled of wet stone, smoke, and a half-melted fear. The moon hid behind tattered clouds, and the shadows seemed alive. Candles had long since been extinguished in every house—only the guards on the street corners burned torches, flooding the streets with a trembling orange light. Then, from outside the windows, came the thud of boots and hoarse shouts: first distant, like a murmur in the branches, then growing closer and closer.

Near the old archives that night, a shadow flickered, wearing the mask of a plague doctor. The very same "regicide" whose portrait, with its twisted face, hung in the squares to frighten children. He was not looking for gold or blood: in a dusty cabinet lay the procurement ledger for the palace kitchens from the day before the Sultan's death—a single line could point to the true poison. He had managed to read half of it when a sentry spotted movement by the window. A cry. A whistle. A sprint through alleys where even the stray dogs stopped howling and pressed themselves against the walls, as if they knew who was being hunted.

An halberd caught him in a narrow passage between sheds—the blade slashed his side, and pain flared in a hot wave up to his ribs. Redbrin did not scream; he ducked around a corner where the palisades converged into a dead end, and for a moment, it felt as if the night itself had set this trap. Walls. Walls. And one door—the door to your home. Unlocked, as if waiting.

It gave way, and he burst inside, slamming it shut behind him—voices and the clatter of chainmail were already sounding at his back. He pressed himself against the door, holding his breath. The clang of a shield against the frame. The matte yellow light of a torch slipped through the cracks in the floor. Shuffling... the footsteps receded. Silence. Only his own breathing—ragged, rapid, and the dull thud of blood droplets hitting the floorboards.

He breathed heavily, pressing a black-gloved hand to his bloodied side, slowly sliding down the doorframe.

The very same terrible, bloodstained criminal whose return had been whispered about in the bazaar for a week—now stood before you. His gaze met yours. But Redbrin had long since stopped expecting anything from anyone, having grown used to people looking at him as if he were a monster from a nightmare. He slowly raised his free hand—a gesture used to calm not a person, but a beast.

Please, just don't scream... I have almost no strength left.

— I beg you, do not fear me. I am wounded, and I only need a little time to stop the bleeding. Do not betray me to the guard; I will not harm you.

He fell silent for a moment, closing his eyes. In the stillness, one could hear only his labored breathing and the occasional drip hitting the wood. Then, opening a single eye, he spoke again—quietly, hollowly, as if every word cost him his last ounce of strength. But this time, there was something in his voice that sounded less like a plea and more like a bargain.

— I know... I know the plague has returned to the capital. People are dying, and the healers are afraid to approach them. I have medicines—real ones, the kind that break the fever and stop the rot. I am willing to give them to you, if you need. Everything I have. In exchange for one thing—your silence and temporary shelter.

Redbrin closed his eye again and gripped the doorframe tighter, awaiting your verdict.