The dead crow's feather was a small, black slash against the grimy grey stone of the clock tower's windowsill. Zero placed it there just after dusk, a silent, cryptic message sent into the city's shadowy web. Then, he waited. He did not linger near the tower; Kael was a professional, and professionals spooked easily. Instead, he returned to his dorm room and submerged himself in the cold, hard certainty of the Cartographer's Journal, his mind a thousand miles away, charting the course of his future empire.
The waiting was a new kind of discipline. It was not the frantic, hunted paranoia of the past week, but the patient, focused stillness of a predator overlooking its hunting grounds. He was no longer waiting for an attack. He was waiting for his intelligence to arrive, for the scent of his prey.
Two nights later, the feather was gone. In its place was a small, tightly rolled scroll, tied with a piece of black twine.
Zero took it back to his room, his heart a steady, slow drum. He barred the door and, under the light of a single, flickering candle, he unrolled the scroll.
Kael's report was a masterpiece of concise, brutal efficiency. There were no pleasantries, no wasted words. Just the cold, hard data he had requested.
TARGETS: JAX & Roric. Brothers. Ex-7th Infantry 'Pike Dogs'. Dishonorably discharged (Insubordination, Excessive Force). Now work as freelance 'negotiators'.
JAX: The Blade. Ex-legion scout. Fast, prefers dual short-swords. Arrogant, overconfident in his speed. Weakness: poor defense, susceptible to feints.
RORIC: The Hammer. Ex-legion vanguard. Slower, relies on brute force with a heavy battle-axe. Disciplined, patient. Weakness: limited mobility, predictable attack patterns.
ROUTINE: Active 18:00 - 02:00. Base of operations is 'The Gutter's End' tavern, south undercity. Drink heavily. Meet with Vance's intermediary (a law clerk named Pim) every third night in the alley behind the 'Rusted Flagon'. Next meet: tomorrow, midnight.
The information was a key, unlocking the next phase of his plan. He now had names, faces, habits, and a predictable pattern. He was no longer hunting ghosts. He knew his wolves.
For the next two days, Zero became a shadow in the undercity. He did not approach his targets. He did not engage. He simply watched. He was a ghost, an ethnographer studying a pair of brutal, predatory beasts in their natural habitat. He wore the simple, drab clothes of an undercity menial, his face smudged with dirt, his posture slumped and defeated. He was invisible, another piece of the desperate, downtrodden scenery.
He spent hours in the smoky, violent squalor of The Gutter's End, nursing a single, cheap ale, his senses on high alert. He watched Jax and Roric from a dark corner. He saw the way Jax, the faster of the two, would preen and boast, his hands always hovering near the hilts of his twin short-swords. He saw Roric, the larger brother, sit in silence, his gaze steady and watchful, nursing a single drink for an hour, his massive battle-axe leaning against the wall beside him, never out of reach.
Zero's analytical mind deconstructed them. Jax was the ego, the flashy, overconfident frontman. Roric was the true professional, the quiet, dangerous anchor of the pair. Jax was the one who would get them into fights. Roric was the one who would finish them.
He followed them from a distance when they left the tavern. He watched as they collected protection money from a terrified stall owner. He saw the casual, practiced brutality of their movements—Jax's lightning-fast slap, Roric's silent, menacing presence.
On the night of the scheduled meet, Zero was in position hours in advance. He was perched on a rickety, rain-slicked rooftop overlooking the alley behind the Rusted Flagon. The alley was a narrow, garbage-strewn canyon, its only light a single, flickering gas lamp that cast more shadows than it dispelled.
He watched as a small, nervous man in a clerk's robes—Pim—scurried into the alley, his eyes darting around fearfully. A few minutes later, Jax and Roric arrived, their movements a confident, predatory swagger.
The meeting was brief and quiet. Pim handed them a heavy pouch of coins. In return, Jax handed him a small, sealed note. Zero's enhanced senses couldn't hear their words, but he could read their body language. Pim was giving them their next set of orders. The note likely contained his name, his room number, his schedule. It was his own death warrant being signed.
As the two mercenaries turned to leave, Roric, the quiet one, suddenly stopped. He looked up, his gaze sweeping the darkened rooftops. It was a professional's instinct, a sixth sense for being watched.
Zero froze, melting back into the shadow of a crumbling chimney. He held his breath, his heart a silent drum. For a long, tense moment, Roric's gaze seemed to linger on his exact position. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he turned and followed his brother out of the alley.
The close call was a chilling reminder. These were not academy bullies or panicked slavers. They were professionals. Hardened veterans who had survived battles Zero could only imagine. To defeat them, he would need more than a clever trick. He would need a perfect trap.
For the next two days, he did not follow them. He stalked their route. He learned the path they took from the Rusted Flagon back to their home turf near The Gutter's End. It was a twenty-minute walk through a labyrinth of twisting alleyways, crowded market streets, and, for one crucial fifty-yard stretch, the old, crumbling aqueducts.
This was it. His killing ground.
The aqueduct was a relic of a bygone age, a massive, stone-arched channel that was now dry and filled with refuse. It cut through a particularly dense and lawless section of the undercity, a place the City Watch never patrolled. The high, curved walls of the channel would block any escape routes. The crumbling infrastructure offered a wealth of environmental weapons. And the shadows… the shadows here were as deep and absolute as the bottom of a grave.
He had spent weeks reacting, surviving, and being hunted. He had spent days gathering intelligence, studying, and learning. The tables had turned. The ghost was no longer a victim. The prey had become the predator.
He stood in the darkness of the empty aqueduct, the cool night wind whispering through the ancient arches, and he began to design his masterpiece. It would be a symphony of violence, a carefully choreographed ambush where every shadow, every loose stone, every echo, was a note in his composition. Jax and Roric thought they were the hunters, on their way to collect the bounty on a pathetic F-Rank Porter.
They had no idea they were already walking into their own tomb.