The moment had come.
Kael exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the black crystal at his throat—his mother's last gift, worn smooth from years of desperate grips before every job. Luck never saved her, he thought bitterly. But it's all I've got left.
His hideout—cramped, stinking of damp stone and old blood—had served its purpose. He swept a final glance over the barren room, memorizing its cracks like scars. Next time I stand here, I'll be someone even Feng-Yuan fears.
The cloak slithered over his shoulders, its runes prickling against his skin as they leached his presence from the air. To any unawakened, he'd be little more than a shudder of shadow—if they blinked fast enough to notice at all. His blades followed, steel kissing leather as he sheathed them: a shortsword at his hip, a dagger strapped to his forearm.
Night welcomed him like an accomplice.
Kael moved across the rooftops, silent as a knife's edge. The moon hid behind thick clouds, as if conspiring with him, leaving the city in near-perfect darkness. Below, city guards marched in lockstep, their torchlight carving pools of orange in the curfew-blackened streets. He knew their routes by heart—every pivot, every yawn—and slipped between their blind spots like smoke.
A gust of wind carried the scent of rain and distant cooking fires. Somewhere, a drunkard laughed too loudly, and a dog barked in response. Kael froze, pressing himself flat against the tiles as a patrol passed directly beneath him. The clank of armor and the murmur of bored conversation filled the air.
Too close.
He waited until their footsteps faded before moving again, his muscles coiled tight. The wall loomed ahead, its obsidian bulk separating the slums from the Inner Sanctum's gilded filth. Kael crouched on a crumbling ledge, counting the patrols: three armored figures at a time, their spears glinting under the watchtower braziers.
Then—there.
One guard broke formation, muttering about pissing. His left pauldron bore the mark: a skull missing its jaw. The iron jaw Gang's symbol.
Kael dropped into the alley behind him, dagger already free. The man barely had time to fumble with his breeches before cold steel pressed against the gap in his gorget. A single twitch, and the blade would slip through, severing artery and windpipe in one smooth motion.
"The rat knows the walls," Kael whispered.
The guard's hands shot up. "S-Shadow knows the way," he stammered, "but the shad—"
Kael eased the blade but didn't lower it. The guard turned, yanking off his helmet to reveal a face slick with sweat. "You're late," he hissed. "This is my third damn patrol. What kept you?"
Silence. Kael's hood stayed low, his face a void.
"Fine. Play mute." The guard spat. "Listen close—they've doubled Sanctum security. No way I'm sneaking you through the gates." A jerky thumb pointed east. "There's a sewer grate. Freshly flushed. You'll crawl through shit, but you'll live. Take the first left, find a grate to the surface. Then—"
"The Baron's rear entrance," Kael finished flatly. "Scarred butler. I know."
The guard stiffened. "Then why the fuck did you—?"
Kael was already gone, melting back onto the rooftops. Below, the guard cursed and stumbled back to his unit, adjusting his armor as if nothing had happened.
The sewer awaited.
Kael's nose wrinkled at the stench before he even reached the grate—rot and ammonia, thick enough to taste. The iron bars groaned as he pried them apart, the metal cold and slick under his fingers. He hesitated for only a heartbeat, staring into the black maw of the tunnel.
But Kael had spent years eating dirt. What was one more meal?
He dropped into the darkness, the sludge immediately soaking through his boots. The air was thick, oppressive, and each breath a struggle against the reek of decay. Rats skittered away from him, their tiny eyes glinting in the faint light filtering through the grate above.
Kael pressed forward, one hand tracing the slimy wall to keep his bearings. Somewhere ahead, the tunnel would fork. Somewhere ahead, his future waited.
And he would claim it, no matter the cost.