Fearless (The Powerless Trilogy)
Fearless: Prologue

There are very few reasons for a meeting between two cloaked figures in the dead of night.

Unsurprisingly, the list is as short as it is unseemly.

For some, it is love. For most, it is lust.

Lust for money. Lust for purpose. Lust for revenge.

But in some cases, it is love that first spurs these lusts. Or rather, the loss of it.

Though these odd contradictories are rare, they are consistently tragic.

A man leans against the wall, his stoic expression swallowed beneath the gaping hood.

It’s been several minutes now, though the sudden wave of impatience seems to sneak up on him. Every wary glance begins to weigh heavily atop his cloaked shoulders. Because buried deep beneath that hood is a mind that screams at him to go through with this, persistently drowning out a much gentler, coaxing voice that tells him to walk away, a voice that makes him ache. Still, he leans heavier against the wall, as if to anchor himself to this moment, this decision, before inevitably sinking with the consequences of it.

Moonlight slips between the slivers of crumbling stone surrounding the alleyway. It makes him uneasy for some unexplainable reason, as though the pale fingers are clawing their way toward him.

Yes, he much prefers the sun to its eerie opposite.

The cloaked figure straightens suddenly at the sight of a shadow slinking closer. It stops before him, morphing into something far more tangible, mortal. They stand, assumably, eye to eye, though their hoods shroud any hint of an identifying feature.

“Do you know what you have to do?”

This second shadowy figure speaks like gold, rich and soft. He has the practiced ability to spin words into something far prettier than the meaning behind them.

“To an extent,” returns the first man. His worn boots shift atop the crooked cobblestones, mind still screaming over that soft voice telling him to run away from this damning decision.

“Very good.” The second shadow shoves a hand into his pocket. “I’m trusting you won’t disappoint.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

Pulling the hand from his cloak, the man presents a hefty coin purse to the cool air. “This should be enough to ensure you make this worth everyone’s while.”

The first man reaches for the pouch, swallowing at the sheer weight of silvers within. “Yes, this should do.”

“Now”—the figure lowers his voice—“it needs to look real, understand? Make me believe you.”

The first man’s voice is low. “I will.”

The battle within his mind roars louder still. But he has learned to ignore the constant din of chaos, just as he does now. Because nothing can save him from this fate. Not even that persuasive, gentle voice.

With a curt nod of his hooded head, the stranger begins that silent slip into a swarm of shadows.

“Why do you want this?”

Curiosity has the conflicted figure blurting the question. Awaiting an answer, he clutches the pouch against his chest, treasuring the feel of tangible security.

The shadows, shifty as ever and eager to eavesdrop, seem to lean in.

A soft string of words over a shoulder is all the man offers. “Every brutal act is born of love.”

That understanding alone draws together even the most unlikely of allies. Even hooded and shrouded in shadows, these two strangers have never felt so seen.