The roar of the crowd still echoed in my ears as Verrick's body was dragged away. His broken spear scraped against the stone floor, leaving a faint trail of blood in its wake. The arena smelled of scorched iron and sweat, the kind of scent that lingered long after the fight ended.
But I barely noticed.
My eyes were locked on the man sitting high above the fighting pit—Aric. He hadn't moved once during the match. Not when Verrick charged me, not when the arena floor cracked from our strikes, not even when I sent his champion sprawling unconscious.
He simply watched, like a man studying a board game.
And I had the unpleasant suspicion I'd just been another move.
"Kael," Ryn's voice cut through my focus. She was already at my side, her knives sheathed, eyes darting between me and the Council's private balcony. "Don't stare at him like that. You'll draw more heat than you're ready for."
"I think he wants me to," I said, wiping blood from my jaw. It wasn't mine.
Mira joined us, still keeping her hood low despite the heat of the arena. "Verrick's not the kind of fighter they send just to entertain the crowd. That was a probe."
I frowned. "You think he was testing me?"
"I don't think," Mira replied, her voice steady. "I know. That wasn't the real fight. That was the Council asking one question—how far has Kael climbed?"
And now they had their answer.
We were ushered out of the arena through the east tunnel, past the betting stalls and the noise of the city. The deeper we went, the quieter it became, until the only sounds were our footsteps on damp stone.
Loran waited for us in the shadow of the old gatehouse. His arm was still wrapped from last week's ambush, but his eyes were sharp as ever. "Word's already spreading," he said. "The bookkeepers are saying you made them a fortune. The Council enforcers? They're saying Verrick got sloppy."
"And what do you say?" I asked.
He smirked. "I say they're going to come at you harder next time."
He was right. Verrick had been strong, but he'd been predictable. The real danger wouldn't be strength alone—it would be precision, people who could find the cracks I hadn't yet sealed.
That night, we regrouped in the safehouse. The boards in the floor groaned under our boots, and the air was thick with the faint scent of oil from Mira's bowstring.
I spread the crude map of Valenport across the table, marking the Council's known holdings in red. "Aric sent Verrick, but it wasn't just about me. He was sending a message to anyone thinking of siding with us—don't."
Ryn leaned on the table. "Then we send one back. Loud enough to rattle every chair in that chamber of theirs."
"No," I said, and her brow arched. "We go subtle. We take from them piece by piece. Supply routes, informants, safehouses. We make them believe they're bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts, and by the time they realize where the blade is, it's already in their heart."
Mira nodded slowly. "That means the next step is information. Someone in the upper markets runs messages between Council factions. If we catch him, we'll know which faction Verrick came from."
"Names?" I asked.
"Gareth Vynn," she said. "Smuggler. Lives fat off Council coin, but he's not loyal—he's scared. You squeeze him right, he'll talk."
I looked to Ryn. "Think you can get us close without making a scene?"
Her grin was all teeth. "When have I ever made a scene?"
Loran snorted. "Want me to answer that?"
We planned for hours, going over routes, guard rotations, and every possible way things could go wrong. By the time we were ready, the city had fallen into the quiet hum of midnight.
The upper markets were a different world after dark—lanterns casting warm pools of light on polished stone streets, the smell of perfumed incense wafting from the high windows. It was a place for the wealthy to sleep without fear, because people like us were kept out.
Except tonight.
We slipped through a servant's gate Ryn had bribed her way past days ago. The guards didn't even glance up.
Inside, it was too quiet. My instincts prickled—this wasn't the kind of quiet that meant safety. This was the kind that came before a blade in the dark.
We found Gareth Vynn in his study, exactly where Mira's informant had said he'd be. He was hunched over a desk, sealing a scroll with the Council's wax. His eyes went wide when he saw us.
"Kael," he stammered. "I—I'm not your enemy."
I stepped forward, the floorboards creaking under my boots. "That depends on how fast you talk."
Before he could answer, the window behind him shattered. A black-clad figure vaulted through, blades flashing in the lamplight. Fast—too fast for Gareth to react.
But not faster than me.
My Soul Resonance flared, the air vibrating with the sudden surge of power. I caught the assassin's first strike on my forearm guard, sparks bursting from the impact. My counter was a sweeping slash of condensed energy, forcing them back.
The assassin rolled, vanishing into the shadows of the room. Mira fired an arrow into the dark—metal rang as it deflected off a blade.
"Council enforcer," I muttered, scanning for movement.
Then they lunged, aiming for my throat.
I stepped into the strike, trapping their blade against mine, and drove my elbow into their ribs hard enough to hear the crack. They hissed but didn't slow. This was no street killer—this was someone trained for one purpose: to kill me before I could ask questions.
Too bad for them, I was done running from Council killers.
I let the Soul Resonance swell, burning hot through every nerve. My next strike wasn't a slash—it was an eruption. The force blew the assassin through the study door, wood splintering into the hall.
When I stepped through, they were gone.
Gareth was pale, clutching the edge of his desk. "You… you just made them angrier."
I stared at him until he looked away. "Good. Now talk."