Kael crouched low atop the slate rooftops of the middle district, just above the Weeping Market. Torrent surging through him. Keeping him warm under the twin moons.

  The wind whispered first, then howled—just as he’d been waiting for. He moved with it, a shadow in lockstep with the city’s breath. The copper tang of blood was already on him.

  He struck.

  The Copper Teeth spotter didn’t scream. There wasn’t time. Kael’s dagger swept in a clean arc—jaw to ear—opening the throat in a wet gasp of arterial spray. He caught the body, eased it down, his hand still clamped over the twitching mouth.

  Another gust.

  He slithered forward, stalking the next beater crouched at a chimney's edge. No plan survives first contact, he reminded himself, and here he was slitting throats under the twin moons, adapting with every heartbeat.

  They’d planned this operation down to the bone. Routes, schedules, contingencies. But somehow, the bastards had sniffed out just enough of it. Every route they’d chosen for the ambush now bristled with extra eyes—Copper Teeth spotters hidden like ticks in the stonework.

  So they pivoted.

  Kavari. Lucien. A half-dozen Ironbound handpicked for quiet work. They ghosted along nearby rooftops, each throat cut timed with the market’s wail—a quirk of architecture. It masked their work well.

  The next beater didn’t see him coming. Kael wrapped an arm around his head, dragged him backward, and drove his blade between the ribs. The man bucked—so he twisted and jammed the knife up into the eye socket. The spasms stopped. He rolled the body into the shadows.

  Frank, Yuri, and Oliver waited with the ambush teams, ready to spring the trap once the rooftops were cleared. The armored caravans came fast and unpredictably—each second counted.

  Another wail. Another beater gone. A jagged smile flickered across Kael’s face before vanishing into the dark. Not the worst odds he’s faced.

  He kept moving.

  Each kill was surgical. Efficient. He stepped through blood without slipping, exhaling only when the next mark hit the ground.

  Who leaked the routes? Not his people. He knew them too well. The betrayal didn’t fit. No motive made sense—not yet.

  Another corpse. Neck twisted. One less problem.

  And still the market wailed.

  He ran through variables. The meeting. The donation. It reeked of a trap now. But it was too late to back out.

  What could they leverage? What could he bring?

  Nothing came to mind.

  Just himself.

  Kael reached the last beater.

  He waited—motionless—until the final wailed would echo down the alleys like a death knell.

  The gods answered.

  So did the ancestors.

  The man turned, mouth opening to speak.

  Kael was already on him.

  Blade to the thigh—sever the tendon. A hiss of pain. The man dropped.

  Next thrust—up between the ribs, puncturing the heart.

  Then, for good measure, a practiced flick across the throat—arterial red splashing wide.

  Kael stepped aside, letting the blood spray past him like he was walking through rain.

  Clean.

  Brutal.

  Efficient.

  He drove the blade down into the corpse’s chest with mechanical finality. He wasn’t going to need it anymore. Not where Kael was going.

  That knife wouldn’t help him in what came next.

  Nothing would.

  Out of habit, he ghosted across the rooftops, retracing his silent route until he reached the hiding spot just off Coin Road. A small iron-bound chest sat beneath loose stonework. He knelt, opened it, and began to change.

  The disguise felt wrong. Tunics. Polished boots. A silk-threaded coat with silver clasps. It all stank of low nobles and petty lords. Soft hands. Fat coin purses.

  But it was necessary.

  He was supposed to be a Beater Lord tonight—one who didn’t trust his own vaults and was bringing a small fortune to secure elsewhere.

  Kael tucked a satchel of crushed moonshade under the lapel of the gaudy coat. And grabbed a mage flare. It woudnt be seen as a weapon by most, but it can burn. Burn hot. He didn't expect a fair game, but he was going to make it a bloody one.

  Then, with a final glance over the rooftops, he descended the side of a narrow stone wall, slipping down into the alley like a shadow being poured from a bottle.

  Seconds later, he emerged onto Coin Road, back straight, chin high.

  He walked like he belonged here.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  Like he owned the street.

  And if the night went the way he needed it to—

  He would.

  He fucking would.

  As Kael walked down Coin Road like he owned it, his stride was measured, unhurried, deliberate. But beneath that calm exterior, his mind spun like a blade, dissecting everything he knew about the man waiting at the end of this path.

  Thalor Veylin. On the streets, they called him The Copper King.

  An elf—highborn by blood, exiled by scandal. Once draped in silks and surrounded by songbirds, now cloaked in shadows and guarded by killers. He had been cast out of his noble house after whispers of forbidden blood rituals and the trafficking of soulstones slipped past velvet curtains. The kind of rumors that get most people hanged—or worse—but Thalor had survived. More than that, he had adapted.

  He didn’t stumble into Brassreach; he arrived like a sickness—quiet, subtle, and patient. Over decades, he transformed a gutter-tier debt crew into the Copper Teeth, a syndicate with vaults deep enough to shame small kingdoms and hands in everything from extortion to assassination. They said his ledgers bled more than his blades did.

  Thalor was tall, ageless in that eerie elven way, with eyes like polished amber and a voice that never rose above a murmur. But it was the quiet ones you watched most closely—because when Thalor whispered, people vanished. Friends. Enemies. Entire lineages. Gone.

  He had a thing for collecting beautiful things. People. Weapons. Songs. Secrets. But none of them ever lasted. The moment they bored him, he broke them. Shattered them like porcelain to feel the cracks bloom beneath his fingertips.

  Kael had never met the Copper Thorn in person, but he knew the type. The slow poison in the wine. The predator behind the smile. And tonight, that predator thought he was laying a trap.

  Thalor had backed Kael into a corner.

  Slowly. Methodically. Like a hunter tightening a noose, cutting off exits one by one until all that remained was a single, narrow path forward—and Thalor waiting at the end with that cold, perfect smile.

  But Kael wasn’t the type to lay down and die.

  When you’re ambushed, you don’t freeze.

  You don’t beg.

  You charge.

  You hit back hard, fast, and without hesitation. You break through the trap. Force the enemy to react. Because if you let them dictate the pace, if you let them keep the initiative, you’re already dead.

  And Kael wasn’t done yet.

  Not by a long shot.

  The walk to the Copper Teeth’s bank was easy. Too easy.

  No one tried to stop him. Beater muscle loitered on corners and rooftops, watching like stone gargoyles. A few nodded as he passed, wordless and indifferent. Don’t mess with the clients—that was the silent rule here. Keep the trash out, keep the coin flowing.

  The Copper Teeth Central Banking House loomed four stories high, oozing wealth in every detail. The doors were thick, dark wood veined with inlaid gold. Imported, expensive. The bricks glowed subtly under amber streetlamps, polished to an unnatural sheen. Too clean for Brassreach. Too perfect.

  He counted more glyphs than legally required—privacy wards, anti-divination sigils, flame catchers, noise baffles. Costly to maintain. But they screamed one thing loud and clear. Your secrets are safe here.

  Inside, the air changed.

  Marble floors swallowed footsteps. Polished granite walls gleamed like wet stone. In the center stood a fountain swirling with liquid, pulsing from a mage core beneath. Water curled around a statue of a man—naked, smug, arms outstretched like some gilded savior.

  Thalor?

  He had a damn statue of himself in the lobby.

  Of course he did.

  The entire place radiated wealth and intimidation. Leave your treasures. We’ll guard them with our lives.

  Beaters flanked the walls in tailored black suits and shined boots—more high noble court than street muscle. It was a look, a message: we don’t need to be brutes anymore. We’ve ascended.

  Kael approached the reception desk. The elf behind it was striking—highborn beauty sharpened by subtle charm, her dark dress chosen to make her eyes pop like sapphires.

  She didn’t speak. Just stepped from behind the desk, heels clicking softly, and gestured for him to follow.

  “Mr. Veylin is expecting you.”

  That was meant to rattle him. It implied surveillance. Planning. They knew who he was. Knew enough to recognize him on sight.

  She led him through a door inlaid with dwarven filigree. The craftsmanship was stunning.

  Damn. Am I the only district lord without one of these?

  The second he stepped inside, he felt it—his silvery scars flared. Magic. Subtle. Controlled.

  Mind magic.

  The compulsion spell was direct—push forward, answer questions, offer trust.

  Thalor Veylin sat behind a wide, obsidian desk carved with runic patterns. The elf looked like money made flesh—elegant, tall, perfectly composed. Every gesture measured. Every syllable sure to be a blade.

  To his left, a mind mage stood with glassy eyes and gloved hands holding a mage core.

  To Kael’s right, a mountain in a suit—clearly muscle. Close-range enforcer.

  Thalor clapped softly. “I didn’t think you’d actually come, not after realizing the rules had changed. Color me surprised.”

  Then, lazily, “What did you bring me?”

  Kael could feel the compulsion pulse. Words itched at the back of his throat. He answered calmly, like it didn’t matter.

  “A deposit. And a mage flare.”

  Thalor raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected.

  “Jorge,” he said, not looking at the brute, “check him. If he’s scrubbed his own memory to sneak something in… well, we’ll find out.”

  Jorge moved fast. Rough hands patted Kael down. He found the coin purse. The Moonshade pouch. The flare.

  Then the manacles came—silvered and humming, laced with binding glyphs. Containment. Shock. All high-grade.

  Expensive. Effective.

  “Kael,” Thalor said, voice almost warm, “would you be a dear and have a seat?”

  The mage pushed harder. Kael’s feet moved before he told them to. Each step to the chair at the center of the room dragged like iron through mud.

  The trap had sprung.

  Now came the bleeding.

  Thalor didn’t raise his voice. He never had to.

  Instead, he tilted his head slightly, eyes still on Kael, and addressed the mind mage.

  “What do you have so far? Where are his people? What are they planning?”

  The mage flinched. His fingers clutched a glowing core like a lifeline, knuckles white. Sweat pooled above his lip, and his voice cracked when he spoke.

  “Um… Mr. Veylin—nothing. I… I can’t see anything.”

  Thalor’s gaze slid to him—cold, clinical, like a scalpel on porcelain.

  “Then what,” he asked, flatly, “am I paying you for?”

  Jorge shifted. The big enforcer took a slow step forward. The mage recoiled, holding up his hands defensively, the core pulsing brighter in fear.

  “Wait—sir—listen. I tried. I really tried. But it’s like—” his voice trembled, “all I can see are… death scenes. Elaborate ones. Detailed. All of us dying. Over and over. They feel real. Like… like they already happened.”

  He swallowed, face pale. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s like trying to stare into a fire that stares back.”

  Thalor tapped a polished fingernail on his desk. Once. Twice. Thinking.

  Then he said, almost conversationally, “Drop the compulsion. We have him now. I want to talk.”

  The mage gratefully withdrew. Kael felt the pressure vanish from his skull, and the dull throb in his silver scars faded to a whisper.

  He rolled his neck slowly. Bones cracked. Eyes scanned the room—not out of awe, but calculation.

  The office was designed to intimidate: rare woods, expensive metals, artifacts of old wars and extinct houses. Gold filigree. Crystal decanters. Carved stone that didn't belong in this district, or even this century.

  A collector’s den.

  Thalor gestured casually, sweeping a hand around.

  “Impressive, isn’t it? Took decades to build. And you thought you’d bring it all crashing down in a single night?”

  Kael gave a small nod, feigning interest. His gaze lingered just long enough on the vaulted walls to spot them: faint amber lines woven into the stone.

  Anti-magic glyphs.

  Powerful. Subtle. Expensive. Even some royal nobles couldn’t afford those. Designed to keep magic out.

  Not stop it from being used from within.

  Kael smiled, slow and wolfish.

  “You know,” he said quietly, “I wanted tonight to be bloodless too.”

  He leaned back slightly, letting the manacles bite into his wrists.

  “But you just couldn’t help yourself.”

  And then they clicked open.

  The glyphs on the cuffs dimmed, the restraint wards unraveled. Mana surged back into him. Coiled. Waiting.

  Thalor’s eyes narrowed. The mind mage flinched as Jorge stepped forward fast.

  Too late.

  Kael stood.