They always beg when they see the blade.
Every single one.
Tonight, it's a drunk with too many debts and not enough sense. His back's pressed against a rain-slicked wall, fingers trembling around a coin pouch that couldn't feed a stray, let alone pay off what he owes.
"I—I just need a few more days," he stammers. "Please, I've got a daughter—"
I hate when they say that. It's always daughters or dying mothers. Never their own fault. Never the gambling, the brothels, the burned bridges behind them.
I twist the dagger in my hand — just enough for the moonlight to kiss the edge.
"You should've thought about her before you borrowed silver from a man who likes breaking bones."
He flinches. Good.
I don't want to kill him. That's not part of the job. I just need the money. Or something I can take back to Malrek that proves I tried.
But tonight... something feels off.
The air's thicker. My skin's too tight. There's this itch under my ribs — like something alive is crawling beneath my scar. The one I got years ago in a fight I barely remember, stitched shut and forgotten.
Until now.
The drunk lunges suddenly, wild and desperate. I move on instinct. The blade flashes. A grunt. A spray of warmth across my forearm.
And then — silence.
He drops. I stagger back, heart hammering. I didn't mean to. I never—
Then I feel it.
Not fear. Not guilt.
Power.
It floods my limbs like fire and ice. My fingers tingle. My breath hitches. The itch beneath my scar ignites into a sharp, electric burn. My knees nearly buckle from the weight of it — no, not weight. Hunger.
The shadows seem to pulse around me. The rain slows. The world sharpens. I can hear... everything.
His heartbeat fading. A dog barking two alleys over. The soft crunch of boots behind me.
Wait.
Boots. Behind me.
I spin, blade still slick in my hand. And there he is.
Leaning against the wall like he's been watching the whole godsdamned time.
Tall. Cloaked. Hood shadowing half his face. The other half? Smooth, angular, and annoyingly calm.
And those eyes. I swear they flash silver for just a second.
"Well," he says, voice like velvet and gravel, "that was messy."
I don't move. My hand's still tight around the hilt of my blade, the dead man cooling at my feet.
Whoever this stranger is, he's not flinching. Not reacting to the blood. Not even reaching for a weapon.
People don't watch a kill that calmly unless they've seen worse. Or done worse.
"Friend of yours?" I ask, voice cold.
He pushes off the wall. The movement is slow, deliberate — like he's waiting to see if I'll run.
I don't. I don't run from men in shadows. Not anymore.
"No," he says, stepping closer. "But I've been looking for you, Nyra."
The way he says my name makes something in me tighten. Not with fear. Something else.
A warning, maybe. Or a pull.
I raise the blade a fraction higher. "That so? You stalking girls in alleys now, or just the bloody ones?"
A smile ghosts over his lips. Not amused. Not mocking. Just... patient.
"I was told you'd be sharper than this," he murmurs. "I hoped they weren't wrong."
They. Great.
"Let me guess," I say, stepping sideways so the wall's at my back and he's in full view. "Another debt I forgot to pay? Or are you just here to compliment my murder technique?"
"You're not a murderer," he says.
My brows rise. "Could've fooled me."
"You're not a murderer," he repeats, stepping close enough now that I can see the rain sliding off his cloak, the faint glint of a blade sheathed at his hip. "But you are something else."
He tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking down to the smear of blood on my forearm.
I feel that damn itch under my rib again — stronger this time. Hotter.
"You've felt it, haven't you?" he says quietly.
My stomach tightens.
"You killed him," he continues, "and something answered."
My throat goes dry.
He knows. Somehow, he knows.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie.
He steps even closer. He smells like storm-soaked leather and something older — metal, maybe.
The tension between us stretches taut. Not quite threatening. Not quite not.
"Then why," he says softly, eyes flicking to my side, "is your mark glowing?"
I jerk back, instinct firing, but it's too late — I feel it. The heat. The pulse.
I yank my coat open and look down.
There, beneath my ribs, the scar I thought long healed is glowing faintly red — as if embers had been sewn into my skin and finally found air.
No. No no no—
"What did you do to me?" I snap, heart slamming in my chest.
His expression doesn't change. "I didn't do anything. You did."
He turns, cloak sweeping behind him, and begins walking away. Just like that.
I should let him go. I should bolt the other direction, find a place to hide, to think, to scream.
But instead... I follow.
Because I need answers.
Because something inside me — the same something that flared to life when I spilled blood — is whispering that this man knows what I am.
And worse:
What I'm becoming.