ULF
The brothel worker found me at dawn.
She was young—maybe sixteen—with hollow eyes and a nervous manner that spoke of too many bad experiences. One of my oldest informants. Reliable because I paid fairly and never touched her.
"There's a man," she said, words tumbling fast. "Calls himself 'the Worm.' Came through last week with Pentoshi coin. Gold. Real gold."
"Go on."
"He was asking about the Keep. About passage routes. About—" She swallowed. "About the queen's children."
New assassin. Different name. Same mission.
"What did he look like?"
"Thin. Scarred face. Missing two fingers on his left hand."
I'd remember that.
"Where did he go after?"
"Don't know exactly. But he mentioned meeting someone called 'the Butcher.' Said they had business with a 'mutual friend.'"
Two operatives. Working together. Daemon's replacement team.
"You've done well. Here." I pressed coin into her palm. "Stay alert. If you see him again, find me immediately."
She nodded and vanished into the morning crowd.
I had names now. The Worm. The Butcher.
Time to hunt.
FLEA BOTTOM - MIDDAY
The Worm moved through the crowds like his namesake—slithering, sinuous, impossible to pin down.
I tracked him through three different markets, two taverns, and an alley that smelled like death and desperation. Each time I closed distance, something would shift—a cart blocking my path, a crowd surging unexpectedly—and he'd slip away.
He knows he's being followed. Or he's just that paranoid.
I used Kami-e to blend, matching the rhythm of the crowds around me. An unremarkable man in unremarkable clothes, one face among thousands.
But the Worm had instincts. Good ones.
He entered a tavern called the Drowned Sailor. I positioned myself across the street, watching the entrance.
An hour passed. Two.
My legs cramped. My patience frayed.
Then movement.
The Worm emerged. Moved east toward the docks.
I followed.
The alley dead-ended at a collapsed wall.
The Worm stood facing it, apparently trapped. I'd finally cornered him.
"Don't run." I stepped into the alley's mouth, blocking escape. "I just want to talk."
He turned. That scarred face—knife marks, old and poorly healed. Those missing fingers.
And in his remaining hand, a blade.
"You've been following me." His voice was rough. Flea Bottom accent. "All day. Thought you were Gold Cloaks at first."
"I'm worse."
"Nobody's worse than Gold Cloaks."
He lunged.
Fast. Faster than I expected.
The knife sliced across my ribs—shallow, but burning. I pivoted, grabbed for his arm.
He twisted free. Ducked under my counter-strike.
"You're good," he said. Almost admiring.
"So are you."
Another exchange. His knife scored my forearm. My fist connected with his shoulder, knocking him back.
But he'd positioned himself. The collapsed wall wasn't solid—there was a gap, hidden by rubble.
He dove through.
By the time I followed, he'd vanished into the warren of tunnels beyond.
Damn.
I pressed my hand against my bleeding ribs. Not serious—the cut was clean, would heal in days. But I'd lost him.
Worse—he knew now. Someone was hunting him.
Should have killed him immediately. Should have used Soru. Should have—
Recriminations could wait. I needed to regroup.
THAT EVENING
Helaena cleaned my wound without commentary.
The cut ran six inches across my lower ribs—ugly but not dangerous. She applied the same salve she'd used for my burns, wrapped fresh bandages with practiced hands.
"New injury," she finally said. "You were healed two days ago."
"The work doesn't stop."
"What work?"
"Finding the people who want to hurt your children."
She paused. Her hands rested against my bandaged side.
"The beast with two heads," she murmured.
"What?"
"Something I dreamed. A beast with two heads. Both biting. But one head is already dead, rotting. The other still hunts."
The Worm. He said he was meeting 'the Butcher.' Two operatives. Two heads.
"Do you know their names? In the dream?"
"Names don't work that way. Just... impressions. The one who burrows. The one who cuts."
The Worm. The Butcher.
"I've found one. The burrower. He got away, but I know his face now."
"And the other?"
"Still looking."
She finished with the bandages. Sat back.
"Be careful. Please. The dreams show fire, but they also show blood. Your blood, sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
"Sometimes it's someone else's." She met my eyes. "Most often, it's theirs."
I smiled grimly.
"Good."
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