Victor moved through the Noble Quarter like a shadow. The evening air carried notes of clipped hedges and smoke from perfumed lamps that lined the streets. Nobles and their retainers passed by without a second glance, his borrowed finery serving as perfect camouflage.
He kept his pace unhurried, studying the rhythm of the district. Guard patrols, servant entrances, the flow of carriages, all committed to memory with the practiced eye of a man who had cased targets since childhood.
The goldsmith's bank gleamed ahead, its white stone facade catching the last light of day. Victor's hand brushed against the hidden dagger as his thoughts circled the kill to come.
Simple job. Get in, find Aldwin, blade between the ribs, make it look like theft gone wrong.
But something gnawed at him. This world wasn't Saint Petersburg. He'd seen enough to understand that the rules were different here. What if Aldwin had protection he couldn't anticipate? Guards with strange weapons? Magic?
Magic. The word still felt absurd in his mind. But he'd seen enough oddities, including the damn mark burning on his chest, to know better than to dismiss it. What if someone threw a fireball at him? Was that even possible?
Victor clenched his jaw. His knowledge of this world remained dangerously limited. A man who didn't understand the battlefield rarely survived it.
Fuck it. Keep it simple.
He approached the bank's entrance, nodding to a pair of departing merchants who barely acknowledged him. Inside, the marble floor echoed under his boots. Ledgers and scrolls lined the walls behind a polished counter where a clerk was organizing papers.
Victor straightened his borrowed coat and approached with the confident stride of someone who belonged.
"I'm looking for Lord Harroway," he said, letting his accent thicken slightly, a foreigner on business seemed less threatening. "I have matters to discuss regarding eastern trade routes."
The clerk looked up, face blank with the professional disinterest of someone who dealt with nobles all day. "Third door down the hall. He's finishing accounts for the day."
Victor smiled thinly and moved toward the hallway. His hand found the dagger's grip beneath his coat.
Simple indeed.
Victor moved down the hallway as the complete lack of guards or security measures almost made him laugh.
Nobles. So sure no one would dare touch them.
It reminded him of those Russian oligarchs who thought their money made them untouchable, right until someone proved them wrong with a bullet. Some lessons were universal across worlds.
The office door stood slightly ajar. Victor peered through the gap, spotting Harroway's back as the man organized books on a mahogany shelf. Perfect. The dagger slid into his palm with ease. One quick thrust between the shoulder blades, then disappear into the night while everyone was still sorting out what happened.
Victor pushed the door open. The hinges, well-oiled for noble convenience, made no sound as he stepped inside. Three strides and this would be over.
Harroway turned, lips parting to speak, then his eyes widened at the glint of steel in Victor's hand.
"Shadow!" Harroway screamed.
An invisible force slammed into Victor's chest, hurling him backward through the doorway. He crashed against the opposite wall of the hallway, the dagger clattering from his grip.
Darkness coalesced in the air between him and Harroway. It twisted, compressed, and hardened into a humanoid figure wrapped in black, its face concealed behind an ornate golden mask. Gold embellishments adorned its shoulders and chest, catching the light as it drew a gleaming sword from thin air.
Magic. Fucking magic.
The figure, no, the creature, turned to Harroway, who had pressed himself against the bookshelf. It extended a hand toward the nobleman, who nodded shakily.
"I'm unharmed," Harroway said, his voice steadier than his trembling hands. "Deal with him."
The masked guardian pivoted toward Victor, who had already regained his footing. The dagger lay halfway between them on the polished floor. Victor's mind raced through options. Run? Fight? A quick glance toward the hallway's end revealed the first guards finally responding to the commotion.
Victor feinted toward the dagger, then changed direction as the shadow guard lunged. The golden sword whistled past his ear, close enough that he felt the air displaced by its passage. He grabbed a decorative metal candlestick from a side table, wielding it like a club.
The shadow being's movements were fluid, inhuman. It flowed rather than stepped, bringing its sword down in an arc that would have split Victor's skull if he hadn't rolled aside. The blade carved a groove in the wooden floor.
Victor swung the candlestick, connecting with the creature's forearm. The impact should have broken it bone, instead, it felt like striking dense rubber. The creature didn't flinch.
Its counterattack came instantly, a horizontal slash that Victor barely ducked. He felt the blade clip several strands of hair from his head.
He needed an edge. Victor kicked a small table toward the creature's legs, buying a second to dive for his dagger. His fingers closed around the hilt as the shadow being's sword descended. He rolled, bringing the dagger up in a desperate parry that somehow held against the larger weapon.
Their blades locked, Victor's arms straining against inhuman strength. Through the mask's eyeholes, he saw no eyes, only swirling darkness.
Victor's collar tightened suddenly as the shadow guard seized him, fabric cutting into his throat. With inhuman strength, the creature hurled him through the window. Glass shattered around him like diamond hail as he tumbled into open air, the evening sky spinning above him.
He crashed into the alley below, instinctively rolling to distribute the impact. Pain lanced through his shoulder and hip, but nothing felt broken, not that it mattered if he couldn't escape. The shadow guard had already materialized behind him, its golden mask catching the light as it slashed through the air.
Victor threw himself sideways, feeling the sword's passage displace air inches from his face. The blade carved into the brick wall, sending sparks and stone chips flying.
I can't outrun this thing.
He backed up, scanning the alley for anything useful. The shadow guard advanced with mechanical movement, its body moving with fluid, unnatural grace. Victor's hand tightened around his dagger, a toothpick against whatever this creature was.
If I can't run, I'll have to kill it.
The shadow lunged forward, its sword aimed at Victor's throat. Victor kicked a wooden crate into its path, forcing the being to slice through it. Splinters erupted as the blade cleaved the box in half, but those precious fractions of a second were all Victor needed.
He leapt atop the remains of the crate and launched himself at the shadow, driving his boot into where its face should be. The impact felt wrong, like kicking dense smoke that somehow maintained solid form. The creature barely reacted, already pivoting into a horizontal slash that would have bisected Victor if he hadn't dropped flat to the ground.
What the fuck is this thing made of?
The dagger felt increasingly useless in his hand. He threw it in desperation, watching as the shadow casually deflected it with a flick of its sword. The blade clattered against the somewhere somewhere in the darkness.
Victor didn't hesitate. As the knife left his hand, he was already charging forward, using the thrown weapon as distraction. He crashed into the shadow guard, seizing its sword arm with both hands. The creature's strength was overwhelming, but Victor locked his fingers around its wrist, preventing it from bringing the blade to bear.
With no other option, Victor slammed his forehead into the golden mask. Once. Twice. Three times. Pain exploded across his skull, blood streaming down his face, but he kept hammering away. The mask remained intact, but the shadow's movements became less fluid, as if momentarily confused by this savage, primitive attack.
Sensing his opportunity, Victor hooked his foot behind the creature's leg and swept it to the ground. They crashed down together, Victor maintaining his desperate grip on the sword arm. His eyes frantically searched the alley, spotting his dagger's gleam a few feet away.
He lunged for it, fingers closing around the hilt as he twisted back toward his opponent. The shadow was already rising, but Victor was committed. He drove forward with the dagger, aiming for where a heart should be-
Pain.
Cold, terrible pain erupted through his chest.
The shadow's sword had found him first, punching through his sternum and into his heart. Victor looked down in shock at the golden blade protruding from his chest, his own attack falling short.
Blood bubbled up his throat as darkness crept into the edges of his vision. The shadow guard rose smoothly to its feet, Victor still impaled on its sword.
Victor choked on his own blood as the golden sword withdrew from his chest with a wet schlick. His fingers twitched around the dagger's hilt still full of desperate yet futile purpose.
The shadow guard moved like liquid. Its blade sliced, once across Victor's wrists. Tendons parted with sickening ease, the dagger tumbling from nerveless fingers. A second slash opened his forearms in crimson ribbons. Pain flashed white-hot, brighter than the streetlamps overhead.
Victor staggered. His legs buckled as the sword punched through both knees in a single ruthless thrust. Bone shattered. He crumpled forward onto the cobblestones, weight driving the ruined joints harder onto the blade. A guttural snarl tore from his throat, half fury, half disbelief.
The shadow wrenched its sword free. Victor swayed, barely propped up by spasming arms as blood slicked the stones beneath him. His vision swam, but he still saw the blade rising for the final cut.
No.
He surged upward, a dying animal lashing out with teeth alone-
The sword carved across his throat.
Blood fountained. Victor gagged, fingers scrabbling at the gaping wound as if he could claw the edges shut. The coppery tang flooded his mouth. His pulse pounded in his ears, each beat sending more of his life gushing between his fingers.
The shadow loomed over him, golden mask reflecting Victor's own ruined face. No triumph in its stance. No hesitation. Just the quiet efficiency of a butcher finishing its work.
Victor collapsed onto his side. Darkness crowded his vision. The last thing he tasted was blood. The last thing he heard-
Silence.