A form detaches itself from the vaulted ceiling just outside Megan’s oak door.
Landing silently in light-absorbing gray leather, the assassin reaches for the iron latch of her room with twin serrated daggers gleaming in his grip.
I obliterate the distance before his fingers graze the metal.
My longblade arcs through the gloom in a singular, devastating sweep. Twisting with unnatural agility, the assassin raises his daggers to block. The impact of Khuzuth steel against steel rings out like a shattered bell, throwing a shower of bright orange sparks over the cold stone.
The force of my blow drives the infiltrator backward, sending his boots skidding across the polished marble. Recovering instantly, he lunges forward with a flurry of rapid, venom-laced strikes aimed at the gaps in my armor.
"The Patriarch demands the surface-filth." The assassin's distorted voice scrapes through the leather mask covering his jaw as he slashes low, aiming for an artery. "Her blood will balance the tally."
Pivoting seamlessly, I let his momentum carry the blade harmlessly past my thigh before bringing the solid iron pommel of my sword down in a crushing strike against his shoulder. Bone splinters. The assassin grunts, his left arm dropping uselessly to his side.
"The Patriarch will choke on his own decrees." The promise vibrates into the freezing air.
Desperate, the assassin throws his weight forward, whipping his remaining dagger in a wild, horizontal arc. Stepping directly into the strike rather than away from it, I keep my body positioned squarely between the infiltrator and her door. The serrated edge of his dagger grazes my cheek, biting into the pale skin just below my cheekbone.
A hot ribbon of blood trails down my neck.
I do not flinch. I let my longblade fall to the stone.
My empty hand shoots forward, locking around the assassin’s leather-clad throat. The crushing force of my grip lifts him entirely off his feet. Slamming him backward against the obsidian wall, the brutal impact cracks the stone behind his skull.
His dagger clatters uselessly to the floor. Thrashing and kicking his boots against my shins, he gags for air as my long fingers compress his windpipe.
"Speak the name of the lord who purchased your steel." I ease the pressure just a bit, allowing air to rattle through his ruined throat.
"Kryven." Blood bubbles past the assassin's lips as he chokes on the confession. "Kryven paid the sum... but Varynth gave the blessing. The house is turning against you, Zhetrin."
My gaze bores into his terrified, bulging eyes. The politics of the Undercity are written in blood, and my own bloodline has cast the first stone.
"Then let them stew in their own blood."
Drawing the hunting dagger from my belt in one smooth motion, I drive the steel upward beneath the assassin’s jaw, destroying the brain. He goes completely limp in my grasp. Extracting the blade, I let his lifeless body crumple to the marble floor in a heap of gray leather and expanding gore.
Standing in the dim corridor, my chest rises and falls in slow, measured increments. The metallic stench of fresh blood aggressively cuts through the burnt copper of my magic.
The door behind me clicks, swinging inward to reveal Megan at the threshold. Wearing only a thin linen shift, her honey-blonde curls fall wildly over her shoulders. Her bare toes halt just millimeters from the blood pooling across the floor.
Her amber focus drops to the mutilated corpse, shifts to the hunting dagger dripping from my grip, and finally scales thelength of my body. Her gaze catches on the fresh cut bleeding down my cheek.
She does not scream nor cower.
"They breached the walls." Her tone remains incredibly steady, though a faint tremor betrays the tension coursing through her small frame.
"A singular hound." I wipe the blade against the assassin’s cloak before sheathing it. "Kryven and the Patriarch want you dead. Including me since I disobeyed orders. They are desperate."
Stepping back, Megan pulls the door open wider. "Come inside."
The quiet command carries an impossible gravity. A human, inviting a blood-soaked Khuzuth warlord into her sanctuary. Protocol demands I summon Tharion to drag the corpse away and return to the war room to fortify the lower tiers.
Instead, my boots carry me over the threshold.
She shuts the door, throwing the iron bolt into place to seal us within the warm, lavender-scented quiet of her room. The faint glow of a single alchemy lamp resting on the washbasin fights the gloom.
Megan gestures toward the velvet-cushioned chest sitting at the foot of the bed. "Sit down."
I obey. Even seated, my broad shoulders cast a vast silhouette over her fragile, impossibly small frame.
