"Stop!" he shouted, knowing they wouldn't.
They didn't.
"It wasn't personal!" one of them shouted. "Just business!"
Adom commanded, and John's massive form shimmered before disappearing into his inventory space. No need to explain the golem to the authorities.
He settled himself on a crate beside Cass, checking her pulse again. Still strong. Good.
In the distance, he could hear the rhythmic clanking of the city guard's armor. A small smile crossed his face. Let them come. He had a perfectly legitimate complaint to file—attempted murder, destruction of property, assault. Let the guild war begin officially.
"Someone in there?" a gruff voice called from outside.
"Yes," Adom responded. "We've been attacked. I have an injured woman in here."
The door burst open, and armored figures streamed in, swords drawn.
Adom raised his hands slowly, the picture of an innocent victim. "Over here," he called. "Please, she needs medical attention."
Cass stirred slightly beside him, a small moan escaping her lips. Not fully conscious yet, but getting there.
Good. That was good.
*****
The smell of herbs hit Cass before she opened her eyes. Bitter, astringent, with a hint of something sweet underneath. Healer's herbs. Not her first time waking up to that particular bouquet.
The second thing she noticed was the scratching sound. Pen on paper. Rhythmic, purposeful. Then a pause, as if the writer was thinking.
She peeled her eyes open. The world swam for a moment before settling into focus. White ceiling. Morning light filtering through gauzy curtains. And Adom, sitting in a chair beside her bed, hunched over a stack of papers.
"Did we win?" she croaked.
Adom's head snapped up. The pen clattered onto the small table. "Cass. You're awake." He was on his feet in an instant, moving to her bedside. "Easy, easy. Don't try to sit up yet."
She ignored him and pushed herself upright anyway. The room spun violently. "Okay, that was a mistake," she conceded, sinking back down.
"You fell hard," Adom said, hovering uncertainly. "Severe concussion. The healer wasn't sure when you'd wake up."
"How long was I out?"
"About eighteen hours."
Cass blinked. "Eighteen hours?" Her hand drifted to her head, finding a bandage wrapped around it. Memory flickered back—the warehouse, the conversation, the window breaking.
The explosion.
Her eyes widened.
"I'm glad to see that brain of yours still works," Adom said, watching her face. "You remember what happened?"
"Someone tried to kill us."
"They did, yes."
Cass took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well. At least I'm alive."
Adom's brow furrowed. "You're... not freaking out?"
"Should I be?"
"You were nearly blown up yesterday."
Cass shrugged, then winced as the movement sent a spike of pain through her skull. "When I signed on with you, I knew I was exposing myself. Especially since I'm taking a good cut of the guild profits." She shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. "Can't really complain, to be honest. I just didn't think they'd actually try to kill me. Maybe intimidate? Break a few bones? Threats? Sure. But bombing feels excessive for a trade dispute."
Adom chuckled, shaking his head. "You're something else, Cass."
"So I've been told." She squinted at him. "I suppose it would be too good to assume the Crimson Scale people were caught red-handed?"
"Not exactly." Adom dropped back into his chair. "I filed a formal complaint with the guard and the House of Merchants. Three men were involved in the attack. I managed to catch them after the explosion."
"And?"
"Two are in custody. Common street thugs, according to the guards. They claim they were hired through an intermediary. No direct connection to the Crimson Scale."
"Of course," Cass said dryly. "They wouldn't attack with their own people. Proxies are safer. Assassination would eject them from their seat if proven guilty. They'd have taken precautions."
"Correct."
"You said three men. What happened to the third?"
Adom leaned forward. "I kept one. Delivered him to Valiant for... later use."
"Later?" She frowned. "What does that mean?"
Adom turned, retrieving the paper he'd been writing on. He handed it to her without explanation.
Cass took it, raising an eyebrow. The sheet was filled with Adom's precise handwriting—a list, with names, locations, and what appeared to be schedules.
"What's this?" she asked.
"I've been thinking," Adom said. "I'm usually reactive instead of proactive. I don't think that's going to work going forward." He gestured to the paper. "So I'm accepting their invitation."
"Their invitation to what?"
Adom's expression hardened, though his voice remained conversational. "To war."
The word hung between them. Cass looked at Adom, really looked at him.
She remembered the first time they'd met.
Her, selling fruits in the merchant district, annoyed by difficult customers and an over-demanding yet underpaying boss.
Him, a boy who somehow managed to look even younger than his already young age of thirteen, approaching her stall with that same steady gaze he wore now.
"Are you looking for a better job?" he'd said without preamble, without the awkwardness of youth, without the bluster most boys his age affected.
As a merchant's daughter, Cass had been taught to read people from an early age. Her father's lessons on sizing up customers, on spotting liars, on predicting behavior had been drilled into her from the time she could walk.
But Adom had always been strange. There was nothing of a thirteen-year-old in him. His wit, his way of thinking, his calm assessment of situations—everything about him made her forget he was just a kid. He spoke of business prospects and market strategies with the confidence of someone three times his age.
And now here he was, casually stating he'd go to war with a major merchant guild, a respected member of the House of Merchants, potentially with connections to other equally or even more powerful guilds.
If it had been any other kid, she would have dismissed it as ignorance and naivety.
But not Adom.
In the little time they'd worked together, she'd learned that when he said something like this—in that particular tone, with that particular look—he meant it. And more importantly, he might actually be able to do it.
So Cassandra said the first thing that came to her still slightly confused mind.
"That's a wonderful idea."
It probably wasn't. In fact, it bordered on suicidal. It was fully, completely stupid. Anyone with sense would sell their business, take the loss, and walk away after this first attempt on their life.
But that was the problem. They had tried to kill her. And if there was one trait that defined Cass above all others, it was spite. She didn't back down. She didn't surrender.
And even if she still hadn't figured out the reason for his maturity, Cass's talent for discerning people told her at least one thing.
Just like her, Adom was the spiteful type.
"I'd like to show you something," he said.
Bingo.
"Now?" She feigned.
Adom stood, straightening his coat. "Yes. But you don't need to move." He glanced toward the door, then back at her. "You remember John?"
"The tank we were with during the exam?" Cass frowned.
Adom nodded, and the air beside him shimmered, and suddenly John the tank was there. Not just John—John in full armor, towering over the bed, his massive frame barely fitting in the small healer's room. He stood motionless, looking down at her.
Cass's first reflex was to panic. To shout, to scramble backward, to demand an explanation. But she caught herself. That would be out of character. And besides, fear wouldn't help her understand what was happening.
She looked at John, then at Adom, considering. The pieces clicked into place.
"John is not really human, is he?" she asked finally, her voice steady.
"No," Adom replied.
"He's not really alive either, I presume?"
"Not any more than any other golem would be."
Cass nodded slowly, then sighed. "This explains a lot of things."