The siege didn't end so much as bleed out.
The Wardens' last push collapsed under the weight of their own losses. Their bodies littered the main tunnel, silver blood mixing with the darker pools of the guild's fallen. The air hung heavy — copper, ash, and the lingering tang of Killian's magic.
He stood among the wreckage, chest heaving, his coat torn and blackened in places where silver had scorched through. The crossbow bolt still jutted from his shoulder, but the burning was less now — either the poison was wearing off, or it was finishing the job.
Harlow emerged from the shadows, blades dripping, eyes sharp. "You fight better than you look," she said.
Killian didn't answer. His thoughts were still on the cloaked figure — those amber eyes flashing at him from the vault.
"You followed me," she said, her tone casual but her gaze fixed.
"You ran in the middle of a fight," Killian replied. "That makes me curious."
A small smile touched her lips. "Curiosity can get you killed here. But… you might be worth keeping alive."
Two of her people — the pale-haired dagger fighter and a scarred woman with a bow — moved in behind Killian.
"What's this?" he asked.
Harlow stepped closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. "The Wardens aren't the only ones who want you, Vael. Your bloodline makes you a prize, and you've already brought trouble to my door. That means you stay, under my terms… or you leave in pieces."
"And your terms are?"
She reached into her coat and drew out a glass vial — identical to the ones in the vault. "A measure of your blood. Regularly. In exchange, we keep you hidden. Safe. Fed. The Wardens won't find you here."
Killian's jaw tightened. "You sell it, don't you?"
Her smile widened, but it didn't reach her eyes. "We trade in many things. Your blood just happens to be more valuable than most."
"And if I refuse?"
The dagger fighter leaned in, voice soft but lethal. "Then I take it anyway."
For a long moment, Killian said nothing. He thought about the bolt in his shoulder, the Wardens still scouring Vaelor for him, and Varrow — somewhere out there — already holding enough of his blood to find him if he wanted.
Survival, for now, meant playing along.
"Fine," he said at last. "But I choose the terms after this."
Harlow's expression flickered — approval, maybe, or amusement. "We'll see. First, you heal. Then you work. Every guild member earns their keep."
They led him deeper into the tunnels, past rooms where the wounded lay on stone pallets, past chambers thick with the scent of blood being bottled and labeled.
At one point, they passed a side corridor — unlit, silent. Killian glanced down it and froze.
A faint figure stood at the far end, watching him. Amber eyes caught the green light for just a heartbeat before vanishing into the dark.
That night, as he sat in a small cell-like chamber, shoulder freshly stitched and bandaged, he turned the memory over and over in his mind. Those eyes. That look. The unspoken recognition.
If it was who he thought… then someone he'd long believed dead was here, in these tunnels.
And if that was true, then nothing about this guild was what it seemed.
From somewhere deeper in the warren, a bell began to toll — three short chimes. Not an alarm. A summons.
The scarred woman appeared in his doorway. "Harlow wants you. Now."