The moon, a pale coin, cast long shadows through the newly installed, uncurtained windows of Crowsnest Manor. The air inside, usually thick with the damp chill of a forgotten mausoleum, now hummed with a peculiar blend of lavender, expensive beeswax, and the faintest scent of freshly cut timber. Tazia, humming a tuneless little melody, carefully arranged a scattering of rose petals in a steaming wooden basin. The humiliated noble's threats had vanished from her mind like dust motes in a sunbeam; her focus settled entirely on Razien, who sat ramrod straight on a cushioned bench, radiating rigid, bewildered discomfort. “Just relax, my dear,” she chirped, dipping a soft linen cloth into the infused water. Razien flinched, teeth grinding, as if preparing for a blow. He knew, with absolute certainty, that this was some new, insidious torture. The soft sounds of water, the floral smells, the absence of sharp steel – it was all a careful prelude. He could feel her movements, light and quick, hear the rustle of her expensive fabrics. His senses screamed danger, yet she spoke with such… *earnestness*. It unsettled him more than any blade. “The original Lady Morvello kept you in a cell, didn’t she?” Tazia murmured, more to herself than him, her brow furrowed with genuine distress. “Well, we’re changing that. You’re going to be so pampered, you won’t know what hit you!” She patted his knee, a gesture so utterly foreign that Razien nearly startled off the bench. *Pampered.* The word tasted like ash in his mind. He’d known pain, deprivation, betrayal. Not… *pampering*. She began with his hands, taking one calloused palm into hers. Razien’s hands, accustomed to the hilt of a curved blade, stayed rigid. He could feel the warmth of her touch, the surprising softness of her skin against his rough knuckles. She massaged a rich, subtly fragranced cream into his skin, working it into the old scars that crisscrossed his hand, souvenirs from a hundred forgotten skirmishes. Her touch was gentle, almost reverent. “Oh, your hands are so strong,” she cooed, entirely missing the dark history etched into every line. “But they’re so dry. We can’t have that. We need to get some of this beautiful ‘Golden Willow’ balm on these. It’s infused with mountain echinacea. Very healing!” Razien tried to keep his breathing even. Every instinct screamed at him to pull away, to draw a weapon, to find an escape route. Yet, her touch was… not painful. Not malicious. It was simply… *there*. A persistent, disarming presence. He could identify at least three pressure points in her neck that would end this charade instantly, yet his palm stayed limp in hers. The new possessiveness that had sparked earlier, after the noble's plunge into the fountain, now warred with his ingrained paranoia. *She was hers. But this… this was too soft, too vulnerable.* It felt like bait. Next, she moved to his face. Razien tensed, his blind eyes, hidden behind their pale, scarred lids, darting invisibly. This was it. The hidden needle, the slow-acting poison. He prepared himself. Instead, he felt the cool, damp weight of a sliced gourd circle laid over each closed lid. He blinked, a reflex that did nothing, then froze. “Perfect!” Tazia exclaimed, stepping back to admire her work. “Now, just relax. No peeking! The cold slices reduce puffiness and soothe the delicate skin around your beautiful eyes.” *Puffiness.* Razien’s thoughts stalled. His eyes had seen things that would shatter lesser men, then seen nothing at all for years. They were a roadmap of pain, not a canvas for puffiness. He suppressed a growl. This was beyond his comprehension. To play along, to feign submission, was the only logical course. He could feel the slight dampness of the crisp circles against his eyelids, the absurd coolness. He didn't understand the purpose, but he understood the command: *no peeking*. The manor was quiet then, save for the crackle of a newly lit hearth and Tazia’s soft, contented sighs as she mixed another concoction. Razien, motionless and mute, endured the bizarre sensations. The balm on his hands was surprisingly pleasant. The chilled rounds, equally absurd, felt… odd. Not painful. Just… odd. He focused on the distant thrum of the ocean against the cliffs, searching for any other sound, any other threat. His ears, honed by years of darkness, picked up a faint scratching, a faint scrape against the glass of the window, high above. Too light for a bird. Too rhythmic for the wind. His internal alarm blared. *Intruders.* The ruined noble. Of course. The threat wasn’t forgotten, merely delayed. He prepared to spring, to flick the absurd garnishes from his face, to become the weapon he was born to be. But then, Tazia spoke again, her voice low and soothing. “Just one more thing, my dear. We can’t have your beautiful face neglected. This is a special, strengthening balm for the skin.” She uncorked a small vial, and the scent of bitter herbs, almost medicinal, wafted towards him. “It will help with all those… *character lines*.” He felt her hands again, gently touching his jaw, his cheekbones, moving towards the jagged scars that marred his brow. Her touch lingered, feather-light, completely disarming. The scratching at the window grew more insistent, a soft rasping, followed by a faint *snick* of metal on metal. He knew that sound. It was a lock pick. Three men, by the rhythm of the breathing he now detected. Well-trained. Muffled approach. Standard Ebon Coil tactics. He needed to move. Now. But Tazia’s fingers were just reaching the deep gash across his temple, a memento from a particularly vicious ambush in the Black Fens. He experienced a sudden prickle, not of pain, but of something else. Tenderness. Her palms smoothed over the raised flesh, an unvoiced apology for a wound she hadn’t inflicted. Her focus, her earnestness, was absolute. She was so close, so utterly vulnerable, so *unaware*. The window swung inward with barely a creak. A dark silhouette, a man holding a short, curved stiletto, slipped into the room. He moved with practiced stealth, followed by two others, equally silent, equally lethal. They were dressed in midnight cloaks, their faces obscured by deep hoods. Razien identified the lead killer as an enforcer from the Obsidian Hand syndicate, often contracted by disgraced patricians. *She must not be upset,* Razien thought, the new, fierce possessiveness flaring. *She likes her spa rules.* He kept the cucumber slices firmly over his eyes, his head tilted slightly, maintaining the facade of tranquil rest. His ears tracked the lead intruder, already creeping toward Tazia, steel catching a glint of moonlight. Just as the intruder raised his blade, Razien moved. It was an instantaneous strike, quiet and lethal. His left hand, smelling faintly of echinacea balm, shot out, seizing the man's wrist with crushing force. Bone snapped sharp in the quiet room. The intruder couldn't cry out; Razien’s grip on his windpipe, applied in the exact same instant, choked the breath in his chest. The killer choked, his weapon clattering uselessly to the flagstones. Razien twisted, hurling the limp frame into the path of the second attacker, whose lunge turned into a clumsy tumble over his comrade. All this, while the cold vegetable rounds stayed undisturbed over Razien’s eyes. Tazia, startled by the sudden scuffle, blinked, her head snapping up. “Oh, dear! What was that?” Razien didn’t answer. He was already a phantom. His foot swept out, tripping the second assassin, then he was on him, a swift, brutal strike to the temple. The man collapsed, motionless. The third, faster, had drawn a twin set of throwing knives and flung them. Razien dodged, a near-imperceptible sway of his body, the blades whistling past where his head had been moments before. He plucked one from the air as it passed, a feat of impossible perception. A swift rush of dark cloth, and the third intruder found his own captured steel embedded between his ribs. Three bodies lay crumpled on the freshly laid tiles, the only sounds the gurgle of the dying and the rhythmic splash of water from the basin. Razien stood over them, perfectly still, his body now covered in fresh blood, yet the cucumber slices stayed primly in place. He reached for a nearby, lavender-scented towel – a luxury Tazia had insisted upon – and carefully draped it over his forearm. “Razien? What… what happened?” Tazia stammered. She peered at the shadows, trying to make sense of the sudden chaos. Her eyes landed on Razien, pristine cucumbers still in place, the expensive towel held with an odd sense of duty, juxtaposed against the fresh crimson staining his silk tunic. “Are you alright? Oh, is that… blood? Did you cut yourself?” He merely shook his head, an impassive, almost prim gesture. He could feel the residual heat from the kills, the familiar hum of adrenaline, but he forced himself to breathe slowly, to mimic the calm she seemed to expect. He didn’t want to upset her spa routine. He had followed her rules, hadn’t he? Tazia, ever practical and oblivious to the true scale of the threat, rushed over to the bodies. “Oh, dear, this is a mess! And on the new tiles! Well, we’ll need to clean this up before the morning. Let’s see if they left anything.” She knelt beside the first body, a small, dark-haired man. Her hands searched through his pockets, pulling out a small, folded piece of parchment. She unfurled it, her eyes scanning the neatly penned script. Her brows drew together, a frown deepening on her face. Her mouth dropped open as she saw the elegant, familiar signature at the bottom. The hit orders were signed, in flourishing ink, with the name ‘Tazia Morvello’.

Midnight Massages and Murder