Three Years Later
My wife makes the best meat pies in three provinces.
This is not an exaggeration. Last summer, a traveling merchant from the Eastern Trade Cities tried one and immediately offered Kira enough gold to open a restaurant in the capital. She turned him down, of course, because my wife is also the most stubborn person I've ever met. But the point stands: her meat pies are legendary.
She's also, I'm ninety percent sure, a professional assassin.
These two facts may or may not be related.
I'm trying not to think about it as I walk through the morning market, Mochi perched on my shoulder like he always is. The little guy's glowing softly in the early light, which makes people smile as they pass. Everyone knows Mochi. Everyone knows me. I've been running deliveries in this city for seven years now, and I've made it my personal mission to befriend every single person I meet.
It's a good life. I have a job I love, a spirit familiar I adore, and a wife who's so far out of my league that I still can't believe she said yes when I proposed.
The only problem is that I'm pretty sure she murders people for money.
"Morning, Renn!" Old Man Torres calls from his fruit stall. "Got a delivery for you."
I jog over, Mochi chirping a greeting. Torres runs the courier dispatch out of his stall—has for thirty years, he likes to say. He's the one who taught me the trade when I was seventeen and desperate for work.
"What is it today?" I ask, taking the package he offers. It's small, wrapped in plain brown paper.
"Medical supplies for the clinic in Old Town. Sister Elena specifically requested you." Torres gives me a knowing look. "Said you're the only runner she trusts not to drop it."
"I only dropped that one package that one time!" I protest.
"It was full of eggs."
"...Okay, fair."
Mochi squeaks what I swear is a laugh. Traitor.
I tuck the package carefully into my satchel and give Torres a mock salute. "I'll have it there within the hour!"
"I know you will, kid. You always do." He pauses, then adds, "How's that wife of yours?"
My heart does this stupid fluttery thing it always does when someone mentions Kira. "She's great! She's working on a new batch of healing salves today. Something with moonwort and silver lichen. She tried to explain the properties to me, but honestly, I zoned out after the first five minutes. She's so smart, Torres. Like, scary smart."
Torres hums thoughtfully. "Moonwort and silver lichen. That's a pretty specific combination."
"Is it? I don't know anything about herbalism."
"It's also," Torres says carefully, "used to treat blade wounds. Speeds healing, prevents infection."
I blink. "Well, yeah. That makes sense. She's an apothecary. People come to her with injuries all the time."
"Of course." Torres is looking at me strangely. "Just making conversation."
I wave goodbye and start jogging toward Old Town, Mochi settled comfortably on my shoulder. The morning air is crisp, perfect for running. I know every street, every shortcut, every vendor who'll be setting up their stall right about now. This is my city, and I love it.
I also love my wife.
Which is why I'm trying very, very hard not to think about the conversation I overheard last night.
I'd come home early from a late delivery, planning to surprise Kira with her favorite honey cakes from the bakery near the temple. The lights were off downstairs in her shop, so I'd crept up to our apartment above it, trying to be quiet.
That's when I heard her voice, low and serious, talking to someone.
"—can't take the contract. I'm out. I told you three years ago, I'm done."
A pause. She was listening to whoever was on the other end. We don't have communication crystals—those are expensive—so she must've been talking to someone in person. But I hadn't heard anyone enter the shop.
"I don't care what the Guild says. I fulfilled my obligations. I gave them ten years. They have no claim on me anymore."
My hand had frozen on the door handle. Guild? What Guild?
"If Vex has a problem with that, he can come tell me himself." Kira's voice had been cold in a way I'd never heard before. "And tell him to send someone better than last time. That assassin he sent was sloppy."
I'd stood there in the hallway for a full minute, honey cakes forgotten, while my brain tried to process what I'd just heard.
Guild. Assassin. Contract.
Then Mochi had squeaked—worried, questioning—and I'd panicked and fled back downstairs. I'd waited outside for twenty minutes before "coming home" again, this time making lots of noise. When I'd climbed the stairs, Kira was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner, looking completely normal.
"You're home early," she'd said, smiling at me.
And I'd smiled back and kissed her cheek and pretended I hadn't heard anything at all.
That was last night. Now it's morning, and I'm trying to deliver packages like my whole world didn't just tilt sideways.
"I'm probably overthinking it," I tell Mochi as we run. "Right? Maybe she was talking about a completely different kind of guild. Like... like a merchant's guild. Or a herb guild. Do herb guilds exist?"
Mochi gives me a look that clearly says: You're an idiot.
"You're supposed to be supportive," I mutter.
The clinic isn't far. I make good time, even stopping to help old Mrs. Chen carry her groceries and to pet the stray cat that hangs around the fountain in Market Square. Sister Elena is waiting when I arrive, her temple robes pristine despite the early hour.
"Renn! Right on time." She takes the package gratefully. "How's Kira?"
Why does everyone keep asking about Kira today?
"She's great! Why?"
"Just wondering. I haven't seen her in a few weeks. Usually she stops by to trade herbs." Sister Elena pauses. "She seemed... tense last time. Is everything alright?"
"Everything's perfect," I say automatically. "We're really happy."
Sister Elena studies me with those too-knowing healer's eyes. "If you ever need to talk, Renn, my door is always open."
"Thanks, Sister. But really, everything's fine!"
I leave before she can ask more questions.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of deliveries. Package to the smithy, letter to the merchant's hall, mystery box to a creepy house in the warehouse district that I don't ask questions about because I've learned that's healthier. By noon, I've completed twelve runs and earned enough coin for a nice dinner.
I decide to surprise Kira with lunch.
Our shop—Swift Herb Apothecary, Kira had named it, which still makes me grin every time I see the sign—is in a decent part of town. Not fancy, but respectable. The kind of place where people come for healing salves and cold remedies, not illegal contracts.
Probably.
The bell chimes when I enter. The shop smells like it always does: herbs and flowers and something vaguely medicinal that I've learned to find comforting. Kira is behind the counter, grinding something in a mortar.
She looks up and smiles, and my heart does that stupid fluttery thing again.
My wife is beautiful. I know I'm biased, but it's objectively true. Dark hair pulled back in a practical braid, sharp eyes that notice everything, graceful hands that move with precise efficiency. She's wearing a simple dress with an apothecary's apron, and she looks completely, perfectly normal.
Except I'm pretty sure those hands have killed people.
"Renn! You're early." She sets down the mortar and comes around the counter to kiss me. "How were deliveries?"
"Good! Busy. I brought lunch." I hold up the bag of dumplings from the place near the river. "The pork ones you like."
"You're wonderful," she says, and she sounds like she means it.
We eat together in the small room behind the shop, Mochi begging for scraps and Kira sneaking him pieces when she thinks I'm not looking. It's domestic and perfect and exactly like every other lunch we've shared for three years.
Except I can't stop thinking about last night.
"Kira," I say carefully, "do you know anyone named Vex?"
She goes very still. It's only for a second—barely noticeable—but I've been watching, and I catch it.
"No," she says. "Why?"
"I thought I heard someone mention that name. Just wondered if you knew them."
"Doesn't ring a bell." She takes another bite of dumpling. "How's Mochi today? He looks brighter than usual."
And just like that, the subject is changed.
I want to push. Want to ask more questions. Want to understand what's going on.
But I'm also terrified of the answers.
So I let it drop. We finish lunch, I kiss her goodbye, and I head back out for afternoon deliveries. Mochi is unusually quiet on my shoulder, which means he knows something's bothering me.
"I'm fine," I tell him.
He squeaks skeptically.
"Okay, I'm not fine. But I don't know what to do." I dodge around a cart, waving at the merchant. "She's my wife, Mochi. I love her. But what if she's really... what if she actually..."
I can't even say it out loud.
What if my wife, the woman who makes me breakfast every morning and laughs at my terrible jokes and holds me when I have nightmares about being alone again—what if she kills people for money?
And the even scarier question: if she does, does it change how I feel about her?
I'm so distracted thinking about this that I almost miss the man following me.
Almost.
I've been running deliveries long enough to know when something's off. The same face appearing twice in different districts. The way he hangs back but keeps pace. The tension in his shoulders that says "dangerous" in a language I've learned to read through years of navigating city streets.
Mochi notices too. He squeaks a warning, and his glow dims—his version of trying to be stealthy.
I take a sharp turn down an alley I know well, one that has three exits. The man follows.
Okay, definitely being followed.
I'm not a fighter. Never trained, never wanted to. My strategy has always been to run fast and know the terrain better than anyone chasing me. So that's what I do. I take off at full sprint, Mochi clinging to my shoulder, and I lead this guy on a chase through half of Old Town.
I lose him near the river. Or at least, I think I do. I duck into a storage alcove and wait, breathing hard, while Mochi peers out to check if the coast is clear.
"Who was that?" I whisper.
Mochi has no answers, just concerned squeaks.
I make my way home carefully, taking a route I've never used before, checking over my shoulder every few minutes. By the time I reach the shop, it's evening, and I'm thoroughly spooked.
Kira is closing up, counting the day's earnings. She looks up when I enter, and her expression immediately shifts to concern.
"Renn? What's wrong?"
"Someone was following me," I blurt out.
Her whole body goes tense. "What?"
"This afternoon. A man. He tailed me through Old Town. I lost him near the river, but—"
"Did he hurt you?" She's already checking me over, hands running across my arms and torso looking for injuries. "Did he say anything? What did he look like?"
"I'm fine! He didn't catch me. But Kira, why would someone be following me?"
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she says, carefully, "You're a delivery runner. You probably saw something you shouldn't have. Carried a package someone didn't want delivered. It happens."
"Does it? Because in seven years, this has never happened."
"You've been lucky."
She's lying. I can tell. I've spent three years learning every expression on her face, every tiny tell. And right now, she's lying to me.
"Kira," I say quietly. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. I promise. But I want you to be careful for the next few days, okay? Vary your routes. Stay in crowded areas. If you see that man again, come straight home."
"You're scaring me."
She cups my face in her hands, and her expression is so sincere, so full of love, that my heart aches. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to. I just... I worry about you. You're too trusting, Renn. Too kind. The city can be dangerous."
"I know that. I'm not stupid."
"I never said you were stupid." She kisses me softly. "You're the smartest person I know. You're just... good. And good people sometimes don't see the bad things coming."
"And you do?"
"Yes," she says simply. "I do. So let me worry for both of us, okay?"
I want to argue. Want to demand answers. Want to understand why my wife talks about assassins and guilds and seems to know exactly what kind of danger I'm in.
But she's looking at me with so much love and concern that I can't bring myself to push.
"Okay," I whisper. "I'll be careful."
"Thank you." She hugs me tightly, and I bury my face in her shoulder, breathing in her familiar scent of herbs and home.
Mochi, still on my shoulder, squeaks softly.
And I realize, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that I'm going to have to figure out what's really going on.
Because someone followed me today. And my wife knows more about it than she's saying. And I'm starting to think that all my suspicions, all the little strange things I've noticed over the past few months, might actually be true.
My wife might be an assassin.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.