The eel stall smelled of hot grease, cold rain, and gut-water.
Evening had bled the grey light from Stoneveil, leaving only the smog and the charcoal glow of vendor stalls. Silas hadn't eaten since the morning, unless you counted the bile that had risen in his throat when he read the list in the archives room.
The stall was a miserable little lean-to wedged between a tannery and a collapsed warehouse. Smoke from the charcoal grill hung low in the damp air, thick with the scent of pepper and burnt fat.
Silas ducked under the awning. The rain drummed against the canvas like nervous fingers, the dampness seeping through his cheap coat to settle in his bones.
"One skewer," he said, leaning against the scarred wooden counter. "And tea."
The woman behind the grill didn't look up. She was busy murdering an eel.
Her hands moved with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. Thwack. The cleaver took the head. Zip. The knife stripped the skin in a single, fluid tear. Crunch. The spine came out in one piece. She tossed it into a bucket that was already overflowing with gore, the dark blood mixing with the rainwater on the wood.
She wasn't just cooking. She was dissecting.
"Tea is hot," she said. Her voice was rough, like she'd spent the morning shouting at vendors. "Skewer is six Scrip."
Silas paused. He watched a dockworker next to him slap two crumpled Scrip tokens onto the wood and walk away with a skewer.
"Inflation?" Silas asked, his voice mild.
"Tax," she said, finally looking up. Her eyes were sharper than yesterday—focused, coiled. The distraction he'd noticed during the execution had burned off.
Whatever she was chewing on, she's decided something since.
She flicked a glance at his stiff, Crown-issue coat. "For the uniform. You want the food, you pay the rate."
Silas didn't argue. He slid six tokens across the counter.
"Arlen Mora," he said. "And I appreciate the honesty. Most people just spit in the tea."
She swept the Scrip into her apron without blinking. "Jessa Rihl. And I don't spit. It wastes moisture."
She poured a mug of dark, bitter liquid and slid it across the wood, along with a steaming, pepper-dusted skewer.
Silas took a bite. It was hot, oily, and sharp with pepper—exactly like last night. But he wasn't watching the food. He was watching her hands.
Last night, he'd been too distracted by the executions to pay attention. Now, with Dagger Mastery learnt, he saw the technique.
She held the knife like a pen, but her grip shifted when she took the spine—thumb braced, wrist locked. A reverse grip. It wasn't a culinary hold; it was a combat one. Every movement was calculated to save energy, to maximize the cut. It was the muscle memory of someone who had spent ten thousand hours holding a blade.
She's not a cook, Silas thought. She's a blade with a side hustle.
"You don't learn to cut like that chopping onions," he said.
"You learn to cut like that when you pay for your own inventory," she said flatly. "Waste is expensive."
Silas chewed his next words carefully.
Arlen Mora wouldn't say anything. Arlen Mora would shuffle back to his desk, file his reports, and pretend the list was just numbers.
But Silas wasn't Arlen.
He reached inward, grazing the mission timer he'd been avoiding.
[Mission—Stoneveil Regicide]
[Time Remaining: 4 days, 8 hours]
Four days. The deadline sat in his chest like a slow blade. Every hour he spent playing safe was an hour the Regent kept breathing.
And the longer I work under these two—Voss fiddling the books, Calder skimming the Crown's cut—the sooner someone snaps. The man who grabbed the axe yesterday knew he was dead the moment he moved, and he did it anyway.
Which means the city is already cracking.
He looked at Jessa's hands—the combat grip, the economy of motion. She knew people who carried sharper things than kitchen knives.
Time to poke the hornet's nest.
"Speaking of waste," Silas said quietly. "I saw a roster today. At the Records Office."
The rhythm didn't break, but he saw the tension ripple through her shoulders.
"Clerks see a lot of paper," she said.
"This one was for 'Spoilage'," Silas said. "That's what Voss calls it when the Crown clears space. I saw a name on it from yesterday. Lira Daven."
Jessa's hand froze. The knife hovered inches above the cutting board. She knew the name. Everyone in the Docks knew the names of the people who went to the plaza and didn't come back.
"Spoilage," she repeated, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. She turned slowly to face him. The boredom was gone. The "street vendor" mask had vanished, replaced by something cold and brittle. "That's what they're calling it?"
"It's what they call the executions," Silas said. "And I saw another name. Scheduled for Friday."
He held her gaze.
"T. Rihl."
The color drained from Jessa's face, leaving her looking grey and hollow in the rain. She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white.
Of course, why not. The thought landed flat. The only civilian I've spoken to twice, and she's already tied to the kill list.
It felt too neat. Too convenient.
The eel vendor who moves like a blade. The brother on the Spoilage list. Either she's the unluckiest cook in Stoneveil, or she's exactly the kind of person Sparkweave would recruit.
Is the Citadel helping me? he wondered. Some kind of hidden 'newbie luck' modifier to keep me alive long enough to be profitable?
He pulled up his Personal Information, scanning for a hidden buff.
[Luck: 1]
Never mind, Silas thought, dismissing the window with a mental swipe. I'm not the universe's favorite. It's just efficient. It's probably piling all my disasters into one alley to save time.
"Taren," she whispered. "They took him last week. They said it was just questioning. They said he'd be out in a few days."
"It's not questioning," Silas said. He didn't offer false hope. "It's a schedule. Voss has him listed as Grade B Spoilage. Friday. Noon."
Jessa closed her eyes. For a second, she looked like she might crumble. Then the steel came back. She opened her eyes, and they were burning.
"Why tell me?" she asked. "You're one of them. You wear their coat. You take their coin."
"I wear the coat," Silas said. "I don't take the orders."
He finished the tea and set the mug down.
"I can't stop it," he said. "I'm just a clerk. But I thought you should know."
He turned and walked away into the rain. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could feel her eyes on his back, sharper than any knife.
He had given her the warning. Now he had to wait for the ripples—and hope they didn't drown him first.
Evening had turned the Archive into a tomb.
Silas sat at a desk in the back row, the single oil lamp casting long shadows against the stacks.
On the desk in front of him lay the "Spoilage" log. But under it, hidden by the angle of his body, was the Private Transport Manifest.
He wasn't just fixing math anymore. He was compiling a kill packet.
Voss is smart, Silas thought, his finger tracing a line of ink. He cooks the weight loss in the main record, but he has to track the actual movement somewhere.
And there it was.
Entry 404: 12 tons 'Spoilage' (Grade A). Destination: Warehouse 4, East Docks. Consignee: V.C. Holdings.
It wasn't being crushed. It was being shipped. Voss wasn't just stealing; he was supplying a private stockpile. And "V.C." could only mean one thing.
Varis Calder.
Silas reached for the inkstand. He didn't have time to copy it. He picked up the small iron pen knife used for sharpening quills. With a surgeon's touch, he sliced the page close to the binding. It came away with a whisper, leaving no jagged edge to betray the theft.
He rolled the page tight, slipping it into the cuff of his sleeve.
The lock on the Archive door clicked.
Silas didn't jump. He didn't scramble. That was what a guilty clerk would do. Instead, he simply stopped moving, his hand resting casually on the open (and now lighter) book.
The door creaked open. Halven Voss stepped into the pool of lamplight.
He moved with that silent, creeping gait, like a man who had spent his life trying not to trigger pressure plates. His spectacles caught the light, turning his eyes into blank, white discs.
"Working late, Mora?" Voss asked. His voice was soft, oily.
"The numbers don't sleep, Director," Silas said, not looking up. "And neither does the discrepancies."
Voss drifted closer. He stopped at the edge of the desk, his gaze dropping to the book under Silas's hand.
"That is the Transport Manifest," Voss said. The softness was gone. "That is outside your purview."
Silas felt the threat in the air, sharp and immediate. Voss's hand drifted to his belt—not to a weapon, but to a small brass bell. A summoner. One ring, and the guards would be here.
Silas didn't flinch. He looked up, letting the fatigue and irritation bleed into his face. He leaned back in the chair, deliberately exposing his neck—a gesture of arrogance, not submission. He channeled Arlen Mora's bitterness, the memory of the Seattle alley, the feeling of being drafted into a regicide he didn't choose.
"I'm checking the routes," Silas said, slamming the book shut. "I wanted to know if the Mine Captain is stealing from you or the Crown."
Voss paused. His hand hovered over the bell. "And why would you care, Mora? You wear the Crown's coat."
Silas scoffed. It was a ugly, wet sound.
"I wear it because I lost a faction dispute in the Capital," Silas said. "I backed Duke Aethelgard against the Treasurer. They sent me here to rot as punishment. I don't owe them a scrip."
Thank you, Arlen, Silas thought. Your tragic backstory is finally paying rent.
He stood up, matching Voss's stare.
"If the Crown is bleeding, let them bleed," Silas said. "But if someone is stealing from this office... that makes me look incompetent. And I don't like looking incompetent."
Voss stared at him. The silence stretched, heavy with dust and calculation. He was looking for the lie. But he was also looking for something else—an ally. A fellow creature of spite.
"A political exile," Voss murmured. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction. "I wondered why they sent a man with your... talents... to a rock like Stoneveil."
"A loose end," Silas corrected. "They want me to die of boredom or lung rot. I plan to do neither."
Voss smiled. It was a thin, bloodless thing.
"Loyalty is a currency, Mora," Voss said. "Don't spend it all in one place."
"I don't spend it," Silas said. "I invest it."
Voss chuckled. He took a step back, his hand falling away from the bell.
"Keep the manifest," Voss said. "If you find the Captain skimming... bring the numbers to me. Only me."
"And if I find he's working with someone else?" Silas asked, pushing the luck.
"Then bring me the name," Voss said softly. "And we will see about... correcting the error."
Voss turned and walked back into the shadows. The door clicked shut behind him.
Silas let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
He looked down at the book. He had the proof—safe in his sleeve. He had the destination. And now, he had the Director's blessing to dig his own grave.
Night had turned the worker lane beside the Crown Complex into a tunnel of wind and sleet. The few stalls tucked under the overhanging balconies were shuttered tight, save for one.
Silas set the empty skewer down on the plank counter. The warmth of the charcoal fire was a fleeting mercy against the damp chill that had soaked through his coat.
"Thanks for the meal," he said, sliding two Scrip tokens across the wood.
Jessa didn't look up from the coals. She swept the coins into her apron pocket with a practiced hand. "Don't drown on the way back, clerk."
"I'll try," Silas said.
He turned and walked away, head down, shoulders hunched against the biting wind. He moved past the dark shapes of the closed stalls, heading toward the side entrance of the complex.
The lane narrowed ahead, squeezed between the high stone wall of the clerk's quarters and the back of a warehouse. The shadows there were thick, swallowing the light from the distant streetlamps.
Silas stopped ten paces from the darkness.
He didn't turn around. He didn't reach for a weapon. He just stood there, letting the sleet pelt his back.
"You're loud for a shadow," he called out, his voice thin and trembling slightly. "If you want my money, I spent it on the eel."
Silence answered him. Then, a soft scrape of leather on stone.
A figure detached itself from the gloom of a doorway behind him. Hooded. Masked. A knife glinted in a gloved hand—dark steel, non-reflective.
"Turn around," a voice rasped. "Slowly."
Silas turned, his hand fumbling at his belt. He gripped the hilt of his own dagger—a plain, wooden-handled thing that Arlen Mora might have carried for cutting fruit and sharpening pencils.
"I-I'm warning you," Silas stammered, pulling the blade out with a clumsy jerk. It looked like a toy against the assassin's combat knife. "I have a knife! I know how to use it!"
The assassin didn't speak. He lunged.
It was a straight thrust to the gut. Fast. Efficient.
Sloppy, Silas thought.
Dagger Mastery didn't slow the world down. It just stripped away the noise. His hand adjusted on the hilt without a conscious thought, shifting from a panic grip to a dagger hold. He felt the balance of the wood, the exact length of the blade, the optimal angle for a counter.
It wasn't magic. It was just... clarity. He saw the wasted motion in the assassin's shoulder, the way his weight shifted before the strike.
Compared to the frantic, brawling rage of the fight with Jed on the ship, this was a solvable problem.
He didn't parry perfectly—that would break cover. Instead, he flailed.
"Gah!" Silas shrieked, throwing his body to the left.
It looked like a panic stumble, but the movement pulled his gut clear of the blade by exactly half an inch. He brought his own hand down, slapping the flat of his dagger against the assassin's wrist.
Clack.
"Stop it!" Silas yelled, scrambling back. "You'll rip the coat! It's Crown property!"
The assassin hissed in annoyance and slashed high, aiming for the face.
Silas saw the arc. He saw the overextension. He could have stepped in and slashed the man's wrist to the bone in one stroke.
Instead, he ducked, covering his head with his arms.
"I don't have any money!" he wailed.
The blade whistled over his head. Silas lashed out blindly with his dagger, nicking the assassin's sleeve.
"Stay back!" Silas screamed. "It's sharp! I just oiled it!"
The assassin stepped back, confusion warring with lethal intent. He had expected a victim. He had found a hysterical clerk who moved like a drunk but somehow refused to bleed.
"Stand still, you little rat," the assassin growled, shifting his grip.
"No!" Silas shouted. "I'm not dying in a sewer! I have a pension in forty years!"
He swung the dagger wildly, forcing the assassin to check a swing.
It's efficient, Silas realized, a cold thrill running through him. No wasted energy. I don't have to think about the defense; my hand just finds the line.
But the game wasn't to win. The game was to survive without winning.
The assassin feinted low, then kicked.
Silas saw it coming. He let it land.
The boot caught him in the stomach—checked, pulled back at the last second, but hard enough to wind him. Silas folded, wheezing, and dropped the dagger into the mud.
"Okay! Okay!" he gasped, falling to his knees. "I yield! I yield! Just don't hurt the hands! I need them for the books!"
The assassin loomed over him, breathing hard—not from exertion, but from frustration. He kicked Silas's dagger away.
"Shut up," the man hissed. He grabbed Silas by the collar and slammed him against the wet brick wall.
"Where is the manifest?"
"What manifest?" Silas sobbed, letting the tears mix with the rain. "I don't know! I just fix rounding errors! Voss makes me do it!"
The assassin stared at him. He looked at the mud-stained coat, the tear-streaked face, the absolute lack of threat.
"You fight like a cornered rat," the assassin spat.
"I'm a clerk!" Silas yelled. "Cornered is my natural state!"
The assassin shoved him back against the wall and began a rough, methodical pat-down. He checked the coat. The sleeves. The boots.
"Careful," Silas sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "That's where I keep my resignation letter."
The assassin ignored him, checking the lining of the coat.
"Check the left boot," Silas offered helpfully. "I might have smuggled a spreadsheet."
The assassin stepped back. He sheathed the knife with a sharp click.
"You're clean," the man said, his voice dripping with disgust. "And pathetic."
"I'm alive," Silas corrected, clutching his stomach.
The assassin leaned in.
"If you betray the darkness, be loyal to the light," he whispered. "Lord Calder sees all."
Then he was gone. He vaulted the low fence at the end of the lane and vanished into the night.
Silas slid down the wall until he hit the mud. He waited a full minute. Then he let the panic drop.
He flexed his fingers. No shakes. No adrenaline dump. Just cold control.
Dagger Mastery, he thought. It's basic, but it works.
"You have a loud voice for a dying man."
Silas turned.
Jessa was standing at the edge of the stall's light, twenty paces back. She held a lantern in one hand. In the other, she held a rolled-up parchment.
"I thought I was alone," Silas said, smoothing his coat.
"You were never alone," Jessa said. Her voice was hard, but her eyes were curious. She held up the scroll. "And you used me as a mule, clerk."
Silas walked back towards her. The sleet had washed the 'terror' from his skin, leaving only the cold calculation of Arlen Mora.
"I needed a safe deposit box," he said. "You were the only one available."
Jessa pulled the scroll back as he reached for it. "When? When I took the coins?"
"Sleight of hand," Silas said. "I'm good with numbers. And fingers."
She hesitated, weighing the parchment in her hand. It was leverage. It was dangerous.
She tossed it to him.
"You owe me," she said.
"I paid for the eel," Silas replied, catching the scroll and slipping it into his inner pocket.
"Not for the storage," she said. She turned back to her pots, dismissing him. "Don't die, Silas. You still owe me an explanation."
Silas watched her for a second, then turned and headed for the complex door.
He had the evidence. He had the alibi. And he had survived the first attempt.
Now, he thought, it's time to go on the offensive.