Ashes and Iron (A Guild of Assassins story)
Some deaths end a life. Others ignite something larger...
Soren stepped from the balloon port and into Ferrenstadt's perpetual twilight. The mining town hung beneath a canopy of soot that smothered the eastern highlands, blotting out sun and stars alike.
He drew the stale air deep into his lungs and held it there, letting its bitter taste settle on his tongue.
His ravenglass dagger hummed against the small of his back, a cold presence eager for blood. Soren silenced it with a thought. Not yet. First came observation, understanding—the groundwork of any proper contract.
The town sprawled down the mountainside, buildings pressing tight against each other as if for warmth. Workers trudged along its narrow streets, shoulders hunched beneath invisible burdens. They reminded Soren of excavated sculptures—beings half-formed, half-buried, emerging from stone only to be coated in a fresh layer of grime.
A miner pushed past, fingers missing at the second knuckle on his right hand. His face, like every surface in Ferrenstadt, bore the town's signature—a layer of black dust settled into every crease and hollow. He spat a glob of tar-like phlegm onto the cobbles and fixed Soren with a suspicious glare.
Soren ignored him and continued down the main street.
Children with hollow cheeks and permanent coughs played in narrow alleys between boarded-up storefronts. A shop selling mining equipment remained open, as did a dingy tavern called The Pickaxe. Everything else appeared abandoned or converted to cramped housing.
The town's single inn—The Canary—stood at a crossroads, its faded sign creaking in the mountain wind. Inside, a sour-faced woman looked up from a ledger as Soren entered. Her eyes tracked him like a predator assessing potential danger.
"Room," Soren said, placing coins on the counter. "For a week."
The woman scooped up the money without counting it. "Name?"
"Kruger. Brandt Kruger." The alias slipped easily from his tongue, a borrowed identity worn comfortable after years of use. "What business?"
Soren smiled. "Antiques. I buy curiosities for collectors in Nordturm."
"Not much antique business in Ferrenstadt, Master Kruger."
Soren smiled. "There's business everywhere, if you know where to look."
She handed him a key with the number seven scratched into its brass surface. "Top floor, end of the hall."
“Thank you.”
In his room, Soren locked the door and swept the space for sight lines and potential entry points. The single window overlooked an alley behind the inn—good for discreet exits, poor for surveillance. The walls were thin enough that neighbouring conversations filtered through.
He removed his travel cloak and spread a leather folio across the bed's stained quilt. The contract waited within—thin parchment bearing the Guild's seal, elegantly sparse in its details.
Target: Thanial Harrow
Method: Public. Witnesses preferred.
Timeline: Three days.
Another name. Another life to sever. Soren had lost count after his first dozen contracts, each one merging into the steady rhythm of his new life.
Since completing his apprenticeship three years ago, he'd established himself as one of the Guild's most reliable assets.
His cover identity as an antique dealer in Kurgan's old gallery served him well. People remembered a calm, soft-spoken merchant with an eye for quality. They didn't notice how he studied them as intensely as the objects they brought to sell, filing away weaknesses and patterns for potential use.
A soft scratching at his window interrupted his thoughts. Soren unlatched it without making a sound, allowing Dienerin to slip inside. Her scales gleamed in the dim light as she perched on the room's single chair.
"The client wants an example made."
"Why now?" Soren asked, closing the window against eavesdroppers. "Harrow's dying already. Everyone knows it."
Dienerin regarded him without blinking. "The man's words reach further than his hammer ever did."
Soren nodded. He understood. Sometimes death wasn't enough. Sometimes the message mattered more than the killing itself.
"There will be complications," Dienerin said. "Mayor Brendle funds this contract, but the Guild has its own interests."
"When don't they?" Soren murmured.
He folded the contract and tucked it into an inner pocket. Tomorrow he would see this Thanial Harrow for himself, would judge the man's worth against the price set upon his head. It was a ritual Soren had developed—not required by the Guild, but one that helped him maintain the fraying edges of his humanity.
Through the walls, he heard a child coughing, the sound wet and persistent. Beyond the window, Ferrenstadt settled into its brief respite between day and night shifts, the constant rhythm of pick against stone temporarily silenced.
Soren cleaned and checked his blades, then laid down on the bed without undressing.
Sleep would not come easy in this place where even the air felt hostile, but his body had learned to rest regardless.
His mind, however, remained alert to every sound that filtered through the thin walls of The Canary.
The town square filled steadily as miners from the day shift emerged from the mountain. They gathered before a makeshift platform constructed from mining crates, their faces bearing matching expressions of exhaustion and resentment.
Soren positioned himself at the edge of the crowd, back against the wall of the apothecary. He'd spent the morning exploring Ferrenstadt's narrow streets and learning its broken rhythms.
The town operated in perpetual service to the mountain and the coal it surrendered. Three shifts meant the mines never ceased their consumption of human labour—only the faces changed as one group of hollow-eyed workers replaced another.
A murmur spread through the gathered miners as three figures mounted the platform. Two men supported a third between them, helping him to a rough wooden chair. Even from this distance, Soren recognised Thanial Harrow from his contract briefing.
The former blacksmith had been reduced by his years in the mines. His once-powerful frame had collapsed inward, shoulders permanently curved, chest sunken. Grey streaked his beard, and deep lines carved his face into a mask of patient suffering. But something in his eyes remained unbroken—a fierce light that commanded attention.
"Brothers…we gather again." He paused, drawing a laboured breath. "Not for violence, not for revolution. Only for what's rightfully ours."
The crowd leaned forward, bodies tense, expressions hungry for his words.
"The company takes our health." Harrow gestured to his own ruined form. "Takes our children's futures. Takes everything but our dignity." Another pause as he fought for breath. "And that—they can't take unless we surrender it."
A rumble of agreement passed through the miners.
"We demand simple things." Harrow counted on fingers gnarled from years of manual labour. "Dust masks for all workers. Eight hours between shifts instead of six. School hours for children under twelve."
Soren studied the crowd's reaction. These weren't calls for uprising or rebellion—just basic improvements to lives ground away by industrial neglect. Yet the miners received each demand like sacred text, nodding with fevered intensity.
Harrow continued, but his voice faltered as a coughing fit seized him. He doubled over, handkerchief pressed to his mouth. When he pulled it away, Soren glimpsed dark stains against the fabric.
The two men who had helped him to the platform stepped forward again. One spoke to the crowd while the other supported Harrow, who seemed unable to stand unassisted.
"Tomorrow, same time. Bring your families. Show them we stand together."
The gathering dispersed slowly, miners lingering to exchange quiet words or shake Harrow's hand before drifting back to cramped homes or the numbing embrace of The Pickaxe's watered-down spirits.
Soren followed Harrow and his companions as they made their way through side streets to a modest home adjacent to a derelict smithy. The building's forge had gone cold years ago, its chimney crumbling against the grey sky. But someone had maintained the attached living quarters with careful attention—window frames recently repainted, steps swept clean of coal dust that coated every other surface.
He circled the property, noting entrances and sight lines, memorising the pattern of movements inside from the shifting of shadows against windows.
A young woman—Harrow's daughter, according to his briefing—moved between rooms with the careful efficiency of one accustomed to caring for the ill. The other man appeared to be younger, perhaps an apprentice from Harrow's blacksmithing days.
As night fell, Soren found a hidden vantage point that allowed him to observe the home's interior. The scene within held a peculiar intimacy that stirred something uncomfortable in his chest.
Harrow sat at a small table, a lamp casting warm light across papers spread before him. His breathing appeared laboured even at rest. The young man sat opposite, taking notes as Harrow spoke. The daughter moved between kitchen and table, setting down bowls of thin stew before joining their discussion.
A particularly violent coughing fit interrupted whatever Harrow had been saying. The daughter rushed to his side with a cloth that came away stained darker than before. The young man's face twisted with worry as he helped Harrow to a chair by the fire.
Soren had seen enough. Harrow was clearly dying of lung rot—the miners' curse that claimed those who spent too many years inhaling coal dust. The man's remaining time could be measured in weeks, perhaps days.
But this contract wasn't about silencing a threat—it was about making an example.
As he slipped away into the night, Soren's mind turned over possibilities.
A dying man presented both complications and opportunities. Harrow had nothing to lose—such men were unpredictable, dangerous in their freedom from consequence.
He would return.
The ravenglass dagger hummed its approval against his spine, eager for the ritual to come.
Night pressed against Ferrenstadt like a physical weight. Soren moved as if through water, each step deliberate and silent.
The streets had emptied after curfew, leaving only the occasional patrol of company guards making half-hearted rounds.
Harrow's home stood dark save for a single window where lamplight spilled into the gloom. Soren circled once, confirming that the daughter and apprentice had departed for the evening.
The back door yielded to his tools without protest.
Inside, the house smelled of medicine and the metallic tang of blood—the signature scent of lung rot in its final stages. Soren moved through the kitchen toward the light, the ravenglass dagger already in his hand.
He found Harrow seated in a worn armchair before the hearth, a blanket draped across his lap despite the room's warmth.
The fire had died to embers, casting the man's face in shadow and light. He appeared to be sleeping, his chest rising and falling in an irregular rhythm.
"I've been waiting for you." Harrow's eyes remained closed as he spoke. "Though I expected someone sooner."
Soren went still, assessing.
The man showed no fear, no tension. Either he had accepted his fate, or he failed to understand the danger.
"You know who I am?" Soren asked, maintaining his distance.
Harrow's eyes opened, finding Soren immediately despite the shadows. "Not you specifically." His gaze dropped to the dagger. "But I recognise the blade. The Guild finally sent someone."
A coughing fit seized him, his body convulsing with the effort. When it passed, he wiped blood from his lips.
"Strange," Harrow said, voice ragged, "to waste resources on a man already dying."
"The method matters as much as the result." Soren stepped closer, blade held low. "Your death needs to send a message."
"Yes." Harrow's eyes gleamed with something like triumph. "That's why I need to ask you to wait."
Soren's eyes narrowed. "Wait?"
"Not to spare me." Harrow gestured to his wasted form. "I'm already gone. But to kill me properly."
The request was unexpected enough that Soren didn't immediately dismiss it. He leaned against the mantle, keeping the dagger visible. "Explain."
Harrow shifted in his chair, wincing at the effort. "Tomorrow evening. The square will be full. Everyone who matters will witness it."
Soren understood immediately. "You want a public execution."
"If they hang me, I'm a criminal," Harrow said, nodding. "But if you kill me out there, in the square, they'll remember me. A man silenced in front of the people becomes something more."
The ravenglass dagger pulsed in Soren's hand.
This wasn't the first time a target had made requests, but usually they begged for more time, for mercy. Never for a more spectacular death.
"Why help you create a lie?" Soren asked.
"Because the Guild trades in silence." Harrow leaned forward, sudden intensity burning through his physical weakness. "But sometimes, a louder message benefits them more."
The old man wasn't wrong. Half of Soren's contracts had been designed specifically for witnesses—deaths crafted to warn others away from similar paths. Sometimes violence spoke louder when performed in daylight.
"The Guild didn't specify the method, did they? Only the result."
Soren's face remained impassive.
Harrow laughed, the sound transforming into another bloody cough.
A public killing involved more risk, but the ravenglass dagger would ensure he could disappear immediately through the shadow realm.
"Why should I help you?"
"Because we both serve larger purposes than ourselves. You serve the Guild. I serve the people of Ferrenstadt." Harrow's expression softened. "And because you know I'm right."
Soren studied the dying man. There was something in his eyes that reminded him of Kurgan in those final moments—a certainty, a purpose that transcended the mere fact of living or dying.
"I'll consider it," Soren said, already knowing his decision. "Lock your door after I leave."
He slipped back into the night, his mind already plotting the adjustments needed for a public execution.
The following day passed in careful preparation. Soren knew the Guild valued results above all else. If Harrow's public execution served their purposes, they would overlook his initiative.
Besides, he had given them years of absolute loyalty. They could grant him this one improvisation.
Still, he kept Dienerin out of his plans. What she didn't know, she couldn't report to his superiors. He would present her with the completed contract, and she could judge the results for herself.
By mid-afternoon, Soren had placed himself strategically in The Pickaxe, nursing a mug of sour beer while listening to miners exchange concerns in low voices. He allowed just enough worry to show on his face, just enough tension in his shoulders, to seem like a man with troubling information.
When a grizzled miner asked what had him looking so grim, Soren leaned in. "Company guards. Overheard them at the inn. There's talk of a crackdown at tonight's gathering."
By the time Soren left, miners were already rushing to spread the warning.
Tonight's gathering would be larger than usual. Everyone would come to stand against the expected threat—families, children, the elderly. All would be witnesses.
As dusk settled over Ferrenstadt, Soren dressed with careful attention. Unlike most contracts, this one required no disguise, no attempt at anonymity. He chose his finest clothes—those he wore in his antique shop in Nordturm—and strapped the ravenglass dagger against his forearm, hidden but accessible.
The square filled faster than the previous meeting, anxiety lending urgency to the gathering. Miners stood shoulder to shoulder, faces set in grim expressions. Women held children close, eyes scanning the edges of the crowd for company guards.
Thanial Harrow appeared later than usual, supported by his daughter and apprentice. Even from across the square, Soren could see that the man had rallied his remaining strength for this final performance. His back straightened as he mounted the platform, and when he faced the crowd, something in his presence commanded silence.
"Thank you for coming," Harrow began, his voice stronger than the previous night. "Especially knowing the risks."
The crowd murmured in response.
"We've heard whispers of a crackdown, of attempts to silence us. But we stand together, as we always have."
Soren began moving through the crowd, a shadow passing between bodies. No one paid him any mind, all attention fixed on Harrow's words.
"They fear us not because we threaten violence." Harrow's voice rose, "but because we threaten the lie that we are powerless. That we must accept what's given and be grateful for crumbs from their table."
His words dissolved into coughing, the speech interrupted as his body rebelled against the exertion.
The crowd waited in respectful silence as he fought to regain his breath.
Soren positioned himself at the edge of the platform, the ravenglass dagger now in his palm.
He pricked his thumb, smearing blood across the blade.
The weapon shimmered in response, hungry for what would come.
"I may not live to see our victory," Harrow said once the coughing subsided, "but I have faith in what we've built. In what we—"
Soren moved in a single fluid motion, ascending the platform without sound.
The ravenglass dagger found its mark with perfect precision, sliding between Harrow's ribs and piercing his heart.
Their eyes met in that final moment.
Harrow's held no accusation—only a strange satisfaction as he understood that his final request had been granted.
The old blacksmith's body sagged against Soren, held upright even as life fled. Blood spread across his shirt, dark against faded cotton.
For a heartbeat, the square remained frozen in collective shock.
A hiss like water on heated stone rose from where the blade penetrated Harrow's chest. Thin tendrils of black smoke curled from the wound.
Harrow's eyes widened, no longer with satisfaction but with primal terror as the first lick of flame erupted from the puncture. His mouth opened, perhaps to scream, but instead disgorged a plume of fire.
The crowd recoiled.
"What's happening to him?" shrieked a woman in the front row as she clutched her children close.
Soren stepped back, maintaining his grip on the ravenglass dagger.
The flames spread with unnatural speed, racing beneath Harrow's skin. Veins turned to molten channels, glowing through thinning flesh with a terrible radiance. The old blacksmith's hands—once powerful, now wasted—clutched at his chest as his clothing ignited.
His daughter lunged forward, screaming her father's name, but Harrow's apprentice held her back with desperate strength as the conflagration intensified.
Harrow stared at Soren, no longer the dying man who had bargained for a symbolic death.
"The message," Soren whispered, "will be remembered."
Harrow's skin began to bubble and split. The flesh of his face rippled in waves of heat, features melting and reforming in grotesque patterns.
Parents shielded children's eyes, miners made the sign of the star with trembling hands, and several people fled into the narrow streets.
Yet most remained, transfixed by the spectacle—exactly as Harrow had wanted.
The ravenglass dagger faded to black in Soren’s hand. He could feel its satisfaction humming through his palm, up his arm, and into his chest.
Harrow's ribcage expanded unnaturally, bones glowing white-hot through thinning layers of muscle. Light poured from his eye sockets and open mouth, as if his skull housed a forge stoked to impossible temperatures.
The daughter collapsed against the apprentice, her wailing cutting through the crowd's horrified murmurs. "Father! Father!"
Harrow's flesh continued to dissolve, revealing a skeletal framework wrapped in flame. His joints popped and cracked as tendons contracted in the heat, pulling his body into a twisted genuflection. The platform beneath him began to smoke and char, unable to withstand the supernatural heat radiating from the dying man.
Miners shielded their faces from the heat, backing away from the platform.
Then, the fire collapsed inward. Harrow's body imploded, flesh and bone alike consumed by whatever otherworldly hunger the ravenglass blade had awakened.
What remained was a kneeling figure of pure charcoal—a perfect carbon cast of the man, frozen in his final posture of supplication.
Smoke rose from the blackened husk, curling into the evening air. The charcoal statue retained every detail—fingers still curled against the chest, mouth open in a silent scream, eye sockets hollow and accusing.
Absolute silence gripped the square.
Soren wiped the blade clean on his sleeve and returned it to its sheath.
"Remember," he said, turning to the crowd, "what happens to those who challenge the natural order."
He stepped from the platform and walked into the crowd.
No one moved to stop him.
No one dared.
They parted before him, eyes averted, bodies trembling.
Soren did not look back as he made his way toward The Canary to collect his belongings.
The contract was complete, though not in any way he could have anticipated.
The Guild would be satisfied with the result, if not the method.
As he reached the edge of the square, the first voices rose—not in anger or panic, but in something that sounded like prayer.
The miners had begun to gather around Harrow's remains, whispering his name, touching the charcoal form with reverent fingers.
Soren paused, watching.
He had not simply killed Harrow—he had transformed him into something beyond a martyr.
He had made him a monument.
The implications of this would reach far beyond Ferrenstadt.
The Guild had wanted a message delivered, and Soren had fulfilled that obligation with terrible efficiency. But he suspected the message received might not be the one intended.
