Valenport never truly slept, but tonight it held its breath.
From the rooftop where I crouched, the city sprawled beneath me like a black web of stone veins, torchlight flickering at intersections like tiny pulses of life. Every alley, every rooftop seemed pregnant with danger. Ryn was beside me, low to the ground, eyes scanning with the predatory calm of a wolf ready to strike.
"They're late," she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the night wind.
"They're cautious," I corrected, eyes locked on the far end of the street. "And they should be."
Loran shifted beside us, the wooden crossbow groaning under his grip. "Cautious or not, this is the most bait-like setup I've ever seen. You standing in the open like that—"
"They'll take it," I said, voice steady. "Dareth's people can't resist an opportunity to cut the head off the snake."
Truth was, I didn't want them to resist. After the rooftop assassin, the Council had gone too quiet. Silence from that kind of enemy wasn't safety—it was a storm gathering just out of sight.
A ping in my vision pulled me back:
[ Alert: Multiple Hostile Signatures Detected ]
Red dots bloomed across my minimap—one, two, seven. And they were closing in fast.
"They're here," I said, fingers tightening around my sword.
The first strike came from above. A shadow dropped from the night, twin daggers slicing toward my throat. Steel clashed against steel, sparks flaring into the darkness. She moved faster than Iron Fang ever had, but her blades lacked the reach to end me in a single strike.
I twisted, letting her momentum carry her past me, and slammed the pommel of my sword into her ribs. She hissed, vanishing into a puff of black smoke before I could follow up.
Illusionist. Annoying.
Two more attackers surged from an alley to my left—one swinging a massive cleaver, the other wielding a hooked chain that whistled through the air. I stepped into the cleaver's arc, redirecting it just enough for it to bite into the cobblestones instead of my shoulder, then drove my knee into his gut.
The chain whipped around my sword arm, coiling like a serpent. He yanked with all his strength. I let him—stepping forward instead of resisting. His eyes widened as I closed the distance, and my free hand shot to his collar. I slammed his head into the wall, denting the stone, then tore free from the chain.
A flare of mana sparked behind me—too close.
I dropped just as a firebolt screamed past my head, scorching the air and leaving a trail of smoke. Rolling to my feet, I spotted the mage on a nearby balcony, runes blazing across his forearms.
Loran's crossbow thrumed. The bolt hit true, shattering the mage's spell mid-air and sending him sprawling from the balcony, smoke curling from his shoulder.
"Four left!" Loran shouted.
The Illusionist reappeared behind Ryn, blades aimed for her back. Without thinking, I surged forward, mana flaring in my legs. Two steps, and I was there. My sword intercepted her blades, locking us in a brief, vicious struggle before I wrenched one dagger free and drove my boot into her chest.
She staggered, gasping. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, eyes flicking to me with a mix of fear and fury—then she vanished into the shadows. Good. One less distraction.
The cleaver-wielder was back, rage written in every sloppy swing. I slipped inside his guard, slicing across the tendons in his leg, leaving him howling and collapsing on the stone.
Three left.
They didn't hide. They found me.
The final trio moved as one, coordinated like a single living weapon: a spear to hold me, a short sword to pressure, and a second mage to keep distance. Every step I took toward one left me open to another. Trading blows wouldn't win this.
I let the spear-user push me back toward the mage, feigning fatigue. He overextended by just a fraction. My blade knocked the spear aside, and instead of striking him, I used his momentum to hurl it straight into the mage's chest. He screamed, dropping his staff as blood blossomed across his robes.
The short sword came high, but Ryn's arrow struck his thigh before he could close the gap. I finished him in a single, clean strike, cutting through leather and bone.
The spear-user saw his companions fall. His hesitation told me all I needed. He bolted, vanishing into the shadows.
I could have chased him—ensured none of them survived. But that wasn't the point.
Like Iron Fang before him, he'd carry the message back: Kael Draven isn't prey anymore.
I sheathed my sword, chest heaving, taste of blood lingering sharp on my tongue.
"That was seven," Ryn said softly.
"Seven that we saw," I corrected. "There'll be more."
Loran reloaded his crossbow, jaw tight. "Then maybe it's time we stop waiting for them to make the first move."
I looked down over Valenport, its streets winding like veins of a living beast. "No," I said. "It's time they learn this city isn't theirs to hunt in."
The Council wanted a war.
I was ready to give them one.