(No problem at all.) Gilbert took a small silver hand-mirror from the clothing chest and studied his face. (Flawless—as always.) He scrutinized every inch of his features with the same exacting precision he applied to each assassination. Bryce Banhart was the finest killer in all of Godma—or across the entire southern continent—not merely for his ruthless nature and exceptional skill with weapons, but for his astounding mastery of disguise. So long as the height matched and the sex was the same, he could transform into anyone. Bryce possessed an extraordinary talent for mimicry, a meticulous memory for detail, and a face that could never be detected as false. The origins of the Aelon Mask were lost to time—perhaps it existed long before humankind first walked the earth. Bryce Banhart's father had gifted him the mask on his seventeenth birthday, and it was this very artifact that claimed the alchemist's life: out of curiosity, Bryce had placed the mask upon his dozing father's face. There would have been no danger in that alone—but his elbow had knocked over his father's potion, a deep-purple elixir. His father's screams had never ceased echoing in his mind.

  Old Fisher's features began to twitch, his skin folding into creases. Time was short. Gilbert crossed the room in two strides and secured the mask on the old fisherman's face once more. The visage Bryce Banhart wore at seventeen could not endure exposure to the air; within moments, it would dissolve into a putrid slurry of flesh. The festering pus already forming at the corner of Old Fisher's left eye proved this point. Gilbert had attempted multiple times to reclaim his own face, never succeeding. He couldn't understand why others' appearances could adhere to him for extended periods, while his own could not. Perhaps this was the punishment for wielding such an evil artifact: Bryce Banhart's true features would forever remain bound to the Aelon Mask, belonging to no one.

  Blood-steam continued to writhe above the mask, but Old Fisher danced no more. He had become a corpse. When the mask was removed, he became yet another corpse: Gilbert's corpse.

  Gilbert had served as a knight's personal bodyguard—a knight who, having slain the heir of a rival house, lived in constant paranoia and insisted that Gilbert lie beside him even during sleep. Thus, when Bryce Banhart, exploiting a gap in the guard rotation, transformed himself into Gilbert with the mask, it proved relatively simple to ease the man's breathing to a permanent halt. The task itself was straightforward—yet the preparation had been complex. Infiltrating the household guard had cost at least three high-ranking officers their lives within half a day—all of them innocent.

  "Two years," he murmured, stroking Gilbert's face. "I've worn your skin for two years. Now you can rest at last, Gilbert." He hooked Old Fisher's arm over his shoulder, preparing to drag the body outside.

  A sound came from the door. Bryce Banhart dropped the corpse with his left hand while his right snatched up the hand crossbow from the table—his eyes locked on the entrance, his aim unfailing. He glided forward, sidled to the threshold, and gently eased the latch upward.

  "Sir?" The person outside discovered the door unlocked, pushed it open, and leaned half her body inside. "Sir?"

  Bryce moved with leopard-like swiftness, bearing the intruder to the floor. His left hand clamped around her throat and slammed her against the wall. Simultaneously, his right foot kicked the door outward to check for additional threats lurking beyond. "Sir!" she groaned. "It hurts, sir!"

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  "Shinaz." Bryce's voice carried no emotion whatsoever.

  "It hurts, sir! My tail is caught!" She struggled to speak through his grip on her throat. "The door, sir. The door!"

  The rough wooden door had scraped scales from her tail, leaving bloody streaks. Bryce relaxed his leg slightly, allowing the mermaid to pull her tail inside. "Shinaz," he repeated, firmly shutting the door.

  "Yes, sir." The mermaid's chest heaved rapidly, her well-formed breasts thrusting prominently into the air. Bryce examined her thoroughly from head to fin and concluded that even among a gathering of elves, she would not be found wanting. "It's me, sir. Shinaz." She composed herself and dared to meet his gaze. "The same girl from the pier earlier..." Her voice trailed off in confusion.

  "I know, Shinaz. What I don't understand is why you remain here."

  "Sir..." Her gaze swept him from head to toe. "You... are different from before."

  Bryce had not yet fully acclimated to his new identity. "Different how?"

  "Your... face."

  The killer's complexion drained of color. Suddenly, he erupted in a violent fit of coughing, expelling bright blood from his mouth. Shinaz watched in horror and extended her hand to assist.

  "Do not touch me," Bryce commanded, cold as forged steel.

  The mermaid could scarcely believe what she heard. "Even your... voice is wrong."

  Bryce endured the searing pain in his throat silently, both hands braced against the table. The mermaid pushed herself upright and reached out, placing a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

  Her gesture earned only his wrath. Bryce seized Shinaz by her hair and hurled her violently toward the foot of the bed. Her back slammed against the wooden boards with a sickening crack; she moaned and nearly lost consciousness. What restored her awareness was an unexpectedly soft contact. Turning her head, she discovered Old Fisher's corpse. The mermaid screamed and scrambled away in the opposite direction. Meanwhile, the assassin uncorked a bottle and poured the fiery liquid down his throat.

  "Sir..." Shinaz cautiously crawled back toward Old Fisher. "What happened here? Why is... he..." She scrutinized Fisher's face intently before turning helplessly toward Bryce. "I don't understand. Weren't you the man I met on the pier earlier?" Bryce methodically resealed the bottle.

  "You recognize my name, and you're wearing identical clothing to the man from the pier." The mermaid appealed desperately. "And initially, your voice matched his exactly. So... you must be him, aren't you?"

  "I am." Fisher's voice sounded unnatural and parched in his own ears.

  "Then why... is your face now on his body?" No response followed.

  "He's dead, isn't he?"

  "Evidently." Bryce Banhart decided to seize control of the conversation. "Why are you still here? As I recall, my fish-spear and I already granted you mercy once tonight, Shinaz."

  "I merely became... curious." She resembled a child anticipating punishment. "I wanted to verify if you were truly retiring to sleep. Because I suspected you were lying, sir. So I concealed myself beneath the pier."

  "Continue."

  "Continue?" She blinked in confusion. "Oh. I heard screaming, which indicated trouble. I crawled ashore, and then you dragged me inside. My tail—it's quite painful." She furrowed her brow before attempting a tentative smile in his direction.

  Her innocent expression evoked no sympathy from the killer. He turned away and searched the table for the dagger that had claimed countless lives. "So—will you explain what truly happened?" Her voice carried a note of apprehension, noting his complete indifference to her smile. "Did you fight with him and kill him accidentally?" Bryce's hand paused momentarily. "Think whatever you like." He shifted his approach and moved toward the storage chest, searching for binding rope.