"You're quiet," Haisik said, rolling the cigar between his fingers as he studied her. "Nervous?"
Mira tilted her head slightly. A loose strand of hair slipped across her cheek. Her posture was relaxed, shoulders down, breath even.
"Should I be?" she asked.
Too calm.
Haisik's eyes flicked to the window's reflection—and his stomach tightened.
"I hope the room is soundproof, as Veron said," Mira thought. Then her right shoulder shifted before the question had fully ended. Not hesitation.
Commitment.
Mira moved.
She crossed the distance in one silent step, her face now barely two centimeters from his, her body flowing forward with deceptive softness. Her wrist snapped outward, and a thin blade slid free from her sleeve, steel catching the moonlight in a sharp flash. The smell followed immediately—chemical, metallic.
Poisoned.
The blade went straight for his throat.
Haisik reacted on instinct. He twisted hard to the left; the knife skimmed his neck instead of opening it. Fire ripped across his skin. Blood spilled warm down his collar, soaking into fabric he had paid too much for.
He slammed into her with his weight. The desk overturned; parchment and ink burst across the floor like dark bloodstains.
Mira pivoted with the impact instead of resisting it. She rose onto her toes, her knee snapping upward toward his ribs.
Haisik caught her leg mid-strike, muscles straining, and drove forward, pinning her back-first into the wall. Stone cracked. His forearm crushed across her throat, fingers locking just beneath her jaw—enough to choke, not enough to kill.
"So," he rasped, blood dripping onto his chest, a grin splitting through the pain, "it is an assassination."
Mira's vision dimmed. Black crept at the edges—but her mind stayed sharp. Pain was familiar. Fear was not.
Her free hand snapped upward.
She tore the cigar from his fingers and drove the burning tip straight into his eye.
Haisik screamed.
Not a shout—a raw, tearing sound dragged from somewhere deep and animal. The stench of burning flesh flooded the room. His grip spasmed. Fingers loosened.
One heartbeat.
Mira wrenched free and staggered back as Haisik reeled, clutching his face, blood and smoke leaking between his fingers. Her eye burned—not from the attack, but from the certainty that this moment had no return.
He laughed. Hoarse. Broken. Delighted.
"You hunters…" he wheezed. "Always thorough."
He charged.
The window exploded inward.
Glass erupted in a violent spray as a dark figure rolled through the opening and rose in one fluid motion—Veron.
He didn't slow.
His dagger drove low and hard, sinking into Haisik's wounded side beneath the ribs. The impact ripped the air from Haisik's lungs. Mira shifted instantly, stepping into his vision—forcing his attention, forcing a choice.
Haisik understood.
This wasn't panic.
It was timing.
He turned toward Veron, rage boiling through agony, his mouth opening to shout—
Veron stepped closer.
Too close.
The dagger twisted as Haisik shifted his weight. Steel scraped bone. Something cracked inside his torso. Haisik gagged, blood flooding his mouth, warm and endless.
Veron leaned in, his voice quiet, intimate—meant for Haisik alone.
"Don't mistake temporary favor for equality."
Then, colder:
"You can leave now."
Recognition flashed in Haisik's remaining eye.
Those were his words at their first meeting.
Blood choked him. He tried to scream. "Gua—"
The dagger slid free.
Haisik collapsed.
He was still alive when he struck the floor. Still half-conscious. Blood pooled beneath him as the light drained from his smile.
For a moment, no one moved.
The man who had ruled this room with laughter and fear lay small on the floor, choking on his own blood. Power drained fast once the body failed.
Outside the room, an order was already being spoken—summoning Haisik to the banquet.
Knock…
"Let's go," Veron ordered.
But it was too late.
The door opened.
"Lord Haisik—"
The guard froze.
Haisik lay dead.
For one suspended heartbeat, the world held its breath.
"Mira," Veron snapped. "Now. Run."
She hesitated.
Images flashed—laughter, memories, and the man standing between her and death.
Leaving him felt wrong.
Staying meant failure.
"Mira," Veron said again, harder. "Go."
Her jaw tightened. She forced herself to breathe.
She turned and leapt through the shattered window, vanishing into the night.
⸻
One guard fled the corridor, screaming for reinforcements. Two others drew steel and rushed in.
Veron met them head-on.
There was no elegance left. Only exhaustion and resolve.
Steel rang. Bodies collided. He ended the first guard fast—bone cracking under a brutal strike that jarred his arm. The second wounded him, a blade biting deep into his shoulder, but Veron forced space with raw violence and dropped the man with a crushing blow to the throat.
Silence followed.
Veron stood breathing hard, blood dripping from his arm, his hand trembling as he searched the window.
Gone.
A strange relief cut through the pain—sharp, undeserved.
Footsteps thundered closer.
⸻
Elsewhere—
Mira slipped through a service passage and nearly collided with a tall figure emerging from the shadows.
Dren.
He took one look at her face—blood-spattered, eyes burning with urgency—and his expression hardened.
"Where is he?" Dren asked.
"Haisik is dead," Mira said. "Veron's still inside—the north corridor."
Dren closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Then, quietly, with iron beneath the calm:
"Go. Get out of the city," he ordered. "I'll help Veron."
Mira didn't argue.
She turned and ran.
The surviving guard burst into the courtyard, eyes wild, breath tearing from his chest. The first man he met was Blevin.
"L-Lord Haisik… has been killed."
Silence stretched.
Blevin rose slowly.
"Who?"
"The meeting guests," the guard stammered. "The hunter Veron—and the girl."
"And where were you?" Blevin asked calmly.
The guard swallowed. "We didn't hear anything… the rooms are soundproof, sir."
Blevin's fist moved once.
The guard dropped, unconscious before he struck the floor.
Blevin turned and strode toward Haisik's office, intent sharpening with every step.
⸻
Veron staggered into the corridor.
Blevin had already arrived, catching him mid-step.
The impact crushed the air from Veron's lungs. Stone cracked beneath Blevin's boots as he drove Veron backward.
But Veron answered with two fast punches to Blevin's stomach and a third to his head.
Blevin fought through the pain, then struck Veron's ears with both hands.
He followed with a kick from the side.
This wasn't a fight.
It was judgment.
Veron blocked the first kick—barely. The force still shattered the wall behind him. He countered with a sharp elbow, landing clean against Blevin's head.
Blevin's brain rattled.
His head was injured, blood flowing like a flood.
But the return strike shattered Veron's jaw.
Pain exploded. The world fractured into red flashes and broken sound. Veron forced himself upright, driving a blade toward Blevin's throat—
Blevin caught his wrist.
Crushed.
Bone screamed.
Another blow cracked ribs and hurled Veron across the stone like discarded iron.
Veron tried to rise.
Failed.
This was one of the strongest enemies he had ever faced—and wounded as he was, the gap was merciless.
Veron tried a feint, pivoting with cunning to bait Blevin into overcommitting—but the man didn't bite. Every calculated movement Veron made was met with cold precision, and it became painfully clear—this fight was beyond trickery.
Darkness crept in as Blevin raised the killing blow—
The sound of running footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Dren crashed into the fray.
A kick redirected the strike. Stone exploded where Veron's head had been.
They exchanged blows—fast, brutal. Dren moved with practiced precision, bandages tearing free from his arms as his full release sharpened his strikes.
It wasn't enough.
Dren seized Veron and ran.
"How are you, my friend?" he said as he ran, lifting Veron onto his shoulders.
"Where do you think you're going?" Blevin roared.
He chased them down the corridor—but at the turn, Dren and Veron vanished, slipping through a service exit and into the dark.
Blevin reached the window, scanning for movement, then the service exit.
Nothing.
⸻
Moments later, Fouja sat among the guests when the courtyard erupted.
Blevin emerged, bloodied, eyes burning.
A shadow of fear flickered behind his calm mask—a chill he did not admit aloud.
"Our brother is dead," he said.
Shock flickered across Fouja's face. "Who?"
"That hunter—Veron, the girl, and another man."
Fouja's voice remained calm, but something cold settled behind his eyes. Danger had arrived at his doorstep, and he knew it.
"Seal the city. Hunt them."
Then, quietly:
"Kill them."
The special forces emerged from the shadows and moved at once.
Torches flared across Darinval.
Gates slammed shut.
And before the festival ended, the city learned a single truth—
Blood had been spilled, and everyone was responsible.