Kael took the steps two at a time, the book tucked tight beneath his arm. He reached the third floor landing and moved without pause into the spacious office—his, but never quite his.

  The room greeted him with the scent of old paper and polished wood. The desk—dark rose-colored timber, broad and commanding—sat center stage beneath the soft glow of amber mage-lights. The high-backed chair behind it looked more at home in a noble’s estate than a street-bred stronghold.

  To the right and ahead, tall windows let in light from the street below. The one to the left—added after the reconstruction—faced the bridge. Tonight, it was dark.

  The liquor cabinet in the corner glittered faintly with the “guest stock.” His personal stash was in the adjoining room.

  Kael’s eyes swept the office—reflexive, trained.

  He stepped through to his quarters. Large bed. Carved wardrobe. An adjoining washroom—a marvel of modern magecraft.

  And Runt—sprawled across his blankets like a lion basking in the last rays of a setting sun.

  She popped up the moment he stepped in, cheeks flushed, golden hair tousled, but there was a flicker of something else in her green eyes—caught in the act.

  She hesitated for a breath. Smoothed the blankets behind her—too quickly. Then she darted over, almost too eager, like she could erase whatever she’d been doing with enthusiasm alone.

  “We going?” she asked, voice just a touch too high. Her eyes gleamed, but they didn’t quite meet his.

  Then she caught sight of the book tucked under his arm.

  “What’s that?”

  Kael blinked at the sudden nearness, then gave a short breath of amusement.

  “A book. From Oliver. To help prep for your Name Day.”

  Runt scoffed, waving a clawed hand dismissively. “You don’t need a book. I’ll just get really strong. We’ll crush any enemy of the pride!”

  There was a fierce conviction in her voice—backed by a flash of claws and canines. Kael noted it automatically:

  Poor control. Emotional. Young. Danger level—low.

  An instinct born from the border wars—calculated, ingrained, and cruelly effective.

  It had saved his life too many times to ignore.

  Still, he hated himself a little every time it flared around her.

  Then—movement. In Runt’s excitement, the blanket at the foot of the bed had fallen away, revealing the dwarven chest.

  Heavy. Silver-bound. Etched in ancient glyphs, locked so tightly it seemed part of the floor.

  Kael’s eyes flicked toward it—just once.

  And then away, fast—as if burned.

  Like a junkie resisting the draw of the needle.

  “Yep,” he said, shifting the book under his arm. “We’re going. You ready to catch some rats?”

  Runt’s grin stretched wide—dimpled, radiant, unfiltered joy. The kind that came from being seen, from being trusted.

  “YES!” she shouted, throwing her arms around him. “I never get to go with you!”

  Kael smiled despite himself, setting the book down beside the bed.

  Tonight, they hunt.

  As they made their way back toward the office, Kael asked quietly, “Describe the four rats.”

  Runt's response came quick and loud—her excitement uncontained, voice echoing off the office walls.

  “They were big guys. Dark clothes. Two stayed back while two took point. Switched spots at every turn we made. I could track ’em easy—they smelled different.”

  Kael’s jaw tightened. Inside, the torrent stirred—red-hot rage and ice-cold calculation, swirling behind his ribs, begging for release.

  “Different how?” he asked. “Like Marge’s alchemy shop? Fruity? Vinegar? Almond? Garlic?”

  He ran through the list in his head—poisons, narcotics, mage blends—sorting possibilities like a butcher sharpening blades.

  Runt scrunched her nose—small, button-like, as she struggled to summon the right words. Her brows furrowed, tongue poking the corner of her mouth in concentration, like the effort of remembering a half-forgotten dream.

  “Nooo, it was like… horse, but mixed with this light, kinda balsamic smell. And um… honey?”

  Kael’s mind turned over the details. Fast.

  Horse—so mounted at some point. Or recently dismounted. The balsamic trace—light vinegar notes, used in traveling lanterns to mask human scent or deter mana-born pests. Honey—possibly a binding agent in medicinal salves. Maybe from their packs. Maybe from their skin.

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  Lantern glyphs, monster-repellent, travel herbs. Some kind of alchemical prep. Useful. But not enough.

  His jaw set as the torrent surged inside him again. It clawed at the edges of his focus—hot with fury, cold with precision.

  He had enough to act.

  The time for questions had ended.

  They slipped out the left window of the office, the one that faced the bridge, and stepped onto a length of specially prepared scaffolding—hidden from street view, masked by shadow and elevation. The city hummed below, but up here, it was quiet.

  Kael moved with practiced ease, trusting Runt’s nose to guide them. They didn’t have to go far.

  Three men lounged near a shuttered storefront, feigning boredom, but Kael’s eyes immediately picked up the tension in their posture—the readiness beneath the slack limbs.

  He glanced toward Runt. She prowled along the wooden beam ahead, low and silent, her form all muscle and instinct. She held up four fingers. Then pointed.

  Kael followed the motion and saw him—another figure, partially submerged in shadow at the edge of an amber-lit alley, watching the front door of the boat house with the stillness of a trained eye.

  Four total.

  Kael signed back, Keep watch on the trio, and began his approach.

  From his new vantage point, the layout was clear. Tight angles. A narrow window of movement. The other three could spot him if he slipped—even a little.

  But it was doable.

  He exhaled, let the tension flow through his limbs.

  Then he dropped—silent and fast, a shadow uncoiling toward its prey.

  Kael’s boots hit the stone with a soft thud, absorbed by the damp night air. The drop was clean—years of conditioning and combat making his descent look effortless. He moved like smoke, hugging the edge of the alley, letting the light wash over him without ever stepping into it.

  The man in the shadows never saw him coming.

  One breath.

  One heartbeat.

  Then the strike.

  Kael’s fist slammed into his temple—clean, efficient. The man collapsed without a sound, and Kael caught him mid-fall, lowering him gently to the ground like a whisper.

  No time wasted.

  Kael took the first man like a ghost. Twenty feet ahead, the other three lingered under a faulty lantern. One to the right, two behind the crate stack. Tight formation. But not tight enough

  Hands bound to his feet—borderlands style. Quick and dirty, but it would hold.

  Kael worked fast, checking for weapons. A punch dagger tucked into the boot. No coin purse. No personal effects.

  Odd.

  As he shifted the man’s weight, a glint caught his eye—moonlight flashing off a small silver pin on the outside of the collar.

  A fox, stylized and sleek.

  Kael’s jaw tightened.

  Sly Fox Syndicate.

  They’d just crossed a line.

  The torrent surged.

  A storm inside him—wild and rising. Fire ignited in his chest, heat pulsing through his

  muscles. Ice coursed through his veins, cold and sharp.

  Kael welcomed it.

  He reached down and took the punch dagger, its weight insignificant in his grip, then rose and started down the street with slow, deliberate steps.

  The three men ahead stirred.

  They’d been lounging, pretending to relax—but now they stood. Alert. Eyes narrowing.

  Hands twitching toward concealed weapons.

  Trained. Disciplined.

  Good.

  He didn’t want cowards tonight.

  He needed someone to hurt.

  “Gentlemen,” Kael said, voice light. “Nice night for a stroll, am I right?”

  He smiled.

  The kind of smile that made men hesitate.

  And they did—flinched, just for a moment—before straightening, plastering cocky grins

  across their faces. Like they’d already been paid.

  Kael’s eyes narrowed. Something itched at the back of his mind.

  No patrols on the street.

  None of his toughs in sight.

  And this stretch—right near the boat house—should be watched. It was a known route.

  His gaze dropped to the silver fox pin on the men in front of him. The one glinting under the moonlight. Something about it—

  The mouth.

  A silver fox pin with a mouth visible.

  The real pins had none. Just the eyes.

  “You’re not Sly Fox,” Kael said quietly.

  Their expressions shifted. Barely. But enough.

  One of the men started reaching—slow, subtle—for a weapon.

  A punch dagger buried itself in his hand before he even touched it.

  Kael exploded forward.

  “Hold that for me, will you?”

  The man with the impaled hand screamed, stumbling back, arm jerking like a trapped

  animal. The other two tried to shift, give themselves space—box Kael in.

  Too late.

  Kael was already there.

  The wounded man fumbled with his other hand, reaching for something—but not fast enough.

  Not trained enough. Disappointing.

  Kael’s fist slammed into the man’s temple with a sickening crack, the force snapping his head sideways like a puppet with cut strings. Bone buckled under the impact. The man’s knees gave out, arms

  flailing dumbly as he crumpled.

  Kael didn’t let him fall.

  He grabbed a fistful of collar, yanked him upright, and tore the punch dagger free with a wet, grating rip that opened flesh like canvas.

  Then he carved.

  Short, vicious strokes—deep and deliberate. Through cloth, through muscle. The dagger punched into soft gaps between ribs, slipped beneath the jaw, opened an artery with a flick.

  Blood sprayed in hot bursts, splattering Kael’s coat, the stones, even the flickering wall behind them.

  The man’s body convulsed. Gurgled. Then stilled.

  Kael stood over the twitching ruin, chest rising with slow, controlled breaths, the blade dripping crimson from his grip.

  One down.

  And the torrent inside him was just getting started.

  Kael advanced.

  The men faltered—just for a heartbeat—but it was enough. His mind snapped into soldier’s focus, the lessons burned deep from years of war. Seize the initiative. Hold it. Never relent. Break them with will before blade. Make them doubt. Make them fear.

  A faint creak from the right.

  Then—chaos.

  A blur of motion—a low growl—and then a cannonball of fury slammed into the thug on Kael’s right.

  She hit him like a freight beast. He stumbled back, but she was already on him—straddling his chest, claws out. A scream burst from his lips as her teeth found his throat. Then came the sound. A wet tear, like cloth soaked in stew. Blood sprayed the alley walls in a fine red mist. She didn’t stop. Not even after he did.

  Flesh ripped.

  Hot arterial spray burst from his neck in a red arc across the alley wall.

  She was on top of him now—straddling, snarling—her hands, claws, her mouth a weapon. She tore into him with a frenzy that had nothing human in it, raking her nails across his face, slamming her head into his jaw hard enough to snap bone. He thrashed, but she was too fast, too heavy, too hungry.

  Her teeth sank into the meat of his shoulder and ripped. A mouthful of flesh came away like overcooked pork, blood sluicing down her chin as she spat the gore aside and went for more.

  The man gurgled. Twitched. Then stopped.

  But Runt didn’t.

  Not right away.

  She carved him open like something primal, reveling in the kill, the alley thick with the copper stench of blood and the wet, meaty sounds of violence.

  The last man broke. Eyes wide, he turned and bolted without a word, footsteps slapping frantic against stone.

  Kael moved to give chase—the torrent inside surging, screaming for release—but he stopped cold.

  Footsteps behind him.

  His toughs. Reinforcements, just a breath too late.

  He inhaled sharply, reining the maelstrom back with sheer force of will. It bucked and burned, begging to be loosed.

  He stopped—not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

  Not Marrow Vale. Not Iron Horizon.

  Not with Runt watching.

  Not with blood already dripping from her hands.

  This wasn’t the battlefield. Not anymore. I’m not a warhound—I’m a district lord. Dammit.

  He forced control into his voice as he rattled off a quick description to the approaching toughs. They nodded and took off in pursuit.

  Kael turned—just as Runt padded back to him, soaked in gore, bits of torn flesh still clinging to her claws.

  She grinned up at him, wild and radiant.

  “Got him,” she said, almost purring.