Sir Hiss and the Legacy of Tannwyn

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Tannwyn was a city of whispers and facades. Its houses were old, yet never dilapidated. Its alleys seemed open, yet never safe. Every other shop had a back room, and in the shadows of the towers lurked truths that never saw the light of day. Just the right place for someone who was anything but honest. Sir Hiss entered the city under the name Velmor Farret, supposedly a wandering archivist from the south. His cloak was gray, his doublet plain. But his bearing remained regal, his smile restrained and sharp as a silk-sheathed dagger. Those who met him later remembered him only vaguely—except for his red eyes. No one forgot those. He settled in a tower house directly above the spice market. Soon, merchants began bringing him old documents—contracts, commercial letters, family charters. He helped to "clean them up." Old debts disappeared. New rights emerged. And everyone who worked with him earned. More than before. Much more. But Tannwyn didn't forget. In the east of the city sat a man named Laskor, once a scribe in Belmoor. He had gone into hiding after the Shadow League had gone up in flames. And Laskor remembered Hiss well—even though Hiss now called himself "Velmor." He knew the tone, the fake tremor in his voice, the tiny blink before a lie. Laskor began to ask questions. Quietly, but steadily. Who was the man in the tower? Why did seals from Ilvenmark suddenly appear in Tannwyn, even though no official messenger had ever come? Why did a letter to the city councilors exactly resemble the style of a document that once shattered the League? Sir Hiss noticed. And smiled. He loved it when the game began. He invited Laskor. Tea, he said. Old times. Peace. But he didn't mix poison with the tea—that was too harsh. Instead, he placed a genuine letter on the table. Inside: an apology. An explanation. Even an offer—fame, fortune, a new beginning. Everything seemed genuine. And Laskor, confused, hesitated. But he didn't accept it. Instead, he disappeared—and the next day the streets were full of rumors. "Velmor" was an imposter. An old enemy. A murderer in silk. Sir Hiss remained calm. He waited. The next night, three men appeared in his tower house with drawn blades. But he had expected them. Before they took the third step, they fell—paralyzed by a fog he had cast over the floorboards. No magic. Just fine mandrake and hazy bitterroot. Old, but potent. The next day, Tannwyn read: "Laskor vanished. Tower house empty. Books gone."
And a new hand began to keep the council records—neat, unobtrusive, impeccable. The city returned to order. And no one ever mentioned "Velmor" again. But in an inn on the border, an old man swears he saw him. With a purple cloak. A new name. And exactly the same thin, cold smile.