The North Ward smelled of wet stone, stale ale, and the faint copper tang of old blood. Even at night, the streets weren't empty—dockhands stumbled home from taverns, shadows slunk between buildings on errands best left unnamed.
From the rooftop, I watched the dark shape of the Council's warehouse loom at the end of a narrow lane, its iron doors bolted shut. A guard patrol circled every ten minutes, their lanterns throwing weak halos of light into the rain.
Below, Loran and his crew ghosted through the shadows, each step practiced, silent. The charges were packed in oilskin, ready to be placed against the north wall. The plan was simple—hit fast, burn it down, and vanish before the Council could mobilize.
Except the plan didn't account for Aric.
I saw him before Loran did—emerging from an alley, rain dripping from the hood of his dark cloak. Two guards flanked him, and a third figure followed, hood drawn low. Even from a distance, I could feel the precision in his movements, the way he scanned the street without seeming to. Aric had taught me that skill.
And now, he was using it to hunt me.
I tapped the signal stone at my belt twice. The faint pulse would reach Loran—Abort. Too hot. Pull back.
Loran froze in the shadows, glanced toward me, and gave the barest shake of his head. Stubborn as ever.
The first charge went up against the wall.
Aric stopped walking. Even through the rain, I could see the faint smile tug at his lips. He'd expected this. Maybe even wanted it.
The third figure stepped forward, and when the hood fell back, my gut tightened.
Not a guard. Not a Council clerk.
A Hunter.
Her armor was black leather reinforced with light steel plates, designed for speed and silence. A crossbow hung at her hip, a hooked blade in her hand. The sigil at her throat marked her as one of the Council's elite—mercenaries who specialized in eliminating threats without leaving bodies behind.
"Loran, get out of there," I muttered under my breath, though he couldn't hear me.
The Hunter moved fast—faster than I'd anticipated. One blink, and she was among Loran's crew, blade flashing in the rain. The first man went down with a muffled cry, the second staggered back with a cut across his arm.
Loran cursed and drew steel.
I was already moving, sliding down the slick tiles, catching the gutter with my gloved hand before dropping to the alley below. My boots splashed in ankle-deep water as I sprinted toward the fight.
Aric didn't move to join in. He just stood there, watching. Judging.
I reached the edge of the skirmish as the Hunter lunged for Loran's throat. My blade intercepted hers with a sharp ring of steel. The impact jolted up my arm, but I didn't give her time to recover—I stepped in, driving her back with a flurry of strikes.
Her style was clean, efficient. She didn't waste movement, didn't overcommit. Every block was a test, every counterstrike a question.
And she was good. Too good.
"Pull back!" I shouted to Loran.
He hesitated. "We can still—"
"Now!"
Reluctantly, he disengaged, grabbing one of the wounded and dragging him toward the alley. The last of his crew limped after them, clutching a bleeding arm.
The Hunter pressed forward, her blade slicing past my ribs. The cut was shallow, but the burn told me the edge was poisoned.
I fell back a step, guard high, letting her think she had the advantage. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aric watching with that same calm detachment he'd used in every training session years ago.
I wanted to lunge at him, to put my sword through his chest right there in the rain. But that wasn't the play tonight.
Instead, I feinted left, then kicked a barrel toward the Hunter's legs. She sidestepped easily—but that gave me the second I needed to dive back into the alley and vanish into the maze of side streets.
I didn't stop until I was three turns from the warehouse. The rain drowned out the distant shouts, the ringing of steel on steel.
Loran caught up, breathing hard, his jaw set. "We lost Jerrik. Bram's hurt bad."
"Better than losing all of you," I said, glancing over his shoulder. No pursuit. Not yet.
Mira appeared from the shadows, Ryn close behind her. The faint smell of smoke told me their diversion at the pier had worked—at least partially.
"What happened?" Mira demanded.
"Aric happened," I said flatly. "And he brought a Hunter."
Ryn's eyes narrowed. "Then he knows you're here."
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe he's still not sure. Either way, he's moving pieces himself. That means he's worried."
"Worried enough to send a Hunter after you," Mira said. "That's not fear. That's confidence."
I didn't argue. She was right—Aric wasn't acting desperate. He was testing me. Seeing what I'd do under pressure.
Fine. I'd let him think he had the upper hand. For now.
But the sting in my ribs from the poisoned cut was a sharp reminder: every move from here had to count.
Because in this game, the moment I slipped, I wouldn't get back up.