Dreisterne

CHAPTER 14

The Dreisterne trio had found themselves in the eye of a storm of attention. It began subtly at first: the odd freelancer or two pausing to observe their sparring sessions in the guild's practice ring. But as the weeks rolled on, the crowd grew. Guild members gathered in clusters, some out of curiosity, others in outright admiration, as Dreisterne tackled jobs with precision and flair. Blaine, the guild's grizzled instructor, capitalised on this surge of enthusiasm, organising larger training sessions and encouraging everyone to participate.

"Lads, you've started something I couldn't manage for years!" Blaine said, clapping Nathan on the back after one particularly gruelling session. "Getting these young pups taking their training seriously, I mean. You're making my job a whole lot easier."

Nathan nodded, though the unease coiled in his chest refused to dissipate. He caught glimpses of the older freelancers, those who once lounged in corners, sipping ale or playing cards, now watching him and his companions with eyes that carried far more malice than admiration. One of them, a grizzled swordsman sharpening his blade at the far end of the hall, scoffed as Nathan passed. "Famous now, are you? Don't let it get to your head, boy," he muttered, his voice low but edged with something unmistakably bitter.

"Ah, my dear students!" Harald called out to the young spellcasters hanging on his every word. "The art of spellcasting is not mere utility, nein. It is a grand symphony, and you are the conductor! Watch closely, for this conjuration shall leave you utterly...spellbound."

A chuckle ran through the onlookers as Harald wove an unnecessarily dramatic gesture to conjure his floating bonfire. It fizzled out with a puff of smoke.

Keith, leaning against the practice ring's post, whistled. "Myrdin's beard, H. I wonder how your cape didn't catch fire from all that gesturing."

"Ach! That mark of a true virtuoso!" Harald replied with mock indignation, lifting his chin. "We do not simply perform the spell; we become the spell."

Laughter rippled through the gathered trainees, but Nathan noticed something else: a few figures lingering at the edges of the hall, unmoving, unsmiling. Even as Keith smirked and Blaine chuckled, those older freelancers weren't laughing. They weren't even watching the spell. Their eyes were locked on him.

Yet, not all the senior members shared that bitterness. A stocky archer nodded approvingly at Dreisterne's latest feat, and a weathered rogue even cracked a grin at Harald's antics. But the others, such as those who muttered in corners and shot dark glances, weren't just envious. To them, Dreisterne was more than an intrusion. They were a disruption. A shift in the balance. And some men didn't take kindly to change.

Then, his thoughts lingered on the alley ambush weeks ago. Those men had meant to kill him. Not a drunken brawl, not a scuffle over a job. Real, murderous intent. Was it just a few bitter outliers? Or was it resentment for Dreisterne spreading? Or, perhaps those people weren't even freelancers, and they wanted him dead at someone else's behest? Nathan recalled Sandman and the Headsmasher, whose plans to profit from the illegal Spice trade in Dunsgoil Hill he and his friends managed to foil. Could it be possible that they're sending assassins their way, and he was meant to be their first target?

Nathan shook his head. He was a freelancer, and making enemies is part of his job. The problems his enemies bring are best dealt with one at a time, not for him to worry until he maddened himself from paranoia. He had no time to go mad when there were so many florins to be made.

During downtime, Nathan took his mind off things by honing his mobility in the quieter alleys of Trevorton. Heeding the Watchmen's advice, he carried his bastard sword with him just in case someone else decided to swing by and kill him. His movements had grown smoother and more confident as if his body was finally catching up to his ambition. Yet one problem persisted: his shoes. Their smooth leather soles offered little grip, and he slipped more often than he'd care to admit. Fed up with landing with his face first after every mistimed landing, he finally sought Blaine's advice.