The rain hadn't let up. It drummed against the warped roof of the safehouse, a steady, suffocating rhythm that made the walls feel closer than they were. Loran sat slumped at the table, a strip of linen pressed against the gash on his shoulder. Mira worked quietly, stitching the wound with the same calm precision she used to draw a bowstring.
No one spoke about Jerrik. Not yet.
I stood at the window, watching the alley. Every drop that slid down the glass distorted the light outside, turning lanterns into wavering gold smears. Every shadow looked like a figure waiting to strike.
"She was trained," I said finally. "Fast, precise. Too clean to be some dockside killer."
Ryn glanced up from the corner, where she'd been methodically sharpening her knives. "That was no freelancer. That was one of the Council's specialists. Hunters don't come cheap. And they don't get sent unless the target is worth the price."
"Or personal to the one sending them," I muttered.
Aric's face flickered in my mind—calm, unreadable, the way it always had been when he was deciding how to break an opponent down.
Mira tied off the stitch and looked at me. "You recognized her?"
"No," I said. "But I intend to."
Ryn's expression was unreadable. "Names don't come easy. Hunters protect their identities like gold. But I know someone who deals in secrets. If she's got a record, he'll have it."
"Where?" I asked.
"South Market. Old part. You'll know the place—smells like incense and rot."
I grabbed my cloak. "Let's go."
The South Market was quieter after dark, but not empty. Lantern light flickered over narrow stalls and crooked buildings leaning in like gossiping old men. The smell hit me first—spices, rotting fruit, and the sharp bite of burning sage.
Ryn led us through a maze of side streets until we reached a narrow doorway half-hidden by hanging cloth charms. The beads rattled as she pushed them aside and stepped in.
The inside was dim, lit by a single oil lamp that made shadows dance on the cracked walls. Behind a low counter sat a wiry man with skin like weathered parchment and eyes that seemed too sharp for his years.
"Ryn," he said, his voice thin but smooth. "You don't usually visit without an offering."
She tossed a small pouch onto the counter. The weight and dull clink said silver. "I need a name."
He untied the pouch, peered inside, then looked at me. "Yours?"
I shook my head. "Someone else's. Female. Black leather and steel, crossbow at the hip, hooked blade. Wore the sigil of a Council Hunter."
He studied me for a long moment, then moved to a cabinet in the corner. Scrolls and thin metal discs hung on hooks, each marked with faded ink. He ran his fingers over them until he plucked one down and set it on the counter.
"Rhea Veylan," he said. "Hunter for the Council for seven years. No confirmed origin—records erased. Specializes in silent extractions and political removals. Rumor says she only takes contracts personally approved by the High Council… or the one they call Master Aric."
My jaw tightened. "Any weaknesses?"
The man smiled, showing too many teeth. "Only one. She never leaves a contract unfinished. If she has been sent for you… she will keep coming until you are dead, or she is."
Ryn's eyes flicked toward me. "Sounds like you'll get your rematch sooner than you think."
I leaned forward. "Where does she stay?"
The man chuckled. "Now that… would cost more than silver."
I set a gold coin on the counter. He didn't move. I set another. His eyes finally dropped to the small pile.
"Warehouse Row," he said softly. "East end. Top floor. She keeps no guards. Doesn't need them."
By the time we stepped back into the street, the rain had slowed to a fine mist. My mind was already racing—maps of the East end, approach routes, exit strategies.
Ryn caught my arm. "You're not going there tonight."
"She's working for Aric," I said. "That makes her my problem."
"That makes her his blade," Ryn countered. "Cut too soon and he'll just send another. You want revenge? Don't waste it on the wrong target."
I pulled free. "Sometimes you take the blade so the hand knows you can reach it."
She didn't argue, but her eyes said she didn't like it.
We reached the safehouse just before dawn. Mira was asleep in a chair, her bow leaning against the wall beside her. Loran was awake, eyes dark, watching the door.
"Well?" he asked.
"Her name's Rhea," I said. "And she won't stop until one of us is dead."
His smirk was humorless. "Then let's make sure it's her."
I didn't answer. My thoughts weren't on killing her—they were on Aric, standing in the rain while she fought me. Watching. Measuring.
If Rhea was his way of testing me…
Then I'd give him an answer he couldn't ignore.