Flint brought Jake to the chirurgeon-alchemist, a dark elf that sneered the second he laid eyes on the young man’s half-elf features. Still, he knew better than to complain or refuse the work. Jake slipped in and out of consciousness as the remains of his damaged eye were cleaned from the wound and the socket was packed with absorbent material and wrapped in gauze. Flint thought he bore the pain well. “Make him sleep,” Flint ordered, and a potion was produced.

Roxanna was furious when he handed the bloody device back to her some hours later. “You left it out on purpose!” she hissed. He only stared at her for a beat.

“When Radek wakes up,” he said after a moment, “send him up to buy an eye patch for Mister Narmolanya. You will do what you can to help him acclimate to his loss. No more painkillers. I need him sharp.”

Roxanna fumed, and then shook her head slightly. “For what?”

“Preparations,” Flint said. “We are going to assassinate the king of assassins.”