ULF
Third night. Midnight.
The passages smelled like dust and old stone and something else—fear-sweat, maybe. Or anticipation.
I pressed against the wall, breathing shallow, body perfectly still. The weighted bracers had been left behind—too noisy in the confined space. Just me, my knife, and the darkness.
They'll come. Tonight or tomorrow or the night after. But they'll come.
A sound. Distant. Barely audible.
Footsteps.
Two sets.
I controlled my heartbeat. Let my eyes adjust further to the blackness. Listened.
The footsteps approached. Careful. Professional. The sound of men who knew these tunnels, who'd walked them before.
How? The passages are sealed. Guards on every entrance.
Didn't matter. They'd found a way. Probably bought one—a guard, a servant, someone I'd missed in my sweeps.
Deal with that later. Focus on now.
They passed the junction where I waited. Heading toward the nursery. Toward the children.
I let them pass.
Let them get between me and the entrance.
Then I moved.
Soru. Point-blank distance.
The first one—smaller, wiry, carrying a butcher's cleaver—spun at the displaced air. His eyes went wide in the darkness.
Cheese.
My knife found his throat.
He blocked. Faster than I expected. The blade scored across his forearm instead, spraying blood.
We grappled in the narrow passage. His cleaver swung wild, catching my sleeve, slicing through weighted fabric.
Strong. Desperate. Fighting for his life.
I hooked his ankle. He stumbled.
Shigan. Fingers stiffened to iron, driving through his shoulder.
He screamed—cut short by my hand over his mouth.
His eyes bulged. Tried to bite. Failed.
I shifted grip. Found his throat.
Squeezed.
Quick. Quiet. Professional.
Cheese died with a wet gurgle, blood pooling in my palm.
BLOOD
The sound came from behind.
Blood—real name Edwyn, though he'd stopped using it years ago—froze mid-step.
Cheese.
His partner was dead. Had to be. That sound—the cut-off scream, the silence after—he'd heard it before. Made it before.
Abort. Get out. Try again another night.
He ran.
The passages twisted. Branched. He knew most of them from his Gold Cloak days, from the years of patrol and bribery and looking the other way.
Behind him: footsteps. Fast. Gaining.
Shouldn't be possible. No one moves that quick.
Left turn. Right. Down a slope.
The exit near the kitchens. Fifty more feet.
A dead end.
No. No, this was the route. This was—
The passage had been bricked up. Recently, from the look of the mortar. Someone had sealed the escape routes.
He knew. Whoever's hunting us, he knew.
Blood turned. Drew his sword.
The darkness shifted. A shape emerged.
"Daemon sent you."
Not a question.
Blood spat. "The Rogue Prince pays well for royal blood. You've just made yourself his enemy, bastard."
The shape stepped closer. Resolved into a man—unremarkable height, unremarkable build. But something in how he moved...
"I'll survive," the bastard said. "You won't."
Blood attacked.
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