Click.
The door handle turned with a soft mechanical click and the heavy wood swung open, slower than Arlo's pounding heart could bear. The darkness behind it seemed to breathe—then Ali stepped through. The gold on his mask caught the faint candlelight.
Ali crossed the threshold, boots thumping softly against the polished wood. His shadow swallowed the space between the bodies on the floor as he stepped over the twisted corpses.
Arlo's teeth chattered as he sat frozen in his oversized chair. He felt smaller than he'd ever felt in his life—shrinking deeper into the creaking leather as Ali's towering figure closed the space. The man who'd turned Obidos into his personal den of misery was now nothing more than prey, paralysed by the very fear he'd once wielded like a whip.
Ali's cold gaze shifted from Arlo to the girl cowering in the far corner—her back pressed so hard against the wall it looked like she wished she could disappear into it. Ali lifted a hand and snapped his fingers once. The sharp crack broke through her sobs. She flinched, then peeked up at him, eyes red and wet.
Ali didn't say a word—he just flicked his chin toward the door. Understanding flashed in her eyes. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled around the dead bodies, clutching her torn dress to her chest. She didn't dare look back as she slipped past Ali and fled down the stairs, her footfalls echoing in the tense silence that filled the room once more.
Now it was only them—Ali, and Arlo. Predator and prey.
Arlo's lips quivered. He forced his shaking jaw to clamp down, teeth grinding. He stared at Ali—at the mask, at the monster behind it—and squeezed his eyes shut as if that would block out the end that was surely here.
"Just do it," Arlo croaked. He sucked in a sharp breath, bracing himself for pain that never came.
Nothing.
A cold sweat rolled down the side of Arlo's face. Seconds ticked by like hours. Slowly, trembling, he cracked one eye open—and flinched when he saw Ali still standing there. Staring down at him. Patient. Unmoved.
Ali tilted his head slightly. "I heard you give out loans."
Arlo's brows pinched together. Confusion cut through the haze of terror for a heartbeat. 'Loans?' He licked his cracked lips, voice catching in his dry throat. "Y-Yes," he managed, the word stuttering off his tongue.
Ali lowered himself into the plush chair opposite the big desk, his posture so casual it made Arlo's skin crawl. Ali's fingertips drummed once on the armrest, then stilled. His voice was calm. Dead calm.
"I want a loan. One hundred silver."
Arlo blinked. For a second his mind fumbled to wrap around the absurdity of it. The monster in his office asking for coin? A loan? He swallowed again, his throat clicking.
"Ah—a hundred silver is… it's a lot of coin," Arlo stammered. He felt the tiniest ember of his old weasel self flicker back to life. He sat up an inch taller, his sword leaning on the desk next to him if only he dared reach for it. "Why… why do you need that much?"
Ali leaned forward slightly, his shadow spilling over the papers on the desk like an ink stain. "I have two pets," he said simply, his voice flat and cold. "They need to eat a lot for them to grow."
Arlo's mind flicked through the words, desperate to find an angle. "Pets… beasts? Dogs?"
A small smirk tugged at Ali's mouth under the mask. "One's a beast. The other eats like a beast." The subtle malice in his voice coiled around Arlo's spine like a serpent.
Arlo forced a smile—his yellow teeth flashing beneath his moustache. "Of course. Of course. A man needs loyal pets. I can lend you the silver—no interest. You'll have time—lots of time—to pay it back. I just need to get it from my vault—"
Ali's eyes didn't blink. Didn't soften. "Arlo." He spoke the name like a nail driven into flesh.
Arlo froze mid-sentence. His pen hovered above a half-written contract on the desk. His beady eyes darted up at the masked face, cold sweat dripping down his temple.
"You're going to die." Ali's words hit him like a blade slipped between ribs. Clean. Certain.
Arlo's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping on dry land. "Is… is it because of Melissa?" he whispered, so quietly he almost didn't hear himself.
"Yes." Ali's voice was soft. Unforgiving. A butcher's calm.
In the back of his mind, Ali could feel that old, cold thrill—an echo of darker days when he learned to savour the slow dread in a mark's eyes. To watch hope die just before the heart did. 'Some habits never really die', Ali thought as he leaned back in the chair, staring down at the rat squirming under his boot.
He wanted Arlo to feel it all. The truth. The fear. The debt he could never repay.
"You know, Arlo… where I'm from, there was once a punishment called the Blood Eagle." Ali's voice came slow, steady—each word laid down like cold steel on a bare neck. Arlo's trembling eyes locked onto the gold mask, his pupils shaking as if they might slip right out of his skull.
"They'd take a man and sit him down before his entire village. Then the executioner would carve open his back, snap his bones wide like a cage, and pull his lungs out… one at a time. They say the man stayed alive through it all—until the second lung left his body." Ali's tone never wavered, like he was explaining how to tie a shoe.
Arlo's mouth twitched, a wet sound escaped his throat. His legs began to kick the floor beneath the desk like a cornered rat.
"I've only ever done the Blood Eagle once," Ali went on, his eyes like cold pits of tar behind the mask. "I think I'll do it again—on you, Arlo. Right in the centre of town. I want every merchant, every guard, every beggar to watch while you scream and your lungs hang in the air like flags."
"Please… please no… please, I beg you—" Arlo's voice cracked, his chin trembling so violently his teeth chattered like dice in a cup.
"But," Ali leaned back in the chair. His voice shifted, a sliver of mock warmth under the iron. "I'm going to give you… a chance."
Arlo's bloodshot eyes lifted, wide as a dying calf's. "Please… anything but that… anything…" The once-feared wolf of Obidos was now on the edge of sobbing.
Ali tapped a finger on the blank contract page. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each click louder than the last.
"Write." Ali's word cut through the air like a cleaver. "Write down every merchant you have dirt on. Every name. What they did. Every rotten secret you used to keep yourself in power. When you're done…I'll decide what happens to you."
Arlo didn't need to be told twice. He snatched up his quill with a shaking hand. Ink spilled on his fingers. His eyes darted back and forth as he scribbled name after name—like a cornered animal bartering its soul for another breath.
'They really did run amok, huh?' Ali thought, watching the page fill line by line. The pen scratched so fast it nearly tore the parchment.
Up in the distant Cinder Castle, Seraphina froze on the moonlit balcony, her goblet of blood halfway to her lips. She felt it—an invisible pull deep in her chest. His presence. 'He's here'. The blood contract pulled on her. 'Why didn't he summon me?'
The goblet hit the stone railing with a clink. Seraphina drained it in a single swallow. Then, in one smooth motion, she stepped off the balcony and vanished into the cold night, her crimson dress billowing like a streak of living blood under the moon.
Below, Abeloth lifted his massive head where he lay sprawled near the castle road. He watched her fly but didn't move an inch. His master's order was clear: Stay. The bond between dragon and herald was deeper than blood—it was written in Ali's very soul.
Back in the office, Arlo's quill finally slowed. He handed the paper to Ali, his fingers trembling like paper in the wind. Ali didn't even glance at the scribbled secrets. Instead, he turned his head slightly.
Step. Step.
Small footsteps at the door—Melissa peeked her head in. She was still there, eyes wide under the faint candlelight. She didn't dare speak but watched Ali's silhouette beside Arlo's shrunken figure.
"Melissa." Ali's voice pulled her closer like a magnet. She stepped into the office, her bare feet silent on the wood. She had eyes only for Ali—fear flickering away when she looked at him, replaced by something that almost looked like awe.
"I'm sorry," she whispered softly. "You were taking so long… I thought… I thought maybe—"
Ali folded the list neatly and handed it to her. "Hold this for me."
She took it without question, clutching it to her chest. Then her gaze shifted—those soft eyes turned sharp as a blade when they landed on Arlo. The terror she'd once felt for him was gone—killed by the man who now stood behind her.
Ali stepped forward—close enough for her to feel the heat of his body at her back. His voice dropped, just for her ear. "What do you think, Melissa? The man who hunted you like prey. Who made your family suffer. Do you want me to kill him?"
Arlo fell to his knees, hands clasped tight, wrists clinking with the jewellery he'd stolen from so many. "Melissa… please. I'm sorry. I swear—you'll never see me again. Please… mercy…"
Ali slipped his arm forward—smooth, steady. The cold barrel of a Desert Eagle slid into Melissa's trembling hand. His palm covered hers, steadying it. Her finger brushed the trigger, guided by his.
"Pull it—" Ali's breath brushed her ear, so close she shivered. "—and he dies."
Melissa stared at Arlo through a haze of tears. His lips trembled, words spilling out like sewage—"Please, please, I'll disappear, you'll never see me again, please, Melissa, I beg you, mercy, please—"
But his voice was distant, muffled under the roar in her head. Flashes came like cruel lightning—her mother's screams the night the house burned, her father's laughter echoing in the old halls before it all ended, Grace dragging herself across splintered floors just to smile up at her—always smiling, even when there was no food.
Her finger twitched on the trigger. The weight of the gun felt heavier than her whole life.
Arlo kept pleading, voice cracking, snot running from his nose, his big hands clasped like a praying priest.
And then—Grace's face. That little gap in her teeth when she smiled, the warmth in her voice when she'd say "It's okay, Melissa… we're okay."
Melissa's finger slipped off the trigger. She exhaled, shaky. Her arm fell to her side. The gun lowered.
She looked at Arlo—truly looked—and all she saw was something pitiful, shrivelled, ugly in ways no bullet could fix. "I hate you," she breathed, voice trembling but steady. "I hate you with every piece of me… But if I kill you now, Grace would be mad at me. And your not worth it."
Arlo's relief came out in gasps—wet, pathetic sobs. Tears hit the desk like raindrops.
Behind her, Ali stepped back just slightly. His dark eyes watched her profile—her shoulders shaking, but her spirit unbowed.
'Kindness… there's strength in kindness most people will never understand.' Ali thought, his hand brushing over her shoulder. The girl flinched—then leaned into his touch. A faint, exhausted smile pulled at the corner of her lips.
Ali's eyes hardened. His fingers traced up, brushing her cheek—then slid up to cover her eyes, gentle but firm.
"What?" Melissa whispered.
BANG.
The roar of the gun was final, like a door slammed shut on years of nightmares. Arlo's skull slammed back. A neat hole opened in his forehead—blood and thought splattered the wall behind him in a sudden, wet blossom of red. The corpse slumped forward, chin thudding on the desk he'd used to ruin lives.
Melissa flinched—but Ali's big hand stayed over her eyes. She felt his other hand turn her gently by the shoulders, guiding her away from the still-warm corpse.
"Why…?" she asked into the dark, her breath ghosting over his palm. "Why did you do it?"
Ali's answer was simple—low enough only she could hear: "Because I wanted to."
No mercy for the merciless.
Ali lowered his hand from her eyes. Melissa blinked at him, heart pounding, trying to read the face behind the mask. But she found no regret there—only cold certainty.
He took her hand in his, wrapping her trembling fingers in his own, then walked her away from the office thick with death—out through the shattered door, past the broken bodies of men who'd thought themselves wolves.
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