Escaping boredom

Piccaron drifted down the street like a man half-lost to himself, and today even his favorite pastimes — drinking, smoking, bedding some beautiful woman — all of it felt hollow, tedious. Eventually he gave up and dropped onto a public bench in the heart of the city.
Piccaron — black hair, brown eyes, handsome enough by most standards. But there was a softness woven into his features that never quite got spoken, and that was his real weapon: a face plain enough to disarm people without effort. Even ordinary folk would never guess he made his living killing men for coin. But to anyone sharp enough to look twice, the cunning underneath was unmistakable, thick as smoke. The other detail that caught the eye was the sword sheathed at his hip — battered, wrapped in strips of bandage like something nursed back from a wound rather than a weapon. What exactly he kept it for, no one had ever managed to ask him directly. An hour later he finally hauled himself back toward Baum Goldenir, footsteps heavy.
Baum Goldenir sat, geographically, along the border between the Kingdom of Elmar and Luna Pienna — the two largest powers in the region. Besides Luna Pienna lay two more kingdoms, Timurr and Marina. Besides Elmar, the kingdoms of Mercato and Strand. But Baum Goldenir’s reach never stopped at regional borders; its reputation carried far beyond.
“Yo, Piccaron.” Charriot lifted a hand in greeting.
Piccaron dropped into a seat beside Charriot and Chester, and the three of them fell into the easy rhythm of comparing notes on recent contracts.
“God, even the bar and the prettiest woman in Elmar’s capital couldn’t touch whatever this is.” Piccaron rubbed at his eyes. “I’m bored out of my skull.” And it was true — even with a full week behind him of assassinating politicians, securing a young heir’s claim to a throne, toppling a city’s government from the inside, none of it had managed to hold his interest. It had all become routine, the kind of work a man does without thinking.
“Man, slitting a few throats or lifting something valuable — sure, that’s easy work.” Chester leaned back. “But taking down a whole city, that’s something worth being proud of.”
“It was a small city. Couldn’t take one solid hit before it folded.” Piccaron shrugged the compliment off.
“Kingdom-tier contracts, you both know how rare those are these days.” Charriot shook his head. “Toppling an actual kingdom, not just seizing a city — since Impala, I honestly can’t remember the last time.”
Before either of them could answer, Marauder’s voice cut through the hall, calling all three names at once.
“Charriot. Marina’s on the move.” Marauder didn’t waste time on preamble. “The cities around Merrie and Timurr are likely to fall soon. Your contract’s two weeks. Assist the Marina crown. Timurr needs to answer for what they’ve done — once the surrounding cities are taken, Merrie itself will be child’s play.”
“Chester, Piccaron.” His attention shifted. “Your contract: extract a person of importance from a prison. Request came directly from the Kingdom of Mercato. Target location — the prison in the city of Lumi, Kingdom of Stella.”
“Why does this one need two of us, Marauder?” Piccaron asked.
“One of you needs to serve as bait. And you’re the better fit for that role, Piccaron.” Marauder’s eyes moved to Chester. “Chester’s the best lock-breaker we’ve got.”
“Understood.”
Charriot, Chester, and Piccaron set out to begin their contracts.
“Ah, this city — genuinely elegant.” Chester glanced around, something between admiration and irony in his voice. “Makes the two of us stick out even more.”
“True enough. I’m curious what the women and the liquor taste like around here.” Piccaron’s eyes caught on someone across the square. “Ah, there he is.” He nodded toward an official moving through the crowd of Lumi. The plan was simple enough — rough him up, hard enough to matter. Word was he’d tangled himself up with some group he shouldn’t have. That made him the perfect mark.
“If I laid a hand on a prince or anyone with real standing in this city, they’d have my head for it.” Piccaron kept his voice light. “But this one — worst case, I end up in their prison. That’s the whole point.”
“You become the prisoner, I become the warden.” Chester’s grin turned nostalgic. “Feels almost like Impala all over again.”
“Nothing’s ever matched the thrill of Impala.” Piccaron’s mouth curved at the memory.
“Alright, let’s get moving.” Chester rolled his shoulders. “But before that — I want to hold onto this.” Piccaron held out the worn, bandage-wrapped sword. “This thing’s worth as much to me as my own life.”
“And this one—“ Piccaron added, tapping the second blade at his hip, the ordinary one, “—if it goes missing, I’ll just steal a replacement from their armory.” A small grin. The rest of the scheme fell into place around him without a word needing to be said.
In the cell, Piccaron sat with two other men, both charged with the same offense as him — though whether their case carried the same weight was another matter.
“You. Who’d you go and offend?” one of the prisoners asked.
“An official. Name’s Glen.” Piccaron said it plainly.
“Wow, friend. Bold move.” The prisoner let out a low whistle. “That man’s got a reputation all his own. We just roughed up some spoiled official’s brat. You, friend—“ he shook his head, “—you’re going to be here a long, long while.”
Not long after, the guards came for him and hauled him down to the cellar.
Thud. Thud. Fists landed into his ribs, left and right, methodical. His skull, apparently jealous of the attention, got the same treatment soon after. When the guards grew bored of their fists, out came the whip. Piccaron only winced, small and controlled.
“Tell us. Who do you work for.” The guard’s voice was rough, impatient.
“Your mother.” Piccaron spat blood, grinning. “Or maybe your sister.” Whatever manners his mouth had never learned, it seemed determined to keep proving it.
Blow after blow, lash after lash, hour after hour, until the guards finally tired and dragged him back to his cell.
“Friend, you look like hell,” one of the other prisoners said.
“They’re gentler than the women up north, trust me.” Piccaron managed a bloody grin.
The blood already drying from his nose and mouth had left him a little unmoored. Once the other two prisoners had drifted off to sleep, Chester slipped in beside him.
“This one’s tricky, Piccaron. The old man’s held in isolation — I haven’t found his cell yet. Seems like he’s a special kind of guest around here.” Chester winced. “Damn it. You want this?” He held out a small vial of green liquid.
“I can still hold out. Save it for later.” Piccaron’s voice was steady despite everything. “You’d better work fast.”
The next day brought the same torture, dragged out longer this time. Eventually one figure appeared — a man who seemed to want to break Piccaron’s face more than anything else in the world.
“Who sent you?! Tristan?! Peter?!” Glen shoved Piccaron’s head down into a bucket of water. “Damn it, they can’t even hire competent men.”
“Who the fuck is Tristan and Peter?” Piccaron managed between ragged breaths.
“Well. Let’s see how long you can keep that mouth shut.” A punch landed square into Piccaron’s gut, and breathing became a genuine effort.
Chester came again that night, his face drawn and tired.
“Found him. Fred. That’s his name — the old man’s been locked up a good while now. But the guards here won’t say a word about his case. And the lock on that isolation cell—“ he exhaled, “—it’s going to need more time than I hoped.”
“Fine.” Piccaron’s voice was faint.
“You need to drink that now, friend.”
“How long do you need.” Piccaron’s tone stayed flat.
“Two nights. I need time to get past the guard rotation.”
Two more days passed under the same punishment.
“You know, I’m starting to get bored of this.” Piccaron’s eyes were swollen nearly shut.
“Tristan and Peter — you work for both of them?” Glen leaned in close. “An outsider. Why come here at all.”
“Tristan and Peter. Ah.” Piccaron’s grin was slow, deliberate. “Your competition. Your little black-market operation’s been shaking loose lately. They’re probably hitting your bar on the west side of the city right about now. You’ve been too busy with me to notice.”
“So you’re just a distraction.” Glen’s laugh was ugly. “Clever. Doesn’t matter, though. You still die — so those men learn not to trifle with me.”
“Sure. Why not.” Piccaron’s voice went cold. “I’ll take all seven of you. Bare knuckles. You game? If I lose, you’re free to kill me.”
Given the state he was in, it wasn’t a wager he should have made. But time was the one thing chasing him harder than any guard, and Chester’s lockpicking was eating more of it than either of them could afford. There was no other move left. He had to tear through this cellar alone. The gambit pulled every guard in the room straight onto him — seven men, all at once, and he needed to beat every last one and get to Chester before the night ran out.
The first guard’s fist caught him square in the jaw. He staggered, then answered fast — two strikes, gut and temple, and the man went down. The rest stopped playing after that, coming at him together. Piccaron caught a kick from the second guard and cracked his skull open with a quick counter. The third and fourth tried to pin him down, and he fought with everything he had left just to break free of the hold. The fight dragged on until only Glen remained standing across from him.
Weak as he was, Piccaron still slipped past most of Glen’s swings — but one solid hit to the face dropped him to the floor. He got back up anyway.
“This the best you men in this city can throw?” Blood filled his mouth, and the grin that came with it was pure malice. “Women up north hit harder than this.”
The fight ended with Glen face-down on the stone. Piccaron, still swaying on his feet, looked down at him.
“Screw your little war.” His voice was rough. “You think you were controlling any of this? You were my target from the start.”
His body still had plenty left in it, it turned out — enough to know exactly how to take down a room full of guards with nothing but his hands.
“There’ve been worse days. Much, much worse.” Piccaron pulled the keys off one of the fallen guards. On a whim, no real purpose behind it, he unlocked a few of the other cells along the way — just enough chaos to muddy the waters further.
He found Chester waiting.
“Still not done?” Piccaron asked.
“You—“ Chester’s eyes went wide taking in the state of him. “Damn it, the whole plan’s a mess now. Give me a second, almost there.”
The lock finally gave. Chester tried to pull the isolation cell open, but something unseen resisted — a force pushing back against the door itself.
“Mana fluctuation?! Damn it — damn it—“ Chester cursed under his breath.
“Move.” Piccaron, dragged himself over and laid a hand flat against the locking mechanism.
“You— oh, whatever, fine.” Chester stepped aside as the seal finally broke.
“Hello, old man.” Piccaron offered the cell’s occupant a bloody grin.
They were still far from clear. Chaos had already spread through the cellar — prisoners loose everywhere, guards scrambling.
“Chester. My sword.” Piccaron held out a hand, and Chester passed him the worn, bandage-wrapped blade. “The other one, too.” He took the second sword and turned to cut a path through whatever stood between them and the exit. The three of them broke free into the night.
“Not going to say anything? Old man?” Piccaron’s irritation was plain as they ran — this escape had cost him more than he wanted to admit.
“Here. Drink this. Now.” Chester pressed the green vial into his hand, and Piccaron drained it in one desperate pull.
“Healing potion. Your body can’t take healing magic — potions are the only thing that’ll work on you.” Chester shook his head. “Good thing I always carry a spare. You can’t keep pulling stunts like that.”
“Screw it. Let’s move.” Piccaron didn’t look back.
The escape carried the old man safely back to Mercato. Prince Joseph — whose ascension to the throne now seemed only a matter of time — greeted Piccaron and Chester with open joy, his pale wife trailing at his side.
The moment Lenny’s eyes landed on Piccaron, she began to shake.
“Ms. Lenny. You look well.” Piccaron’s smile was sharp. “Am I really that thrilling a sight, that you’re trembling already?”
“Mr. Piccaron. Mr. Chester. My thanks.” Prince Joseph, an apple half-peeled in his hand, stepped toward the old man they’d carried out of Lumi.
“Uncle Fred…” The greeting came warm — and was followed, an instant later, by an act of pure madness in front of everyone present. Joseph drew his blade across the old man’s throat.
“What the hell—“ Chester lunged forward, and Piccaron’s hand caught his arm before he could finish the thought.
Piccaron knew exactly what was running through Chester’s mind — do you have any idea what it cost us to bring this man here, you bastard prince — but in Piccaron’s own head, there was only one thought worth holding onto: a contract is a contract. Deliver Fred to Prince Joseph. The moment that was done, the job was closed.
“My uncle here.” Joseph wiped his blade clean, unbothered. “He betrayed the kingdom of Mercato and fled to Stella. Worked with them on some rare weapon of theirs — a secret project, or so they claimed. Near the end, right as the work was nearly finished, Stella turned on him too.” His eyes moved between the two mercenaries. “Tell me — have either of you heard the old stories about a sword forged by the fae?”
“Just a fairy tale. Nothing more.” Piccaron’s answer came flat.
“Well.” Joseph’s smile carried something close to delight. “It’s a fairy tale a great many people happen to believe.”