Page 4 of Forged in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #5)

All the while, I’m mulling over this latest summons. Head office doesn’t call unless it’s strategic.

Last time, it was a smuggling ring selling kids to the southern warlords. The time before that, a corrupt magistrate skimming funds for letting murderers walk free. The Guild might offer a blade for hire, but I don’t let myself be wielded by just anyone.

Stepping out of the shower, I towel off quickly, rough fabric scraping against skin still tender from the hot water, enjoying the flex of muscles in my chest and shoulders as I work. There’s something satisfying about the burn of a solid workout, the honest ache of pushed limits.

I yank on fresh blacks—sturdy trousers that won’t restrict movement, fitted shirt that follows the lines of my frame without binding, reinforced boots.

The blade gets wiped down with ritual care, oiled until the metal gleams, packed in the weapons cabinet where it belongs.

I prefer training with my own gear, but it’s smart to be adaptable, ready to work with whatever comes to hand in the heat of the moment.

The halls are quiet this deep in the Guild facility, just the distant murmur of recruits drilling like background static, the occasional bark of an instructor echoing off bare walls.

My boots don’t echo despite their weight.

They never do. I learned long ago how to move silently through these corridors. Through everywhere, really.

At the head office door, I don’t knock, just slide in with a brief nod to the receptionist, who knows better than to question me. His desk is neat, organized, everything in its place like his life depends on order. Which, given where we work, it probably does.

He nods in response, his expression suitably respectful, carefully neutral. “She’s ready for you.”

Of course she is. Veyra’s always ready. I push open the next door, feeling the weight of it, solid oak reinforced with steel.

The room beyond is as cold and utilitarian as the rest of the place—concrete walls, fluorescent lighting, furniture built for function over comfort.

Guildmaster Veyra sits behind her desk, fingers steepled, her iron-gray hair pulled into a ruthless knot that doesn’t have a strand out of place.

A dossier lies in front of her, unopened, the manila folder thick with secrets.

She doesn’t look up, her attention focused on whatever document she’s reading. “You took too long.”

“I didn’t realize there was a time limit.” I stop in front of her desk.

Finally, her gaze lifts, eyes assessing, measuring. “There’s always a time limit. You’ll need to be sharper.” She glances at the folder, then back at me. “Got a job for you.”

I don’t flinch under that stare. I’ve seen too much to be intimidated by office hierarchy. “What is it?”

She slides the dossier toward me across the polished surface, the folder heavy with implications.

I don’t reach for it yet. “You know my terms. I’m assuming this meets them?”

Her eyes narrow to slits, pale irises almost disappearing. “Of course. You think I’d waste my time calling you in here if there was anything in there that might offend your precious moral code?”

“No,” I say, because I know she wouldn’t. Veyra’s many things, but wasteful isn’t one of them. But I check every time, regardless, a ritual that’s kept me sane in this business. Not taking any chances on a repeat of what happened in ‘45. “What’s it about?” I ask.

“Kael Craven,” she says.

Every muscle in my body locks.

That changes things.

What could the Guild possibly want with the Sleeping King?

Veyra’s smile is thin, satisfied as a cat with cream. “Thought that’d get your attention.”

“What about him?” I ask, resisting the urge to open the folder, to see what secrets it contains. My fingers itch with curiosity but I don’t want to look too eager just yet.

“That’s where you’ll find your next target.”

I frown, the expression pulling at scar tissue over my eyebrow. “At his resting place? Nobody even knows where it is.”

“It seems someone does. And it’s making waves. I find that… disturbing.” The way she pauses before the word “disturbing” speaks volumes. Veyra isn’t disturbed by anything—I’ve seen her eat breakfast while watching interrogation footage.

“Disturbing in what sense?” I settle into the chair across the desk from her. This looks like it’s going to be more than a simple intel handover. I need more details, need to understand what I’m walking into.

“That’s none of your business. You’ll find everything you need to know in there.” She dips her head toward the dossier, and I finally reach for it, fingers brushing manila that feels warm to the touch.

I flip it open, and despite myself, I feel my eyes widen as I skim over the information. Photographs. Reports. Details that make my blood run cold. Finally, I look up at her, meeting those flat eyes.

“You’re sure this is accurate?”

A steely eyebrow lifts slightly, the only expression she allows herself. “Yes,” she says, her tone clipped with disapproval at the question. The Guildmaster doesn’t deal in inaccuracies. If she’s handed me this intel, it’s been triple-checked by people who know the cost of being wrong.

I rub my jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble against my palm. “Jesus,” I mutter. People are messing with dangerous forces.

“So you’re in?” Her eyes are sharp, taking in my reactions, probably assessing every micro-expression for signs of weakness. We’re always under scrutiny in this fucking place, always being evaluated.

“Same fee as usual?” I ask, though we both know what my decision will be, regardless of what her reply is. Some things are bigger than money.

“Double,” she says.

I blink, surprised despite myself. Double means this is worse than I thought.

“This one’s not going to be easy, Barlowe. As you said, the location isn’t common knowledge. You’ll have to figure it out.” Her voice carries the weight of certainty, absolute confidence in my abilities that’s both flattering and intimidating.

“Not a problem. If they found it, so can I,” I murmur, my eyes fixed on the text in the file, letters blurring as I consider what this means. The implications are staggering.

“And the ramifications if you fuck this up…” She pauses again, letting the silence stretch. “Well, I don’t think I need to emphasize the importance of getting it right.”

I nod, throat suddenly dry. I swallow.

“Are you in?” she presses, leaning forward slightly. I can see the edge beneath her permanently stoic exterior. This has got her unsettled, and that’s something I’ve never witnessed before in all our years of working together.

“I’m in,” I say.