The truth was, he never wanted this job.

It had been so many years now, he often forgot that. He didn’t ask for it. He never imagined it. It wasn’t even a job now. It was his entire life. It was now his identity. It defined who he was.

And tonight, he just wanted a quiet evening and a beer.

The floating barge, the West Lion, could hold up to two hundred people. It was packed to capacity every night. The barge on the sea was broken off from society in its own world of sex, drugs, gambling, and money.

He sat in his own private quarters for the elite, the very important. Nobles from all over Caelus came to the barge and unwound. Even though they were private lounges, they were still packed, still stuffy. Still too many people. The atmosphere was thick and rich. Every night was a party. He wished he could just be alone, but no. He had to keep up appearances. In this world, politics were important. Sometimes he just had to be seen.

He sat beside his lover. She sat on his blind side. He couldn’t see her unless he fully turned his head, which made it easier to pretend that he was by himself. She was a pretty girl with a smug smile and a pointed nose. She was chatting with Tyrin, his right hand and one of his captains. They leaned and sat closer than he’d like. They’d been doing that more and more often the last three weeks. Whispered conversations and close hands. Don’t think he didn’t fucking notice, he thought to himself. But tonight he just didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t give a damn. Since he literally could not see them, it made it easier to convince himself that they just didn’t exist.

“Kia,” Arie said as she pulled herself away from Tyrin. She slid her sweeping blonde hair from her narrow face. She was too young for him, and he knew it. Her slightly drunk grin was like a knife wound, sharp and cut. She always smirked like she knew something he didn’t. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice pushed to rise above the music that throbbed in the air. “You’re so quiet.”

“Yeah,” he answered in a grunt. He plucked his fat cigar from the ashtray on the table and tucked it between his teeth. “I’m fine,” he lied convincingly, flatly. He didn’t turn his head to fix his good eye on her. She was just a disembodied voice at his side. He sucked on the cigar and exhaled a plume of acrid, silver smoke up and into the hazy atmosphere.

Arie tapped her small, skinny fingers on his big, hairy knuckles reassuringly. Then she resumed leaning a little too close to his captain to continue her private conversation with him.

He continued to ignore this as he smoked and nursed his dark, frothy beer.

Several raised voices cracked through the air. Then a yell and a violent shove through the crowd, bodies pushed aside. Noisy, drunk conversations died down and were replaced by hushed murmurs. Kia perked up and scanned his dimly lit private lounge with a narrowed, skeptical eye. He needed to make sure that he had the aura of power. Control. There shouldn’t be fighting here. Just good times that kept the money flowing. He was a peddler of prostitution, easy money, and questionable products. Anything out of the ordinary would be dealt with swiftly. Even in the dark underbelly of gamblers, murderers, and thieves, rules were rules. They were his rules, his orders, and everyone had to follow them. There was no fighting here, unless it was under his direction.

One of his mountainous guards that stood stoically in front of his booth turned and gave him a questioning look. He didn’t need to say anything. Kia merely gave him a curt downward nod in confirmation. Go, he thought. See what that’s all about. The guard understood the nonverbal command.

The heavy footfalls of the guard caused the crowd to split.

“I want to see the Old Dog!” an angry, male voice shouted wildly. “Let me see him!”

The man was disheveled and dirty. He didn’t fit in with the rest of the elite crowd. Everyone else was dripping in gold and jewels, fine, expensive robes and high-class fashion. He looked like a peasant plucked off the streets. He was drunk on cheap wine. The sour odor permeated from his hair and filthy skin. His bulbous, bloodshot eyes rolled across the crowd in an attempt to spot Kia.

He flailed wildly when Kia’s massive guard tried to hold him down. He wouldn’t stop screaming and making a scene. This needed to stop immediately.

Kia, who was known as the Old Dog in the underworld, didn’t say anything. There were faded, blunt, runic symbols tattooed onto his big fingers. They were briefly seen as he beckoned the bodyguard to drag the filthy man closer. A confused look shot from the guard to the Old Dog. It seemed baffling that Kia was willing to give this deranged nut even a moment of his time. Arie stopped her conversation to watch the scene unfold. The music died down and a path was made to Kia’s booth. The guard roughly jostled and manhandled the man down through the clearing until he was shoved in front of the table.

Kia wasn’t in a hurry to talk. He took another long, slow mouthful of his beer. He tasted the pungent hops and the barley. There was some dark, sweet flavor that hinted in the corner, cherry and wood. It was a good, dry, black beer. Expensive and bold. Then he tugged on his cigar. It smoldered and crackled. The warm, orange glow briefly illuminated his ugly, disfigured face.

An annoyed glance cracked to the crowd. He wanted them to go back to what they were doing. This situation was handled. The mere look was understood. Hesitatingly, the party returned to drinking, smoking, and gambling. The excitement was over. Music picked up and spilled through the air again.

Arie leered in joy, as if she loved seeing her man assume the role of alpha in the room. It was delightful enough that he now had her full attention. She looped her arm around his and propped her cheek against his shoulder. She stared the crazy man down as if he were a piece of meat, being toyed with before he was to be eaten.

“Now,” Kia said as he tapped a tube of ashes into the ashtray. “Who are you, what are you doing on my boat, and why are you making a scene?” he asked in a voice that was burned by years of smoking.

Two stone-faced guards stood behind the man in rags. They towered over him with blank faces and stood in hulking poses. They were both heavily armed and waited, like mean dogs on taut chains.

“I’m Alain Darkwood. You… you kidnapped my wife. You and your men,” he stammered through his words and tried to explain. Alain was breathless and flushed. His thoughts appeared as scattered and loose as seeds caught in the wind. His skinny hands were muddied with sweat. He tried to compose himself as emotions electrified through his frame. “And then you sold her…You sold her and I want her back.”

One of the guards clapped his heavy hands onto Alain’s shoulder to keep him steady. He looked as if he were seconds away from lunging across the table and attacking the Old Dog. Alain attempted to shrug him off and bat the guard’s hand away.

“That so?” Kia asked, as if mildly interested in the story. “Come. We can step outside and talk about this privately like men.” He motioned for Arie and his captain, Tyrin, to slide out of the booth and follow him. He smothered his cigar in the ashtray and stood.

Kia Sin’del was a large, bullish elf. He stood a head taller than most elves and was twice as heavy. He was ugly; he was blunt. He was mean. Just by looking at him, there was no question that he was the lord emperor of the underworld. His voice didn’t need to be loud, for in its dark, rusty, grit and grime, it wielded all the power.

Elves were normally slight and small. Their skin was typically pale, unlike his. Elves were gifted with a long life, averaging two centuries. With such a long life, elves passed their time with hedonistic pleasures without much care for what was considered acceptable. Elves were not concerned with sexuality conventions. Kia’s large frame and dark skin made his heritage questionable. He had been accused of being part human, or part Wildling. He wasn’t sure if this was true, though it was possible. He couldn’t have cared less.

When he walked, his strides pounded across the wooden floorboards. His long, salt-and-pepper hair was as coarse and rough as a horse's tail. His skin was tanned a nut brown from the sun and was dappled in dark hair. Much of his body was consumed by a knotted network of pink burn scars. It took up a large portion of his face and claimed half of his eyesight. He sometimes hid the sightless, milky eye with a worn black eyepatch. Other times, he left his handicap open for the world to see. It was unsettling, for the fire that had damaged him had left him deeply disfigured. It only added to his intimidating appearance and rumors of his brutality.

The six of them left the lounge: Kia, Arie, Tyrin, his two brute security guards, and Alain Darkwood.

Kia led them to the bow of the ship. He had his security guards bully away customers and employees. He wanted to talk to Alain without an audience. The sun had sunk hours ago, but the air was still damp and warm. Clouds clung against the bruised sky. The West Lion dipped up and down as it aimlessly wandered the sea.

Kia had been ruler of this world for nearly fifty years now. He was respected and feared. He ran it like one would run a business. He was meticulous and organized. Although he was the proprietor of the majority of illegal substances in the world, he did not partake in them himself and expected the same of his employees. There was still a code of honor and professionalism that needed to be followed.

Like the lords and ladies above him, he traded favors and obtained control over domains. His world was not unlike theirs, but it was grittier and blacker. More blood spilled. He wasn’t afraid to clean up the mess and get his hands dirty. Even a petty affair like settling a dispute over a farmer’s wife wasn't too beneath him. Kia knew that he was merely the lord of the bottom dwellers. But, as they said, it was better to be the lord of hell than not to be a lord at all.

Alain stood with his back to the rusted iron railing. Far below him was the crashing, salted sea. Kia had a patient expression and took his time. He removed a toothpick from his front pocket and rested it on his bottom lip before he spoke. His guards, his captain, and his leather-clad lover formed a tight horseshoe ring around him for support.

“Now.” The Old Dog spoke first, authoritatively. His voice was sandpaper and was pushed loud enough to be heard over the distant music that played. “Usually we don’t go after someone’s wife or kids unless they are really behind on their debt. There are rules and procedures in place. We don’t do this fucking shit arbitrarily. Steps need to be taken first. We send reminders.”

Alain Darkwood's twig-like fingers clenched and unclenched. He looked pale and shaken. A small pink tongue lapped across his dry, cracked lips before he croaked out, “We n-needed the money. Please. Have a little mercy...”

Kia shook his head and mined at his teeth with the toothpick. “I do have mercy, Darkwood. I’m sure we gave you plenty of time to pay us back.” He lifted his chin. Kia’s long goatee still managed to brush against the middle of his chest. “You know what I don’t get? Why you fucking broke onto my boat and begged me to find your whore wife when you clearly don’t have a single gold to your name to pay what you owe.”

“We are just... just farmers. We don’t have...” Alain stammered and broke off.

Kia waved a huge, paw-like hand dismissively to cut him off. “Bull-fucking-shit you’re just a farmer. Look at you. You’re a waste of space. I’ve seen people like you. You didn’t even use the money you borrowed for your fucking crops. You’re a junkie.”

He didn’t know this for a fact, but Alain looked the part. He was twitchy. He was paranoid. He was too thin. The irony was that he was probably addicted to Kia’s products that he supplied. “I’m probably doing your wife a favor. Giving her work.” The Old Dog opened his hand to Arie.

Arie smiled like a cat with a saucer of milk. Her small hand dipped down to the leather holster strapped to her thigh. She clicked it open and removed a shining, black, complicated pistol. She slapped it into Kia’s palm.

He cracked it open to make sure it was loaded. There were a few rounds inside. Good.

Alain’s bulging eyes grew wide. He began to cry and protest. Kia’s guards advanced forward and flanked the debtor, grappling his arms to keep him in place. Kia then took aim from point blank range.

He was a lousy shot ever since he became disabled. He always tried to compensate for his lack of depth perception, but it was almost impossible. When it came “down to business,” he preferred to settle things with a wooden bat or club. He hated guns; they made him feel weak. But he didn’t have a bat handy. This would have to do. Even his good eye didn’t see all that well, but he never spoke of it. In his world, any amount of vulnerability could be exploited and lead to a downfall.

“No, n-no! Please!” Alain begged. Tears began to streak his face as he squirmed and writhed. He was tightly kept in place by the vice grip of the guards.

Kia dragged in a heavy, salted intake of sea air to steady himself. He flipped his toothpick away. Aim carefully, he said to himself. A little to the side. Fucking... eye, he cursed, as a bullet clapped out of the barrel of the gun. A breath of gunpowder lingered.

He missed.

Alain wailed as the bullet zipped through his shoulder. A splatter of red burst down his shirt and onto the deck. The man struggled and thrashed and screamed.

Kia readied for a second round. The first bullet shell clattered to the ground. This time, he squinted and tried for more careful aim. A little more compensation, right for the forehead... and... he squeezed the trigger.

Bullseye. The guards released Alain and allowed him to topple backwards off the railing and into his watery grave below.

Kia handed the gun back to Arie. She was pleased, he could tell by her broad grin. Seeing him so direct, so authoritative when he handled business was masculine and appealing to her. She holstered her gun and hooked her arm around his. She beamed up at him in approval, but he didn’t even spare her a glance. Then she looked over her shoulder and enthusiastically waved goodbye to captain Tyrin and the two bodyguards.

There was a section on the barge that acted as a hotel. Some rooms were larger and more luxurious than others. When he stayed on board, he had only the best, most private room. No one else was ever allowed to make use of it. It was his room, his home away from home. It had all of his personal amenities and even a private office where he could conduct business.

Being the lord of a world like this wasn’t as glamorous as one would assume on the surface. Unlike the noble lords and ladies that ruled over their kingdoms, he did not have an official system set in place. Trust was an issue, for his empire was nothing but rats and scoundrels, thieves, assassins, and cutthroats. He could not simply delegate someone to keep his books. So for years, he did his own paperwork.

Much of his time was consumed by being a manager. He crunched numbers and dealt with personnel problems. He regulated inventory and oversaw expenditures. It was a business, a corporation. Most of it was not murder and intrigue. Though, when those issues cropped up, he put out those fires just as swiftly and efficiently.

There was work that could be done before the night was at an end. He was irritated with Arie. He held his tongue as he gruffly allowed her to cling to him as he headed for his private quarters. Walking at a brisk pace, she was almost dragged along. Seeing her wave to Tyrin caused him to yank her even harder. He didn’t want to think about her and Tyrin. He just wanted to be alone, shut himself in his office, and work. He certainly didn’t want to return to the lounge. He made his appearance. He had his impact. He was done.

The West Lion was huge and stretching. It was almost a half a mile before he reached his room at the very top. It was his castle, and below it was his fiefdom. Guards hung outside his door and turned to allow him to pass.

After he slammed the heavy, polished oak door closed, he shoved Arie off onto the bed. She laughed and giggled as if it were a game. She splayed her small frame on the bed, expecting him to join her. The callous slaughter of the junkie had clearly excited her. She watched him hungrily. She didn’t read into his foul mood; she couldn’t relate to him at all.

His room was decorated for a lord of a much higher social standing. He was born a peasant, but lived as a king. The furniture was opulent and plush. Imported rugs, polished silver, and artwork scattered through his private room. However, parts of his personality shined through. He was a messy man and rarely threw things away. He was often disheveled and disorganized, with his own scattered method of doing things. Trash was rarely taken out and clothes were not hung. He didn’t trust anyone enough to hire someone to clean up after him. And thus the neglect began to creep into his personal life.

In the corner of the room was a large black raven on a wooden perch. The creature shifted its weight from claw to claw, as it watched the two elves with black, wet, intelligent eyes.

Kia stood in front of the mirror and began to unfasten the buttons to his unadorned, brown, coarse-cloth shirt. He did not dress as a lord would. He still dressed the part of a commoner. He did not wear robes or jewels. He did not delude himself into thinking he was truly a nobleman.

“Come on,” Arie pleaded through a smile. “Come here and let me do it. From the bed, she stared at his face in the mirror.

“What’s it with you and Tyrin?” he asked tersely. It was disrespectful. Tyrin wasn’t the only one whose arm she had been clinging to. She was making him look bad in front of his employees, where appearance was everything.

“What do you mean?” she replied, dodging the question as her eyes dropped away. She dipped into a small bag that hung off her belt and removed a glass pipe and a pinch of dried red herbs. chickheed.

Kia saw this. He smelled it. The dried plant perfumed the air in a sudden burst of spice and earth.

“What’s that?” he barked accusingly as he stripped his shirt off. The scent of gunpowder still hung in the fabric. His torso was just as ugly and ruined as his face. Old, faded prison tattoos, a cobweb of burn scars, and hair.

“Just some chickheed.” She shrugged as she snapped her lighter to life and breathed in the caustic herbs.

“You can’t do that,” he shot back at her as he threw his shirt on the floor.

“Why not?” she asked petulantly as she sat up on the bed.

“Because. I don’t ever have fucking addicts work for me. That’s why.” He sounded gruff and almost fatherly. He could have been her father, perhaps even grandfather.

“So?”

“So?” He echoed back to her, agitation in his voice. “So? Fucking throw that shit away,” he commanded.

Defiantly, she sucked on the pipe. She stared at him, childish and disobedient. She didn’t respond to him and continued to smoke, polluting his bed with the stink of the hallucinogenic, addictive substance. It was an illegal herb that was peddled and distributed under his jurisdiction. But he strictly forbade his employees to touch it.

“I said...” he repeated as he lunged forward, slapping the pipe from her mouth. It sped across his sheets and clattered to the floor. The herbs and ashes scattered across his comforter. “Throw that shit away,” he snarled at her, teeth barred and forehead twisted in anger. His palms lay flat on the bed as he growled at her, inches from her face.

She stared at him coolly. Arie’s pointed face was stone. Her blue eyes bore into him. He knew that she wanted to make it a point that she was testing him. She was solid. She was making a show of standing her ground. She assumed, as his lover and second in command, that he wouldn't touch her.

She pushed her flat, soft blonde hair from her young face. It was a standoff.

“Or... what?” she finally asked, breaking the tension and silence.

The Old Dog snagged her by her hair. His fingertips sank into her scalp as he tore her from the bed. He’d never seen her do drugs before. He didn’t know. He dragged her across the floor and she kicked and slapped. It explained some of it, her behavior. Her disrespect. The men she had been teasing. She was stealing his money. He didn’t say a word, yet, but he had noticed. She was sometimes vacant and stayed out late. She slept in the day. He should have pieced this together sooner.

Fucking bitch.

She squirmed and attempted to fight him. But he was the size of a bear. He hauled her out the door of his private room and commanded that she not be allowed near him. The guards didn’t ask questions or even flinch. They didn’t let her back in even when she cried, wailed, pleaded, and begged.

Kia poured himself a drink and reflected. His mind was dark and netted in irritating thoughts. His mood was bristling. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He needed a distraction.

He discreetly ordered another woman be sent to his room for the night. Rounded in the hips and plump on top, just the way he liked them.