---
"Thank you, master," Raka said.
His voice was still flat, but his eyes burned slightly brighter.
Sekhmet looked away before the moment became uncomfortable. He did not like emotions when he was bleeding. He did not like softness when poison was still inside him. He turned back to the assassins.
"Who else knows you were sent," Sekhmet asked.
The needle assassin tried to sneer.
Raka's hand moved.
Wham!
One punch to the gut.
Not enough to kill.
Enough to make the man retch and cough bile onto the stone.
Raka leaned down, voice even.
"Answer," he said.
The assassin wheezed, eyes watering, and finally spoke through pain.
"Broker," he gasped. "Only broker. No names. Only crest mark. Only payment."
Sekhmet's eyes narrowed.
A broker meant deniability.
It meant Dickon could pretend clean hands while still sending knives.
Sekhmet felt his hunger rise again, not just for blood, but for control.
He looked at the assassins' exposed necks, the pulse lines under skin.
Warm.
