The Whispers were alive with violence.
Blades clashed in the mist-laden streets. Sparks flickered from steel-on-steel contact, the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood thick in the damp air. Boots splashed through puddles from yesterday's rain, now muddied with the remnants of the Syndicate's rampage. The once-quiet alleys of the Whispers had become a battlefield—shadows moving against the dense fog, figures appearing and vanishing in bursts of motion.
Rook's knife whistled through the air before sinking into the throat of a Syndicate member. The man gurgled, stumbling backward, but Rook was already moving, his coat whipping around him as he ducked under a sword swing. He pivoted low, drove his elbow into another attacker's gut, and yanked his blade free from the dying man, twisting just in time to block another strike.
Nearby, Davin let out a sharp curse as a Syndicate foot soldier batted his sword out of his hands. The weapon clattered against the cobblestones, sliding too far away to retrieve in the chaos. The enemy grinned, raising his axe for a killing blow—
And then Helios ignited.
A golden burst of light flared from Davin's outstretched hands. The Syndicate soldier barely had time to scream before a searing column of pure sunlight blasted into him, hurling him backward like a ragdoll. The beam rippled outward, striking others in its path, setting coats ablaze and forcing men to stagger back, blinded.
The Whispers, usually cloaked in darkness and fog, were suddenly awash in daylight.
Rook shielded his eyes from the flash, but in that brief moment of clarity, his gaze snapped to movement beyond the battle.
Grendon.
Harker.
Through the thinning mist, he saw the two of them breaking away from the fight. Their figures melted into the labyrinth of alleyways, heading towards the eastern gate.
His stomach dropped.
The explosive reactive crystals.
That's where they were going.
"Shit," Rook hissed under his breath.
There wasn't time. If those crystals went off—if the Syndicate detonated them here, in the Whispers—the entire district could collapse. The buildings here weren't sturdy like the noble quarters. The people here weren't soldiers.
The thought of those families, those people who had nothing to do with this war, being buried beneath rubble and flame—
No. He wasn't letting that happen.
"Davin!" Rook barked.
Davin, still radiating blinding light, turned his head. He was breathing hard, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, but his golden eyes were sharp.
Rook jerked his chin toward the retreating figures. "Grendon and Harker—they're heading for the explosives."
Davin's gaze snapped toward the alleyway, but before he could respond, another wave of Syndicate reinforcements poured in, blocking the path.
"I'll handle this," Davin grunted, raising his hands again. Already, another surge of sunlight was crackling at his fingertips. "You go."
Rook hesitated for half a second.
Davin turned his head just enough to shoot him a look. "Go, Rook. I'll handle this."
Rook swore under his breath but didn't argue.
With one last glance at Davin—now surrounded by enemies, golden light flaring from his palms—Rook turned on his heel and sprinted.
*
The alleys of the Whispers were a maze, twisting corridors of stone and rot, damp from old rainfall and filled with the stench of mildew and filth. But Rook knew these streets.
His boots struck the cobblestones in quick, silent strides, his breath measured, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
He moved like a hunter in pursuit.
He could hear Grendon and Harker ahead. Their footsteps echoed, their hurried breathing sharp against the stillness.
Rook's fingers tightened around his knife.
Not this time.
A flash of movement—Rook whipped around the corner, barely dodging the slash of a dagger aimed for his throat. He twisted, his body moving on instinct, and sent his knee slamming into Harker's stomach.
Harker gasped, doubling over, but before Rook could press the advantage, Grendon was already moving.
A mace swung in a brutal arc. Rook barely had time to react—he brought his forearm up to block, but the sheer force of the blow sent him stumbling back. Pain shot up his arm, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it.
"You always were too quick on your feet," Grendon muttered, rolling his shoulders. His broad frame blocked most of the narrow alley, forcing Rook to engage directly. Harker, recovering from the knee strike, took position beside him.
Two-on-one. Not ideal.
"You shouldn't be here, Rook," Grendon said, his tone almost regretful. "You don't have to do this."
"The hell I don't." Rook spat blood to the side and grinned, the knife in his grip glinting under the flickering lantern light. "I don't let bastards like you blow up my streets."
Grendon sighed. "So be it."
Harker struck first.
A dagger flashed, quick and deadly, aimed for Rook's ribs. He sidestepped, but Grendon was already swinging his mace again, aiming to crush his skull.
Rook dropped low. The weapon whooshed over his head, and he surged forward, slashing his knife across Harker's thigh.
Harker let out a pained hiss, staggering, but Grendon was relentless. His mace came down again, forcing Rook to twist away, barely dodging in time.
His back hit the alley wall.
Nowhere to move.
Grendon's next swing came fast. Rook ducked at the last second, the weapon smashing into the stone where his head had been a moment prior. The force splintered the brick.
Rook took his opening.
He lunged, grabbing Grendon's wrist and twisting hard. The bigger man grunted, his grip loosening on the mace, and Rook used the moment to slam his knee into Grendon's gut.
A sharp gasp—
And then Harker was back in the fight.
Rook barely registered the dagger plunging toward him before he twisted, the blade skimming his ribs instead of burying itself in his side.
Pain flared.
But Rook didn't let it slow him.
He snarled and drove his knife into Harker's shoulder.
The man screamed, falling back against the wall, blood dripping down his arm.
Grendon, still winded, made a move to grab his mace again—
But Rook was already running.
He didn't have time to finish the fight.
The explosives.
They were too close.
His body ached, his ribs burned, but he pushed forward, sprinting deeper into the mist.
Grendon and Harker would come after him again. He'd deal with them later.
Right now, he had to stop that bomb.
*
The southern gate loomed in the distance, its towering stone pillars flickering in the glow of the city's lanterns. The air smelled of rain and blood, of sweat and steel and the smoke of burning rooftops in the distance.
Tess exhaled, her pupils narrowing into slits as she let her Cat's Eye activate fully. The night sharpened around her. Movements became clearer, faster. She could see the Syndicate members shifting their grips on their weapons, hear the rustle of fabric, the subtle tension in their muscles before they lunged.
To her left, Marin stood like an iron fortress, her knuckles coated in reinforced metal, her breathing steady despite the gash bleeding down her arm.
And beside her, Callen exhaled once, slowly. His body shimmered—**a flicker, a false image—**and then he was gone.
Afterimage.
Ivara clicked her tongue, watching them all with calculating eyes. "Tough little bastards, aren't you?" she mused. The remaining nine Syndicate members fanned out behind her, a semicircle of blades, axes, and pistols. "But you're outnumbered."
"Doesn't matter," Marin growled, rolling her shoulders. "We don't need to win. We just need to kill you first."
Ivara's smile widened. "Then let's see you try."
The fight exploded.
Tess moved first, her enhanced vision catching the flicker of steel aimed at her neck. She twisted—a blade narrowly missed her throat, carving through the air where she had been. Before the attacker could correct his swing, she whipped her clawed fingers across his face.
A sharp cry. Blood splattered.
He staggered back, clutching at his ruined eye.
Marin was already engaged, slamming a metal-coated fist into the gut of a Syndicate brute. The man's ribs buckled under the force, and he collapsed with a gurgling wheeze.
A second enemy rushed her with a spear.
Marin's foot planted firm, and she swung her fist up, knocking the spear aside. The moment it was out of the way, she stepped forward, grabbed the man by his throat, and slammed him into the cobblestones.
Crack.
Marin exhaled. Two down.
But there were more coming.
Tess barely dodged another slash, rolling low and slicing at a man's calf. He toppled, roaring in pain.
Gunfire.
She darted left, her enhanced vision catching the glint of a flintlock aimed at her chest. A loud crack—but she had already moved.
Callen appeared behind the gunman.
The Syndicate thug blinked in confusion. The afterimage was still where he had aimed.
But the real Callen was behind him, a blade pressed against his spine.
One sharp thrust.
The man collapsed, unmoving.
Ivara watched it all, unimpressed.
"You're holding up better than I thought," she admitted. Then she moved.
Callen barely reacted in time.
One moment Ivara was standing still.
The next—she was in front of him, a curved dagger arcing toward his ribs.
He threw himself backward, but she was faster.
The dagger bit into his shoulder.
Callen hissed, twisting his body, breaking free before she could press deeper. His arm throbbed, hot with pain, but he gritted his teeth and swung.
Ivara parried with ease.
Marin tried to rush to his aid, but a Syndicate enforcer grabbed her by the arm, yanking her back. She snarled, driving her elbow into his gut, then turning to slam a reinforced fist into his skull. He crumpled, unconscious.
But the momentary distraction had cost her.
Another dagger sliced across her thigh.
She bit back a curse, forcing herself to stay upright.
Tess, meanwhile, was breathing hard. A thin trail of blood dripped down her cheek, her hair half-matted with sweat and rain.
There were only four Syndicate members left now.
But Marin and Tess were both injured.
And Callen was alone with Ivara.
Tess moved to help him—
"Stay back!" Callen snapped.
His eyes stayed locked on Ivara, his stance low, controlled.
A slow smile spread across her lips. "Oh?" she murmured, tilting her head. "You think you can take me alone?"
Callen exhaled.
His body flickered.
Two of him stood before her now.
Ivara's smile didn't fade.
The rain pattered against the stones, glistening in the dim light.
Callen and Ivara faced each other—predator and prey.