A week had passed, and the group was no closer to uncovering the what, who, or why behind the plague. However, they were certain of one thing: the sickness had an external cause. And it was the external that Slyra was hunting on one particularly grim evening.

  “Hey, you fucker,” Slyra called out.

  A man, pants around his ankles, grunted as he glanced over his shoulder. He had an elf pressed up against the wall of a filthy alley. “Buzz off, tramp. Not interested.”

  Cloaked and dagger in hand, Slyra gritted her teeth, watching them like two pigs wallowing in the mud.

  “Shit for brains! You’re Al, right? Al the Buzzard?”

  Al grumbled, shoving the elf away before tying up his britches. “What do you-ah want, missy?”

  The elf stumbled into the mud, scrambling to flee as the rain began to pour, but neither Al nor Slyra paid him any mind.

  She held up a rough drawing on a piece of parchment. “I’m looking for the brothers, Cal and Val.”

  Leaning against the alley wall, Al squinted at the paper. “Ooof, can’t help ya there.”

  Slyra stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “How much?”

  Al’s gaze traveled up and down her cloaked figure, clearly sizing her up. “Five gold.”

  Before the words had fully left his mouth, he was on the ground, her dagger pressed against his throat. His smug expression vanished, replaced with an attempt at bravado, yet his trembling hands betrayed him.

  “Fine! One gold, then—"

  Slyra's dagger drifted lower, pressing just above his groin. “How about I cut your balls off instead? I’m sure they’re aching by now... I’d be doing you a favor.”

  Al squirmed, his face contorting with fear. “I— I don’t know!”

  Slyra smirked. “C’mon, I know you want to keep these,” she said, applying more pressure, the blade barely grazing his skin.

  “Fuck! Please! I can’t tell you, they’ll kill me!” he stammered, panic rising in his voice.

  She sliced his pants open, exposing the skin beneath. “Can't be worse than bleeding out from your cock in a muddy alleyway,” she hissed, pressing the dagger against his flesh.

  “Eeekkk! Fine, fine, I’ll tell you!” he squealed.

  Slyra kept the blade at his groin as she interrogated him, threatening to take fingers, eyes, and everything else he held dear. The shady types in this part of town always lied, and Slyra had grown accustomed to their games during her stay in the eastern city. It was always a chore, squeezing out the truth.

  Satisfied with the information, she tilted her head side to side. “Hm, yeah, this checks out. Thanks,” she said coolly, releasing him.

  Al scrambled to his feet and bolted down the alley, his boots splashing in the mud. He almost made it around the corner when Slyra appeared in front of him, as if materializing from the shadows. Her blade flashed, slicing his throat wide open. Al collapsed with a wet thud, choking on his last breath.

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  “Good riddance,” she muttered, wiping her blade clean before tucking it back under her cloak.

  From there, Slyra scaled one of the nearby buildings, crouching low as she reached the rooftop. Her eyes scanned the city below, honing in on her next target. With quiet, fluid motions, she leaped from roof to roof, her boots gripping the slick shingles with ease. Her destination was a rundown storehouse built against the city wall, its abandoned exterior hiding something more sinister.

  She landed softly on the roof of a neighboring building, spotting two guards posted outside the warehouse. A group of children lurked at the far end of the street, peeking around corners, keeping watch.

  'My loose ends weren’t tied up good enough, or maybe too good...' she thought to herself, her mind working through the complication.

  Timing was key. She watched the kids shift their positions, waiting for the perfect moment. As soon as their attention drifted, Slyra darted from the rooftop and sprinted toward the storehouse. Reaching the side of the building, she slipped through a broken window, landing silently inside.

  The air was thick with dampness, the musty smell of decay clinging to her nostrils. Cobwebs stretched from corner to corner, and the faintest trickle of water echoed in the distance. Without her low-light vision, the warehouse would have been a maze of impenetrable darkness, but she moved through the debris with ease, navigating the junk-filled storage room toward the main floor.

  Peeking through the door, she surveyed the scene below—a dozen or more ruffians scattered throughout the warehouse, working in small groups. She wasn’t interested in them. Her eyes locked on the raised office on the second floor. That’s where she needed to be.

  Slyra exhaled slowly, calming her nerves. She moved like a shadow between boxes and pallets, slipping past groups of thugs too distracted to notice her. But not everyone was so oblivious. A few sharp-eyed enforcers, tasked with keeping the others in line, caught sight of her. They were dealt with quickly—throats slit and bodies stashed in crates and barrels, hidden from view.

  After a couple slit throats and few close calls, she reached the stairs, ascending silently. She entered the office and closed the door behind her, her gaze falling on a two-headed man seated at a desk, puffing on two cigars. The pungent smell of smoke filled the room.

  "Who the fuck are you?!" barked one of the heads, pulling the cigar from his mouth.

  Slyra walked up to the desk, lowering her hood to reveal her unassuming, homely face.

  The second head frowned. "We didn’t order you."

  "Wait a minute, brother," said the first, his eyes narrowing. "We don’t know what’s underneath."

  Without a word, Slyra pulled a dagger from her sleeve and stabbed it into the desk. The blade quivered, sending a warped twang through the air. She leaned forward, plucked a cigar from the box, and lit it. While crossing her legs, she sat down across from them, exhaling smoke slowly.

  “Cal and Val, huh?” she asked, in a calm voice.

  The two heads exchanged confused glances before both turned back to her. "Uh... yes. And you are?"

  Slyra took another drag of the cigar, still unsure if she liked it. “I’m the bitch you’re either really gonna hate or really gonna like.”

  “What?! Why the fuck are you here?! Where are the guards?” one of the heads demanded.

  “Don’t worry about them.” She flicked the dagger embedded in the desk. “I’m here for information on this plague.”

  The conversation quickly shifted to an interrogation. Slyra offered a bit of information, a trade of sorts, but when that tactic failed, she resorted to more direct methods. Her threats grew sharper, promising to take more and more things they held dear. And eventually, they broke.

  “Which cock will it be?” she asked coldly, pointing the dagger toward their groin.

  “We told you, he’s at the abandoned church! Please, just don’t take my—”

  Slyra withdrew the blade with a smirk. “So nice of you fellas.”

  As she approached the open window, she glanced back. "Now, if you tell anyone, I’ll—"

  “We won’t!” they cried as they wallowed in a mess of their own making.

  "Good." With that, she leapt onto the windowsill, and a messenger bird landed smoothly on her shoulder.

  "Oh?" She raised an eyebrow, untying the note from its leg.