by Trevor Scott
The mercenary continued toward the elevator without acknowledging the Caretaker’s words, sunlight glinting briefly off the partially obscured blade that hung along the curve of his back. Anger bubbled up inside Toras. He might have been from a lesser House, but he should still command respect from his employs. If that small man were anyone else, an example would have been made of him. Something about the man put Toras ill-at-ease. If the stories he’d heard were true, the small mercenary was the one person in the system he didn’t want to risk crossing. The person who’d recommended the mercenary had said that anyone who intentionally crossed him had a death wish.
Toras took one last look out the window at the dispersing crowd and stepped back to his desk, his footsteps clacking against the hard stone. In his chair, he clasped his fingers together and collected his thoughts. He recalled back to Ragnar’s reign and the strange visitors he’d received. One in particular stuck out to him. She was known as The Heiress, but for all Toras knew it could have been a fiat title. He’d heard Astrid’s name mentioned before but he couldn’t place it. Toras didn’t believe in coincidence. He unlocked his fingers and laid his hands flat on the chilly stone desk. Liam Kidd was making a habit of causing trouble. Unfortunately for his human friend, Toras of House Zumora also specialized in causing trouble.
