Page 161 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

We finally reach a large chamber deep in the building’s belly.

The room is windowless, the ceiling is vaulted, the walls are lined with filing cabinets and locked chests. This is the administrative heart of the operation where contracts are recorded, where payments are distributed, where fates are decided.

A lady waits there, standing beside a desk covered in ledgers and sealed documents. Dark robes embroidered with silver thread mark her as the Quartermaster. She wears a golden mask that covers her entire face. It’s actual gold, hammered thin and shaped to fit perfectly. Her mask marks her importance and authority within the guild hierarchy.

The Quartermaster controls resources, money, equipment, information. She’s the one who keeps the guild’s books and decides who gets paid and who gets buried. In many ways, she’s more dangerous than any assassin.

The scratch of quill on paper is the only sound for several long seconds. She finishes whatever she’s writing and only then looks up.

“The deserter Wolf,” Stark announces, shoving me forward with his boot. The kick isn’t hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make me stumble. His nudge makes me half-walk, half-fall forward until I’m standing directly before the desk.

The golden mask makes it impossible to tell where she’s looking.

My heart kicks up its pace as she approaches. I can feel it slamming against my ribs. I want to flee but the collar keeps me rooted in place.

She circles me slowly, taking her time. Her robes whisper against stone as she moves. They’re made of heavy silk with silver thread tracing guild symbols along the hem and sleeves.

The broken chain, the silent bell, the closed eye.

It’s not merely for decoration. They’re badges of office, magical sigils that grant authority and protection

I hold my head up as high as the collar allows, trying my best not to cower or whimper.

One full circuit, then another. She’s examining me from every angle, assessing and evaluating. I feel her eyes examining me through the mask’s slits. I meet her masked gaze with as much defiance as I can muster.

She pauses at my hindquarters, my flanks, my head. I try to maintain some dignity, but it’s hard when you’re on four legs.

“It’s an animal,” she says finally, stopping in front of me.

Her voice is flat, unimpressed. She looks at me like a piece of merchandise that doesn’t quite meet specifications.

“It’s him,” Stark confirms. “Check the tag if you want proof.”

The Quartermaster crouches, reaching for the back of my neck.

Her fingers are unnaturally cold even through the fur. She pushes fur aside, searching for something. I feel her nails scrape against skin, probing to find the spot where the guild brand was burned into me years ago.

Her fingers press against fur and skin, and suddenly magic flares.

Magic floods through me, invasive as it rifles through my essence. Her intrusion burrows deeper, past skin and muscle. I know the guild brand isn’t just a scar. It’s a signature burned into the soul, making it impossible to fake or remove.

Her posture shifts and her fingers stop moving. For several long seconds she doesn’t react at all.

“It really is him.” The disbelief is clear even through the mask.

She stands, turning to face Quinnlan.

“Your work is exceptional.”

Quinnlan accepts the praise with a slight nod, his expression unchanged. She stands and produces a heavy purse from her desk, tossing it to Stark who catches it smoothly.

The purse is substantial. I can hear the weight of it, the clink of metal on metal. My suffering has earned these fuckers a fortune.

“The guild thanks you for your service.”

“What will you do with him?” Quinnlan asks, curiosity breaking through his cold detachment.

It’s the first genuine interest he’s shown. I suppose he wants to know the outcome of his spell.