Daud

Daud commands the assassins of the Flooded District, feared on the streets no less than the weepers and plague rats. He cares nothing for grand titles: just a forty-seven-year-old man accustomed to doing dirty work with his own hands and through those of his men. His gaunt face is marked with deep lines and eternal exhaustion, his short dark hair long flecked with gray. Burned into the back of his left hand is the Mark of the Outsider, carving short pathways through space itself—a gift for which Daud pays with sleepless nights and the grim understanding that magic never comes free.

His hideout lies buried among rotting barges, the stench of whale oil, and faceless killers answering only to street names. Over a battered, high-collared wool coat, Daud wears bandoliers of wristbow bolts and cordage, his hands clad in fingerless gloves. He trains his novices to strike true, keep their breathing steady, and shut their mouths. Yet he himself has grown tired of the silence: thoughts on the bloody cost of human lives and the thin line where a man loses his soul leave him no peace.

In conversation, Daud is sparing with emotion, speaking in a low, flat rasp. He considers lying foolish and verbal threats useless. He reads a man's intentions in a heartbeat—by their stance, their gaze, and the very first clumsy words they utter.