The Caz Chronicles

I needed edge.

I’d always been fast. Good with a blade. But the world’s getting meaner, and one weapon wasn’t cutting it anymore. So during my downtime, I started asking the kind of questions that only get answered in the places where lanterns don’t reach. The kind of questions that make old men cross the street and smart men disappear.

Eventually, someone answered.

She called herself Myrrh. Said it was a perfume. I doubted it. Tall, wiry, with eyes like slivers of obsidian and fingers made of smoke. She didn’t waste time. Didn’t ask questions. Just said, “If you want to learn, bleed.”

And bleed I did.

For several weeks we trained in the guts of the city, below the cobbled alleys and sewer-stink taverns. She showed me how to move with two blades, not like a brute, but like a shadow. Fast. Lethal. Unforgiving. She taught me where to strike, how to vanish, when to kill. I told myself it was just for defense. I knew better.

She said my rapier was slowing me down. Too delicate. Too fussy. One night, she handed me a scimitar—curved, hungry, balanced like a promise. I traded the rapier away to a masked broker for a whisper and a nod. Haven’t looked back.

Now, when I draw steel, it sings in harmony—two blades, one rhythm. I don’t dance. I don’t duel. I end things.

Waterdeep gave me more than rest. It gave me purpose sharpened to a killing point.

I leave soon, back on the road, coin pouch lighter, soul a little darker.

If you see me coming, don’t blink.

You won’t get a second chance.