While Gareth's disguised mercenaries tore apart the Kladis security under the guise of "restoring order," Kael walked beside Lord Boros Torren toward a private antechamber, far from the din of steel and screams.
Lord Torren walked with a calm that contrasted obscenely with the violence he left behind. His personal guards, giants in black and silver armour, formed an impenetrable wall around them, blocking any terrified guest who tried to approach.
They entered a smoking room. The sound of the battle was muffled as the heavy oak doors closed.
Torren turned toward Kael. His face was a mask of ice, but his eyes glowed with calculating curiosity.
"You have two minutes, little Drayvar," Torren said, his voice dry as old parchment. "Explain to me why I shouldn't order my men to cut off your head and send it to your father as a warning for ruining my investment."
Kael did not flinch. He walked toward a side table, pouring himself a glass of water with deliberately slow movements.
'The arrogance of the old,' Kael thought with an internal smile. 'They think age equals wisdom and size equals power. Poor idiot.'
"Your investment was already ruined, Lord Torren," Kael said, turning with the glass in his hand. "Nikolas Kladis is a wounded animal. He is noisy, careless, and, worst of all, he is morally and financially bankrupt. You know it. That is why you despise him."
Torren narrowed his eyes.
"Kladis is a tool. A dull tool, perhaps, but useful for cracking difficult nuts like the Vosses."
"A tool that has become a liability," Kael corrected. "Look outside. Scandal. Accusations of rape. Exposed fraud. If you continue to support Kladis after this, the stain of his incompetence will pass to House Torren. Your partners in Vaeloria... what will they think when they learn that Boros Torren associates with petty rapists and fraudsters?"
Torren remained silent. Kael had touched the exact nerve. Reputation.
"And what do you propose, boy? That I leave the Voss routes up in the air?"
"I propose a change of management," Kael said, setting down the glass. "Kladis is finished. You know it. I know it. Even he knows it, even if he's out there screaming."
Kael took a step forward, adopting the posture of a noble negotiating a treaty, not that of a child.
"Hand Kladis over to me. Withdraw your protection. Let the 'justice' of the mob and the city guard fall upon him. Wipe your hands of his filth."
"And in return?" Torren asked, crossing his arms. "What does House Torren gain by sacrificing its pawn?"
"You gain a partner who understands the value of silence and efficiency," Kael replied.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded document. It was not one of the stolen ones. It was something he had drafted the night before.
"The Voss routes," Kael said. "I know you want them for the supposed rare metal. An interesting rumour, by the way. But what really matters to you is control of the flow to the north, isn't it? To pressure the Greythorns."
Torren's eyes widened slightly.
"You are well informed for a boy."
"I am a Drayvar," Kael said, as if that explained everything. "I offer you this: eliminate Kladis. Denounce him. Become the hero who 'discovered' his partner's corruption and handed him over to justice. Save your reputation. In exchange... when the dust settles and the Vosses are 'safe' under my temporary protection... I will facilitate a negotiation for the northern routes to pass into your control. Legally. Cleanly. Without scandals."
It was a magnificent lie. Kael had no intention of giving Torren anything. But greed was a thick veil.
Torren studied Kael. He saw an ambitious son of a Great House, playing politics, trying to earn merit with his father by solving a local problem. He saw an opportunity to get rid of Kladis, who was already a burden, and obtain what he wanted with a seal of Drayvar legitimacy.
"You are dangerous, boy," Torren murmured. A thin, reptilian smile crossed his face. "I like it."
Torren reached into his own tunic and pulled out a small black iron key. He walked over to a desk in the corner of the room, opened a secret drawer, and extracted a black leather folder.
"If we are going to play this game," Torren said, turning back to Kael, "do it right. These are the originals of Kladis's debt. And the letters where he admits to having hired the mercenaries to burn the warehouses. With this, he is not only ruined. He is legally dead. It is treason to the code of commerce."
He tossed the folder onto the table.
"Kladis is yours. Do with him as you wish. My men will not intervene to save him."
Kael took the folder. It weighed heavily. It weighed like a death sentence.
"A wise decision, Lord Torren."
"But remember," Torren warned, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "We have a deal. I want those routes. If you try to play me... you will discover that the Torrens are not as easy to break as the Kladis."
"I won't forget," Kael said with a bow.
Torren nodded, satisfied. He turned to his guard captain.
"Let's go. This party has become vulgar. Order our men to secure the outer perimeter, but leave the interior to the... local justice."
"Yes, my Lord."
Torren left the room through a private door, followed by his elite guard, leaving Kael alone with the folder and the sound of chaos filtering through the walls.
Kael opened the folder. He verified the documents. They were real. Nikolas Kladis's definitive death sentence.
He smiled.
'Checkmate to the pawn. Now, for the king.'
In the ballroom, the situation had gone from riot to controlled massacre.
Gareth's men, dressed as guards, had cornered Kladis's mercenaries. They were not arresting them; they were eliminating them. It was an efficient cleanup.
Nikolas Kladis was in the centre of the dais, waving his dagger like a madman, shouting orders no one obeyed. His velvet suit was torn, his face bathed in sweat and terror.
"Torren!" he shouted. "Torren! Help me! We have a deal!"
But Torren's men, who moments ago flanked the hall, had sheathed their swords and were retreating, marching toward the exits with military indifference.
The betrayal was visible, physical.
Nikolas saw the backs of his allies move away and understood.
He was left alone.
"Dad! Let's go!"
Daemon appeared at his side, pulling his sleeve. The young heir was crying, his makeup running and his broken nose bleeding again. He had lost all his arrogance; now he was just a frightened boy in an expensive suit.
"They've betrayed us! We have to run away!"
Nikolas looked at his son. Then he looked at the enraged crowd, at Thorne advancing toward the dais with his fists stained with other people's blood, at Nia who was still holding the papers like a standard of war.
The survival instinct kicked in.
"The back exit," Nikolas gasped. "The kitchen passageway."
Father and son jumped off the dais, pushing the remaining guests in their way, running toward the service door Kael had used earlier.
"They're escaping!" Nia shouted, pointing at them.
Aldric, who had been protecting the Voss sisters behind a barricade of overturned tables, looked at Kael, who had just reappeared at the side entrance.
Kael nodded once. A dry gesture. Finish it.
Aldric jumped over the table.
"Stay here!" he ordered Elara.
The knight ran. He was not fast like an assassin, he was unstoppable. He pushed two Kladis mercenaries away with his shoulder, knocking them down without even using his sword, and launched himself in pursuit of the fugitives.
Nikolas and Daemon reached the service corridor. It was dark and smelled of burnt food.
"Hurry, you useless idiot!" Nikolas shouted, pushing his son.
They ran down the corridor, slipping on the polished floor. They reached the kitchen. The cooks had fled. The fire from the ovens was the only light.
They opened the back door that led to the loading alley.
The cold night air hit their faces. Freedom.
"We made it!" Daemon sobbed. "Let's go to the stables, get horses, and..."
"You are not going anywhere."
Aldric's voice boomed behind them.
Nikolas turned around. Aldric filled the door frame, his drawn sword gleaming with the reflection of the kitchen fire.
"Back off!" Nikolas shrieked, raising his ridiculous dagger. "I am Nikolas Kladis! I have gold! I'll pay you double what they pay you!"
Aldric advanced. Step by step.
"Your gold is worthless," the knight said. "And your life is already sold."
Daemon, seeing the giant approach, did the only thing he knew how to do.
He pushed his father.
He pushed him hard toward Aldric, using him as a human shield, and ran out into the darkness of the alley, screaming like a wounded animal.
"Daemon!" Nikolas shouted, stumbling forward, betrayed by his own blood.
Aldric did not stop for the son's escape. His target was the father. Kael's order had been specific: leave him half-dead.
Nikolas tried to stab Aldric. A desperate, clumsy blow.
Aldric parried it with his armored forearm.
Then he attacked.
It was not a blow to kill. It was a blow to incapacitate.
Aldric's sword traced a low arc. It sliced the tendons of Nikolas's right leg.
"AAAAH!"
Nikolas fell to the ground, howling, clutching his leg. Blood gushed black in the darkness.
Aldric approached and kicked him in the ribs, breaking several with a dry crunch, knocking the air and the screams out of him. Then, with the precision of a field surgeon, he made a deep cut in his right shoulder, incapacitating his arm.
Nikolas Kladis, the man who had terrorized Arven, the untouchable usurer, lay in the garbage of his own alley, bleeding, broken, and crying.
Aldric looked down at him.
He knelt, wiped his sword on Nikolas's cloak, and grabbed him by the neck of his shirt.
"Now you're going back to your party, Nikolas. You have an audience waiting."
He dragged the shattered man back toward the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood that marked the end of House Kladis.
Meanwhile, in the upper part of the city, far from the chaos of the wedding, Lord Boros Torren entered his private office.
He poured himself a glass of brandy. His hands did not tremble. He was calm. Satisfied.
"Kladis was a fool," he said aloud, speaking to his personal assistant, a pale man who was writing in a notebook. "But his fall has been... convenient."
He sat in his leather armchair, savouring the liquor.
"That Drayvar boy," Boros mused. "He has guts. And he has the arrogance of his lineage. He thinks he has won. He thinks he has used me to destroy Kladis."
Boros laughed softly.
"Poor deluded fool. He has handed me the monopoly on a silver platter. With Kladis gone and the Vosses indebted and 'protected' by a boy who will soon return to Stormvale, the routes will fall into my hands by sheer gravity. The boy will be a useful ally... or an excellent puppet."
He looked out the window at the city lights. He felt like a god moving pieces.
"Total control," he murmured. "The routes. The commerce. The city. Everything will belong to House Torren. And no one will suspect it was I who..."
BOOM.
The sound did not come from outside. It came from the main door of his mansion.
A dull, deep roar that made the floor vibrate beneath his feet. The brandy shook in his glass.
Boros stood up, frowning.
"What was that?"
"My Lord?" the assistant looked toward the door, alarmed.
Screams. Screams downstairs. Not of celebration. Of terror.
The sound of clashing steel.
Boros walked toward the office door. "Guards? Guards!"
The door burst open.
A House Torren guard fell inward, with a black arrow plunged into his eye.
Boros backed away, stumbling over his desk.
A figure entered the office. Stepping over the corpse.
He was a tall man, with scars on his face and a sword dripping fresh blood. He was not wearing a city guard uniform, nor noble livery. He wore dark, functional clothing, like a professional assassin.
And he smiled.
Behind him, the corridor was filled with smoke and flames. The Torren mansion was burning.
"Who... who are you?" Boros stammered, reaching for a dagger in his desk that he never used.
The man wiped a spot of blood from his cheek with indifference.
"I am the termination clause of your contract," Gareth said.
He entered the room, followed by three of his men. One of them was Len, the young hunter, with a bow in his hand and a look of cold hatred.
"I don't understand..." Boros stammered. "I am Lord Torren! I have a deal with the Drayvars!"
"The Drayvar boy sends you greetings," Gareth said, approaching the desk. "And he says thank you for the Kladis documents. But he prefers not to leave loose ends."
Boros understood then. The magnitude of the trap.
It was not a negotiation. It never had been. Kael did not want a partner. Kael wanted to clear the board.
"I'll pay you!" Boros shouted, cornered against the window. "Gold! Everything in the safe!"
"Oh, we'll take the gold," Gareth assured him, looking at the safe with professional interest. "And the crossbows you sold to the bandits. And your secret files."
He raised his sword.
"But first, we're going to have a little chat about where you keep the truly valuable things. Len, secure the prisoner."
Len stepped forward, hitting Boros in the stomach with his bow. The Lord doubled over, gasping.
"Why?" Boros whimpered from the floor. "It was a perfect business!"
Gareth knelt, grabbing Boros by the hair and forcing him to look at the flames that were starting to lick the door frame.
"Because you made the mistake of believing you were the player, Lord Torren," Gareth whispered.
Gareth signalled to his men.
"Loot everything. Burn the rest. Make it look like Kladis's partners came for revenge."
As the Torren mansion began to be consumed by fire and blood, Boros Torren screamed, realizing too late that the boy who had smiled at him at the wedding was not an ally.
He was the end of the world.