Chapter 13 — A Blade Is a Decision
Adrian learned quickly that the underground did not test you with strength first.
It tested you with temptation.
The second job Mirela Quince offered him came two nights after the courier escort. She did not summon him openly. Instead, she left a folded scrap of paper on the table where he had first spoken to her.
Midnight. Old tannery.
No signature.
No seal.
A trap, then.
Adrian folded the paper neatly and burned it over the candle in his room, watching the ash curl and fall.
Good.
He preferred honesty in danger.
The old tannery squatted near the edge of the river district, its stone walls blackened by decades of chemical runoff and rot. The stench lingered even now—old blood, cured hide, decay layered over neglect.
Adrian arrived early.
He circled the building once, then again, memorizing entrances, blind spots, broken windows. He felt it faintly—the Loom's distant attention brushing the area, uncertain, unfocused.
Too many insignificant lives clustered here.
Too much noise.
Fate hated noise.
He slipped inside through a collapsed side wall and waited.
Footsteps approached just before midnight.
Three sets.
Not Mirela.
Adrian's grip tightened slightly on the dagger hidden along his forearm.
The figures entered the main chamber cautiously, lantern light revealing their faces.
The first was broad and thick-necked, bald save for a strip of dark hair along his scalp. His nose was crushed, lips scarred. He wore chainmail beneath a stained leather coat and carried a heavy cleaver.
The second was leaner, with narrow shoulders and quick, darting eyes. His black hair hung loose around his face, and a throwing knife glinted between his fingers.
The third was a woman.
She was tall, with dark skin and tightly braided hair pulled back from her face. Her eyes were amber, sharp and alert, and she wore light armor reinforced at the joints. A short sword hung at her hip.
Mercenaries.
Not street thugs.
"Quince isn't coming," the bald man said, voice rough. "She sent us."
Adrian stepped out of the shadows.
"Then she's wasting my time," he replied calmly.
The woman's gaze flicked over him, assessing. "You don't look worth three lives."
"Then why bring three?" Adrian asked.
The knife-thrower grinned. "Because you're worth a message."
The Loom stirred.
Not sharply.
Not decisively.
As if it expected this to end one way—but wasn't sure how.
The bald man lunged.
Adrian moved.
Not backward.
Sideways.
The cleaver passed where his neck had been an instant earlier. Adrian stepped inside the man's reach, driving his elbow up into the soft tissue beneath the jaw. Bone cracked. The man stumbled.
The knife-thrower released his blade.
Adrian twisted, feeling the knife slice his sleeve instead of his ribs. He did not pursue the thrower.
He went for the woman.
She drew her sword smoothly, stance competent, trained. She met Adrian's dagger with steel, sparks flashing in the lantern light.
"You're good," she said, surprise flickering across her face.
"No," Adrian replied. "I'm decisive."
He let her push him back, letting her believe she had momentum. Then he stepped into her guard as she overextended, hooking his foot behind hers.
She fell.
Adrian's dagger hovered at her throat.
The bald man was on his knees, choking, blood dripping from his mouth. The knife-thrower had frozen, eyes wide.
Silence settled.
The Loom hesitated.
This was not how it had imagined the exchange.
"Who sent you?" Adrian asked the woman calmly.
She swallowed. "A buyer."
"That narrows nothing."
"Someone who doesn't want you working with Mirela," she said. "Someone who thinks you're disruptive."
Adrian smiled faintly. "That's flattering."
He withdrew his dagger.
"Leave," he said. "And tell your buyer something."
The woman stared at him warily. "What?"
"That next time," Adrian said softly, "send more people. Or don't send any."
They did not argue.
They fled.
When they were gone, Adrian leaned against a pillar and exhaled slowly.
The pressure receded.
Clumsy.
Fate had tried to orchestrate his death through intermediaries and failed to account for preparation.
Again.
Mirela Quince did not deny it.
When Adrian returned to the warehouse the next night, she was waiting for him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You survived," she said.
"Yes."
"You didn't kill them."
"No."
She studied him for a long moment. "That wasn't a job."
"I know."
"It was a test," she continued. "Someone wanted to know if you were worth removing."
"And?" Adrian asked.
Mirela smiled thinly. "You are."
Adrian met her gaze evenly. "Then don't do it again."
Her smile widened. "I wouldn't dream of it."
She leaned closer. "You passed."
"By whose standards?" Adrian asked.
Mirela's eyes gleamed. "By the only ones that matter down here."
Adrian nodded. "Good. Then I have questions."
She gestured toward a table. "Sit."
Information flowed differently in places like this.
Not in documents.
Not in decrees.
In stories.
Adrian listened as Mirela spoke of power blocs beneath the city—dock syndicates, smuggling rings, mercenary lodges, and information webs that fed on each other like parasites.
No heroes.
No villains.
Only interests.
And somewhere threaded through all of it—
Fear of the Church.
"They don't come down here unless they have to," Mirela said. "Too many variables. Too many bodies."
"Bodies are manageable," Adrian replied. "Narratives are not."
She studied him. "You speak like someone who's seen the inside of their machine."
Adrian did not answer.
Instead, he asked, "Who would want me dead quietly?"
Mirela considered. "Church sympathizers. Noble fixers. Maybe even your own house."
Adrian's eyes sharpened. "That one was obvious."
Mirela chuckled. "Then you're learning."
He stood. "Send word. I'm available."
"For what?" she asked.
"For work that doesn't want miracles," Adrian said.
Mirela watched him go, thoughtful.
Back at the Falkenrath estate, Clara Falkenrath stood before her brothers.
Eldric leaned casually against the mantel, arms crossed, golden-brown hair tied back neatly. Mathias sat on the arm of a chair, gray eyes sharp with curiosity.
"You've been nervous," Eldric said gently. "Why?"
Clara kept her hands folded in front of her. "I worry."
"About Adrian?" Mathias asked lightly.
Clara did not answer.
Eldric sighed. "He made his choice."
Mathias smiled. "And he paid for it."
Clara looked up.
"For now," she said quietly.
The room went still.
Mathias' smile faded just a fraction.
Eldric straightened. "What did you say?"
Clara met their gazes, her hazel eyes steady.
"I said," she repeated softly, "for now."
Neither brother laughed.
That night, Adrian returned to his room above the river and sat with his dagger across his knees.
He replayed the fight in the tannery in his mind—not emotionally, but analytically.
He had not won because he was stronger.
He had not won because he was faster.
He had won because he decided first.
A blade was not a tool.
It was a choice.
A choice to end uncertainty.
Adrian closed his eyes.
"I don't need fate," he murmured. "I just need resolve."
Far away, in the sanctum of fate, Magister Alaric Fenrow stared at a flickering indicator.
"It adapted," he whispered.
Verena Holt's golden eyes were cold. "No," she corrected. "It learned."
The Loom trembled faintly.
Not in anger.
In warning.