The rain had been falling since sunset, turning the cobblestones of Virelia into slick mirrors that caught the glow of street lanterns. In those reflections, the city looked almost beautiful — if you didn't know it well enough to see the rot underneath.
Kael Draven knew it too well. Every corner of the Lower Quarter stank of damp stone, sewage, and desperation. Rats scurried through alleys, fighting over scraps that might have been bread or might have been fingers. It was the kind of place where people didn't just disappear — they were erased.
Kael adjusted the black leather coat over his shoulders, the familiar weight of his dagger at his hip pressing into his side. Its hilt was etched with the emblem of the Black Dagger Syndicate — a promise of protection to its members, and a death sentence to its enemies.
The job tonight was simple: remind a certain merchant where his loyalties — and coin — belonged. Lord Marev had been late on his protection payments for six weeks. Donnat Veyra, Kael's boss, wasn't a patient man.
The manor rose ahead like a smug grin in the darkness, its gold-gilded gates glinting even under the rain. Lanterns lined the path to the door, their glass panes inlaid with gemstones — a gaudy display of wealth in a city where half the population went to bed hungry.
Two guards stood at the gate, their armor polished to a shine that said "decoration" more than "battle-tested." As Kael approached, one stepped forward, planting a halberd across the gate's opening.
"No entry after dark," the guard said, voice trembling just enough to betray him.
Kael tilted his head, letting his hood fall back to reveal his face. He had the kind of look that made most men rethink their life choices — not handsome in the noble sense, but with sharp, dangerous angles and eyes like cold steel.
"You like your kneecaps?" Kael asked casually.
The guard blinked.
"What—"
Steel flashed. A quick twist of Kael's wrist and the first man's weapon clattered to the ground, his fingers too numb to hold it. Kael didn't even look at the second guard, just said,
"Tell your master his debt's come due," and pushed through the gate.
Inside, the manor smelled of incense, thick enough to choke on. Kael had seen it before — wealthy men burning imported spices to hide the scent of their own fear.
Marev was in his study, hunched over a desk littered with parchment. The flicker of the oil lamp painted deep shadows under his eyes. When he saw Kael, his face drained of color.
"Kael," he began, his voice shaking. "Please, I—I just need more time. Business has been—"
Kael shut the door behind him. The sound of it closing was final, like a coffin lid.
"You've had more time than the gods will give you," Kael said. He walked to the desk, each step deliberate. "Veyra's been patient. I'm not."
Marev swallowed hard, glancing at the heavy purse on the edge of the desk — not full enough to settle the debt. His hand twitched toward it, but Kael shook his head slowly.
Then it happened.
A shadow shifted in the far corner of the study, where the lamplight didn't quite reach. It wasn't the movement of a man — too fluid, too wrong. The air seemed to warp around it, and the hairs on the back of Kael's neck rose.
"Marev," Kael said slowly, "you expecting company?"
Before the merchant could answer, two eyes opened in the dark. They glowed faintly — not like candlelight, but like embers banked under ash.
The thing moved before Kael could draw his blade. One moment it was in the corner, the next it was on Marev, claws raking through silk and skin like parchment. The merchant screamed, but it was short and wet, cut off as blood sprayed across the desk.
Kael's dagger was in his hand now, the etched hilt biting into his palm, but the creature — whatever it was — turned its head toward him and smiled. The smile was too wide, too sharp. Its teeth gleamed in the lamplight, slick with red.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone — a blur into the shadows, leaving only the copper stink of fresh blood and a low, vibrating growl that seemed to linger in the bones.
Kael stood there, breathing hard, the dagger still raised. Marev lay slumped in his chair, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. The rain tapped gently against the window, mocking the sudden silence.
From the street below, a distant bell tolled midnight.
Kael sheathed his dagger, his mind already running through what he would tell Veyra. He could almost hear his boss's voice — superstitions are bad for business. But Kael had seen the eyes, the claws, the impossible speed. This wasn't some rival enforcer with fancy tricks.
This was something else.
He pulled the purse of coins from Marev's desk — light as it was — and slipped it into his coat. Evidence, payment, or both. Then he stepped back into the rain, letting the water wash the blood from his hands.
Virelia was still awake. Shadows shifted in alleys, whispers followed him as he passed. Somewhere in the darkness, those ember eyes might still be watching.
And for the first time in a long while, Kael Draven felt the cold knot of fear in his gut.