Iron Veil: Contracts in the Shadow Ep1- Dark Fantasy Short Story

Written by: James K King

The Veiled Contract

15th Cycle of Dreadmarrow Season, Year 318 After Fracture

Krev Draegon enters the Krugskoll, also known as the Wolf's Circle—a place of mercs, gambling, and blood dealings.

Krev shouldered through the warped door frame and descended into the Wolf's Circle. The air thickened—smoke, sweat, and a cacophony of acrid flavors from the myriads of shard-based drugs consumed in this place. Sawdust clung to his boots as he crossed the main hall, lanterns swaying overhead and casting fractured shadows across the circular room.

Not run-down or shitty, actually quite refined in its own corrupt way. This establishment was the beating heart of the city's underbelly—catering to people from all walks of life. A true place of equality where only the coin was King.

The gambling den murmured with activity. Dice clattered against scarred wood. A merc missing half his teeth laughed too loud over cards while his partner nursed a small glass of the signature Wolf's Breath, face slack from the burn.

"Heard the Wake sluts collapsed another breach up north," someone muttered near the bar.

"Course they did. Probably pocketed half the shards before reporting it clean."

Krev didn't slow. He'd heard it all before—cartel boys spitting venom at Wardens while they smuggled shard-drugs like sporeglass and skyfire through the same breaches those bastards died protecting. Hypocrites with short memories.

He scanned the room. Found what he was looking for in the back corner—a figure seated alone beneath a guttering lamp, face half-hidden in shadow. The Cartel emissary.

Krev crossed to the table, pulled out the chair without asking, and dropped into it. The emissary didn't flinch. Good. He hated nervous clients.

"You Draegon?" Low voice. Female. Scarred hands wrapped around a mug of Circle's Oath, the brown liquid's foam still thick.

"Depends who's asking."

"Someone with coin." She pushed a fist sized pouch across the table. Its weight speaking volumes. "Still taking jobs, or have you drowned your edge in drink and the, softer, services of the city?" The mysterious contact finished with a dangerous but teasing grin as she glanced at one of the Krug's prostitutes, laughing as she traced a finger down a Legion Officer's arm at the main bar.

Krev's jagged smile split his face. "Well, that depends on the job mystery lady."

"A well-informed man such as yourself has heard of the leftover taint from the Bloomrot breach up north, where Driftmarsh is, or was I should say. We have an item there we would like recovered."

"Uh huh. Driftmarsh has a certain reputation for being cursed" Krev slouched back, crossing his arms. "What's this package?"

She didn't shift, but impatience started to edge her voice. "We understand your familiarity with the place, are you interested in the job or not?"

He hefted the pouch, testing its mass. "May I?" She nodded, knowing this place's reputation for dealing with thieves would prevent any sticky fingers.

Inside were not the standard silver marks he was typically paid in but gold crowns.

His thick callous finger flicked around the pouch, shifting the coins. It must have been at least twenty crowns and a hundred silver marks. More than his squad had made all season.

He cinched the pouch back up and, with a single finger, slowly pushed it back to the contact.

"So, not a standard smash n grab, not a wakeborne clear job. Thats not even murder money. What is this 'item' you're wanting and how much competition am I looking at?"

"Intelligence suggests minimal if any wake spawn will be present. They most likely would have spread out in the woods by now—worst case you encounter a Wake Borne, Beast or some idiot turned Echo from lingering too long."

Krev's grin stretched wider. "'Suggests', is such an interesting word. For instance, this amount of coin suggests there is more than a few Mycid or Thornkin between my group and that item."

The woman stares at him for a long moment, long enough that Krev starts to wonder if the rules of the Krugskoll will stop her from slashing his throat if he didn't answer correctly. Then with a slow exhale and a hushed tone she says, "The item in question is a crystal of high value to Gloam, the amount of coin is for your discretion. We have no intel on any other parties but always expect the worst."

Always aware of the meaning between words, Krev flatly states, "Then delivery of the item is another bag, equally as voluptuous." As he grabs the pouch again, he tosses it up with a smile and snatches it out of the air.

"Deal."

She stood, left her drink unfinished. "I'll meet you at the Fang's Table to sign the contract."

Krev watched her disappear into the crowd, then pocketed the pouch, stood up and moved to the bar where he signaled the barkeep. "Wolf's, neat."

Another secret in the great frontier at just another frontier shithole. Another payday. 

The barkeep came back and handed him his glass with the brown liquid, Krev flipped him a full silver earning him a nod of appreciation from the grizzled man behind the bar.

Well, maybe not just another frontier shithole. He mused to himself as he thought about the last time he was at Driftmarsh, back when it was still a bustling town for cutthroats and frontier bandits, instead of the poisoned nightmare being burned down and slaughtered by a wraith he unknowingly delivered, before he left.

***

The Wolf's Kiss burned on the way down—good burn, the kind that sharpened focus instead of dulling it. Krev savored it, letting the warmth spread through his chest.

Then he felt it. Eyes. Not the casual glances of drunks or whores sizing up marks. But the type of focus and predatory gazes that causes his blood to run wild with excitement.

Three tables back, wedged between a support beam and the wall. Four men. Leathers worn smooth from use, not for show. One had a shardsteel dagger strapped visible at his hip—expensive hardware for common thugs. Another wore a brass amulet that caught the lamplight. Breach squad insignia, though the specific company was impossible to make out from this distance.

The one nearest the beam nursed his drink but his gaze kept flicking to where the emissary had disappeared. Then to Krev. Then to the pouch-shaped bulge in Krev's coat.

Shit.

Krev turned back to his glass, kept his posture loose. Casual. But his hand drifted to his belt, fingers brushing the worn grip of his shardlock pistol.

The men shifted. Chairs scraped. One stood, stretched like he was working out a cramp.

The Krugskoll had rules about bloodshed—Didn't mean people followed them.

A man materialized like smoke given form—tailored coat, polished boots, the kind of composure that didn't come from money alone. Power. Authority. The sort that made men with daggers reconsider their choices.

"Gentlemen, I would hope that everyone's drinks, food and company are to their liking." His voice carried across the noise without rising. "It would be a shame if there were any problems in The Circle."

Krev's scarred mouth split into that familiar grin—Feral glee at the prospect of potential violence, animal recognition of a predator circling prey.

"Fine by me. Just running the circle." He let the words settle, weighted with meaning. Every man in this room knew what that phrase meant. What protection signing a contract in the Krugskoll carried, as well as the repercussions for breaking it.

He stood, rolled his shoulders, and moved toward the Fang Table.

The four men shifted. One stepped forward—barely half a pace, just enough to block Krev's path.

Steel whispered from leather.

Blades appeared at four throats simultaneously. Two from shadows Krev hadn't registered—booth corners and alcove depths where watchers had been waiting all along. The other two came from bar wenches who'd transformed in heartbeats from giggling ornaments into something cold and precise.

The woman at the nearest throat pressed just enough to draw a bead of crimson. Her smile never faltered.

"I'm sorry our establishment wasn't up to your liking, my friends." The well-dressed man's tone remained pleasant, but the words landed like iron. "Let us please refund you and see you out."

Not remotely taken as a request by anyone.

The lead mercenary's jaw worked. His eyes darted to his companions—blades still kissing skin—then back to the man in the tailored coat.

"We were just leaving."

"How considerate."

The blades withdrew with synchronized grace. The mercenaries backed toward the door, hands visible, movements careful. One of them locked eyes with Krev for a split second—calculation and fury burning there.

Krev winked.

With a thud of finality, the door swung shut behind them.

The tavern exhaled. Dice clattered again. Conversations resumed their low murmur. The bar wenches returned to their posts, smiles bright and empty as if knives had never graced their fingers.

The well-dressed man turned to Krev, gave the slightest nod—acknowledgment, not deference—and vanished back into the crowd as smoothly as he'd emerged.

Krugskoll. Wakes take me, I love this place.

This place wasn't some run-of-the-mill dive, but the real thing. Wolf's Circle was it's own operation, not controlled by any other factions, a true neutral place where only their rules existed. The kind of place where contracts lived and died, where blood oaths were sworn and enforced with surgical precision.

Krev took a deep sigh, finishing off the exaggerated breath with a grunt and a pat to his chest, and began the crossing to the Fang Table.

It sat in the back corner. A ceremonial circular surface marked with old scars and burn marks. Lantern light pooled across its surface, leaving the edges in shadow. Two wooden chairs, secrets written in their grain, sit at the altar of deals. One is occupied.

***

Krev negotiates at the Fang Table

Krev dropped into the chair across from the emissary, wood creaking under his weight. The Fang Table's surface gleamed dull under lamplight—decades of deals carved into its grain, some in ink, others in blood.

The emissary slid a single sheet of parchment forward. No flourishes. No excess words. Just coordinates, a timeline, and a description that made Krev's gut tighten.

Dormant Wake breach. Shard retrieval. Fungus corruption choking the ruins from Bloomrot biome.

His eyes caught on one line: Minimal Warden presence—containment failed.

That meant this area was fair game for anyone brave or dumb enough to go in. Anything from Wake spawn to scavengers to other merc groups could be in the area and hostilities were not uncommon or even frowned upon. After all, the wealth that can be gained from a biome is vast, sometimes it's just easier to strip it off those who've already done the work.

An itch crawled up his spine though, familiar as an old scar. Instinct honed from too many breaches, too many missions where squads went in six strong and came back three light. This wasn't a standard run. This was the kind of contract that ended with names scratched off rosters.

But the pouch sat heavy in his coat. Already spent in his mind—good whiskey, better company, could spend quite a lot of time at one of the high-end parlors where the escorts didn't ask questions and knew how to make a man forget the screaming.

Between another one of these pouches and whatever else could be salvaged from inside the biome, it could be the difference between doing this job for years to come or deciding to drown himself in booze and pussy until his organs gave out.

The emissary produced a quill. Set it beside the parchment with deliberate precision.

Krev stared at the document. At the blank line waiting for his name. At the Krugskoll seal stamped in crimson wax at the bottom—wolf's head, fangs bared.

Breaking the Fang meant death. Slower than most. The Circle didn't forgive debts.

But he'd already taken the coin.

And these weren't the people to cross. Not here. Not anywhere.

"Oh, well shit." Krev grabbed the quill, that jagged grin splitting his scarred face. "What's the point of living forever anyway?"

He scratched his name across the parchment—messy, violent strokes that matched everything else about him.

The emissary lifted the parchment, rolled it smooth, and tucked it inside her coat. No handshake. No words of encouragement or warning.

"Now that it's signed, you want to tell me what I'm looking for, exactly?"

The Cartel figure nodded, "The crystal is in a lockbox located in our old HQ at Driftmarsh. It's a very large, very pure, Umbracleft Crystal. Approximately two feet tall by half a foot wide."

Krev whistled, "That, I feel like, is worth more than this bag."

She smiled that flat, dangerous smile, "It is, to you it's worth two bags. To other more dangerous customers, it's priceless. But that isn't your concern. We offered this job to you because you're good at what you do. Get the item and bring it back, then you'll be handsomely rewarded per the contract. If you don't, then repercussions per the contract. Simple."

Holding the woman's stare for a pause, he finally said, "Fair enough. One last question, though, because it's really burning my taint. No one smokes it, snorts it, or drinks it—it's not a drug unless you just want madness. So why would anyone want a shard from the Shadow Wake who isn't a Warden?"

She stood, "Some answers are best not to have Draegon, trust me." Then gave Krev a single nod and melted back into the tavern's shadows.

Krev sat alone at the Fang Table, the weight of what he'd just signed pressing down like shardsteel on his chest.

Somewhere in the distance, dice clattered, a woman laughed.

And Krev ordered another drink.

***

Krev stepped outside Krugskoll, fog swallowing the grain warehouse behind him. His boots found cobblestone—wet, slick, reflective under Lanverra's shardlamp glow.

Movement—Four shapes peeled from the shadows like scabs off a wound.

The bounty squad from earlier. Same hungry eyes, same poor timing.

Krev stopped. Flexed his scarred knuckles. Didn't reach for his blade—didn't need to. Not yet.

"Guys, let's not." His voice scraped gravel. "I'm tired, and unless you want me to use one of your skins as a blanket, I suggest we just do this another time."

The mercs exchanged glances. One—bald, missing an ear—stepped back first. Smart. The others followed, boots scuffing stone.

But the leader paused. Grinned with too many teeth intact.

"Oh we'll do it some other time." He spat near Krev's boot. "Watch your back out there. The frontier is a mighty dangerous place, I hear."

They melted into the fog, footsteps fading.

Krev stood still. Let the silence settle. Then turned down the alley toward his rented room above a tannery—cheap, stinking, perfect for a man who'd stopped caring years ago.

He chuckled to himself as he thought to himself, "Shards take me, I fucking LOVE the Krugskoll."

Krev stands off against potential assailants in the dark alleys in Lanverra.

Thank you for reading this dark fantasy short story of mine!

If you want more dark fantasy short stories with mercenary grit in this Wake Saga-themed chaos, then have no fear! Episode 2 will drop soon, don't miss it! Subscribe to the newsletter and check out the lore pages for more Wake Saga content!