The pouch sagged heavy in Victor's grip, coins clinking as he stalked through the narrowing alleys. He'd lost count after fifty silvers, more wealth than he'd seen since crawling out of that death pit. His new clothes, stolen from Harroway's wardrobe, reeked of lavender and privilege. Stupid. A man draped in noble threads counting coin in the Warrens might as well light himself on fire.
Soon enough boot scuffs echoed behind him.
Victor turned down a filth-streaked alley clogged with broken crates. The footsteps followed. He stopped, faced the mouth of the alley, and dropped the pouch between his feet. A jagged rock lay half-buried in the muck, his fingers closed around it.
Three men fanned out in front of him. Ragged leathers, scarred knuckles, eyes pinned to that damn pouch. The one in the middle spat. "Fair evening, m'lord. Lost your way?"
Victor hefted the rock. "Keep walking."
The wiry one on the right snorted. "Or what? You'll toss pebbles at us?" He stepped forward, a rusted shiv glinting in his sleeve.
Victor let the rock fly. It cracked against the man's temple, he dropped like a sack of grain. The other two froze.
"Now it's two on one." Victor scooped up the pouch, shaking silver into his palm. "Still worth it?"
The third man stepped forward, chest puffed with sudden bravado. "You stupid shit. I'm ranked in the Titheless. You should know better than to attack us." He jabbed a thumb toward the frayed cord hanging from his wrist. "We'll be after your noble ass before sunrise."
Victor stared at the cord, then at the man's face. "The what?"
"The Titheless, you ignorant prick. The-"
Victor lunged before the man finished, driving his shoulder into the thug's gut. They crashed to the ground, the man's head bouncing off packed dirt. Victor pinned him with a knee to the chest.
The remaining thug circled, knife out. Victor swung the coin pouch in a vicious arc, metal striking flesh with a wet crunch. Teeth scattered like dice as the man crumpled. Victor didn't stop. He brought the weighted pouch down again and again, each impact splitting skin, fracturing bone. The man's face dissolved into a red pulp beneath relentless strikes.
Blood spattered Victor's stolen finery. He paused, chest heaving, pouch dripping crimson. The man beneath him gurgled through a ruined mouth.
Victor assessed the damage, considering his options. The Warrens swallowed bodies daily, one more wouldn't raise questions. He gripped the man's throat, fingers pressing into vulnerable flesh.
Then he stopped.
Titheless. The name scratched at something in his mind. Gangs had territories, allies, enemies. Kill the wrong soldier, and you'd find yourself fighting a war you hadn't prepared for. Elira was supposed to be mapping the underworld for him, better to wait for her report before slaughtering potential rivals.
Victor released his grip. The man collapsed, sucking air through a shattered jaw.
He turned back to the self-proclaimed Titheless member, who'd rolled to his side, attempting to crawl away. Victor's boot slammed between his shoulder blades, pinning him face-down.
"Let me give you something to remember me by." Victor scooped a jagged rock from the gutter. He grabbed the man's hair, yanking his head back, and shoved the stone between his teeth. The man's eyes bulged with panic as Victor pressed his boot against the back of his head, forcing his face toward the ground, the rock grinding against his teeth.
"I'll remember your face," Victor said, leaning down to whisper. "When we meet again, and we will, you'll be the first one I put down."
He straightened and delivered a savage kick to the man's jaw. The rock flew from his mouth along with fragments of teeth. The thug collapsed, moaning.
Victor wiped blood from the coin pouch onto his sleeve and continued down the alley, his pace unhurried. Behind him, the groans of broken men faded into the ambient noise of the Warrens.
The name Titheless lingered in his thoughts. Another piece on the board he needed to understand. First, he'd need to find Elira and see what she'd learned. This city's power structure was a tangled knot he needed to unravel, or slice through, to claim his place.
The Rusty Nail's back door groaned as Victor shouldered it open, hinges protesting like a stubborn drunk. A guard spun halfway out of his chair, hands fumbling for a cudgel, until the lanternlight caught Victor's face.
"Shit." The guard sagged back, running a hand over his stubble. "You."
Victor grinned. "Me." He couldn't remember the man's name, some hired muscle who'd stood behind Marta that first night when she found him naked in the alley. But recognition worked both ways.
"Boss ain't in," the guard muttered, jerking his chin toward the main taproom. Noise oozed through the walls, laughter slopping over the edges of drunk conversations.
"Don't need her." Victor sidestepped the chair, patting the man's shoulder as he passed. "Just borrowing a corner."
"Like hell-"
Victor tossed a silver coin without breaking stride. It rang against the floorboards, rolling in wobbly circles. The guard's protest died mid-syllable as he scrambled after it.
The backstairs were narrow, splintered wood creaking underfoot. Victor had never actually been upstairs in this shithole. The second floor smelled of mildew and old piss, hallways crammed with doors that had seen better centuries. He picked the one at the end, no lock, just a rusty latch. Inside, a sagging bed and a washbasin with water so murky it might've been stolen from a sewer.
Perfect.
He unbuttoned the stolen noble's shirt, still stiff with Lord Harroway's pomade and perfume, and dumped the bag of coins under the lumpy mattress. The fabric was too fine, too noticeable. He grabbed the collar and tore, fingers finding weak seams, ripping sleeves until the shirt hung in tatters. Roughing up the trousers took more effort; noble wool didn't give a damn about looking inconspicuous. A few strategic stains from the washbasin's sludge helped. Not a complete disguise, but good enough to blend with the tavern's regulars.
Downstairs, the bar was a rowdy mess of flushed faces and sloshing tankards. Victor shouldered through, ignoring elbows and curses, until he reached the scarred counter.
The barkeep, a wispy man with a lazy eye, glanced up and froze. Recognition flickered, then wariness. "You're-"
"Thirsty." Victor slapped a copper on the counter. "Ale. The kind that won't melt my guts."
The man hesitated, then scooped the coin and filled a chipped mug. "Heard you were dead."
Victor took a slow swallow. The ale was sour, warm, and every bit as bad as he remembered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "And what made you think that?"
The barkeep's gaze flicked to the fresh blood speckling Victor's knuckles. "Word was, a fellow with a crown tattoo on his chest crossed the wrong noble. Folk say that sort of fate's worse than death."
Victor smirked and leaned back against the bar, surveying the room. "Then they heard the rumor wrong."
Victor smirked and turned, leaning back against the bar to survey the room. The tavern thrummed with its usual rhythm, dice games in the corner, a barmaid fending off groping hands, some fool halfway through a ballad no one wanted to hear. Normal. Predictable.
His fingers tapped against the mug.
Now he just had to wait for Elira to slither out of whatever hole she'd tucked herself into. The Titheless were a problem he needed intel on, and fast.
But first, another drink.
Victor raised the mug to catch the barkeep's eye. "Keep 'em coming."