The city y quiet under a bnket of stars, the alleys empty and silent as Kyrell moved through them, his form melding effortlessly with the shadows. The weight of recent events hung around him like a cloak, but not an unwelcome one; his thoughts felt clearer. The bloodshed in his small apartment, the theft from the merchant’s house – these things felt distant, fading into the past. In their pce was only a cool certainty, a calm that hummed in him like a heartbeat.

  He needed a pce to hide. Somewhere secret, where prying eyes couldn’t find him, where he could sleep through the daylight hours and emerge only under cover of night.

  The stone on his chest pulsed with an almost approving warmth, a subtle whisper floating through his mind like a murmur in the distance.

  “Yes… wise,” it cooed softly. “The night holds power. In the dark, you are untouchable, unseen, while the world slumbers around you.”

  Kyrell found himself nodding to the silent voice. The idea made sense. Daylight felt foreign now, an intrusion that would only expose him. The Grey Cloaks were out there, hunting for him; he could almost feel their presence like a web tightening around the city. They knew his face, his habits, and if he lingered too long in the open, they would find him.

  He made his way through the twisting backstreets of Makar, winding away from the livelier parts of town toward the abandoned quarters. This part of the city had fallen into disuse long ago, rows of buildings half-crumpled and streets choked with ivy and debris. People rarely came here – no merchants or beggars, no curious children or gossiping neighbours.

  Perfect.

  He moved through the narrow streets, his eyes scanning for a suitable pce. At st, he came upon a decrepit building nestled between two others, its stone fa?ade cracked and weathered. The windows were shattered, thick vines curling over the walls like veins, and the front door hung loosely on its hinges, rusted, and worn.

  Kyrell stepped inside, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards as he explored the interior. Dust y thick over the broken furniture and scattered debris, and the air was stale, the scent of age and decay mingling in the darkness. It was silent, the kind of silence that felt permanent, like the pce had been forgotten entirely.

  He wandered through the lower floor, peering into each room. There were remnants of life here – an overturned chair, a scattering of tattered books, a rusty ntern on the floor. But the echoes of the past were faint, barely clinging to the walls. This was a pce that could be his.

  He climbed the rickety staircase, testing each step as he made his way to the upper floor. The roof here was partially colpsed, letting in small shafts of moonlight, illuminating patches of dust that floated zily in the air. He found a small room in the back, its walls still intact, with only a faint draft coming from the broken window.

  This would do.

  Kyrell sat down on the floor, leaning back against the cold wall. A thin yer of dust coated his fingers, and he absently rubbed it away, his gaze drifting to the view through the cracked window. Makar stretched out below, the city lights glowing faintly in the distance. From here he could watch and wait, hidden from prying eyes.

  “A fine choice,” the voice murmured, approval cing its tone. “You are becoming wiser, more cautious. The world out there is a nest of vipers, waiting to strike. But here, you are safe. Here you can pn, prepare…”

  Kyrell nodded, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction settle in his chest. This pce felt like an extension of his own shadow. As he sat there, his mind drifted to the next steps, the next targets. The Grey Cloaks were a constant, lingering threat, and he needed information on them. He needed to find one of their members, question them, learn where they hid and how they operated.

  “You know what must be done,” the voice said, sliding through his thoughts like silk. “They hunt you, they would see you bound and broken. But you are not prey. You are the predator. They have no idea what lies in the shadows, waiting for them.”

  The words resonated in him, settling deeply as if they’d always been there, waiting to be heard. He could almost picture it – the Grey Cloak, trapped, fearful, spilling secrets beneath his questioning gaze. The idea thrilled him, a dark satisfaction welling up within.

  “I’ll find one of them” Kyrell whispered; the words half formed as his mind traced a pn. “I’ll find one alone and bring him here to get some answers. Can’t risk getting interrupted.”

  “Yes,” the voice hissed, pleased. “And in the meantime, we will grow stronger. The stone’s gifts are not yet fully awakened, but in time, you will wield powers that no one can rival. You need only trust… follow… and you will have all that you seek.”

  Kyrell let his fingers drift to the stone under his robe, feeling the warmth radiate through the fabric, soothing, familiar. It had become a part of him, a constant presence guiding his path.

  The voice murmured on, a faint lull in his mind as he began to rex, exhaustion settling over him. He had been running, fighting, pnning – all in a single unbroken stretch of time. Now, here in the quiet dark, he could finally rest.

  Leaning his head back against the wall, he let his eyes close, the darkness enveloping him completely. He would sleep through the day, wait until the sun had set once more, and then he would begin his hunt.

  Kyrell awoke with a start, the remnants of fractured dreams clinging to his mind like cobwebs. The room was shrouded in the st glimmers of twilight, shadows stretching across the dusty floorboards, their dark edges merging with the broken stone. He sat up, feeling the chill of the evening settle into his ones, yet a strange energy hummed beneath his skin. It was time to move.

  He shook off the stiffness, drawing his cloak around him, and slipped out of the derelict building and into the night. The city’s sounds, faint and muffled, drifted to him – a distant dog barking, the shuffle of feet on cobblestone, the faint hum of voices from unseen streets. Makar’s undercurrent pulsed around him, a pce of hidden deals and unspoken alliances.

  Kyrell made his way through the byrinthine streets, silent and calcuting. He needed a Grey Cloak – a guard, one of Estan’s hired men who patrolled the city, keeping eyes on anyone who dared step out of line. The Grey Cloaks were known to be merciless, hired hands who reported only to Estan and some unknown superior. A name Kyrell intended to uncover.

  As he moved through the back alleys, his senses felt heightened, sharpened; he was becoming more attuned to the shadows, more a part of them. The familiar voice whispered, “One will come. Be patient… for patients is a hunter’s virtue. The night belongs to you. Trust in it.”

  The voice’s words, though fleeting, felt like a guiding compass in the dark. Kyrell took a deep breath, letting the shadows settle around him, and he slipped into an alcove, waiting, watching. Soon enough, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the empty alley. A figure emerged, a tall, broad-shouldered man wrapped in a grey cloak, his sword glinting faintly in the dim light.

  Kyrell’s pulse quickened. He watched as the guard approached, his gait steady, his eyes sweeping the alley. The man was alone, distracted, his attention drawn toward a distant flicker of mplight down the street. He didn’t notice Kyrell, blending seamlessly with the darkness, a wraith hidden in the night.

  Now.

  With a complete silence, Kyrell slipped from his hiding spot and moved up behind the guard, striking quickly. His hand cmped over the man’s mouth, his other arm wrapping around his neck in a vice-like grip. The guard struggled, his muffled cries filling the narrow alley, but Kyrell’s grip held firm. As he wrestled the guard back into the shadows, something new rippled through him, a surge of power, an unseen force tightening his hold and making the guard’s struggles weaken. The man’s eyes widened in sudden terror; a silent scream frozen in his gaze.

  Kyrell felt a chill of satisfaction, the stone against his chest pulsing with an approving warmth. This was no ordinary strength – it was as if his very presence had seeped into the man’s mind, rooting fear into his bones.

  “Yes…” the voice whispered, low and coaxing. “They feel you now. They sense what lies within. Let it loose. Let fear be your ally.”

  Kyrell leaned in close, his voice barely a whisper in the guard’s ear. “If you want to live, you will come with me.”

  The man’s terror-filled gaze darted back and forth, his body stiff and trembling. Slowly, Kyrell released his grip, watching as the guard nodded, wide-eyed and pale. Silently, Kyrell guided him through the winding streets back to his secluded hideout.

  Once inside, Kyrell shoved the guard into the dimly lit room, sealing the door behind them. The guard stumbled, his breaths coming in short, rapid bursts, his eyes flicking around the room as if searching for an escape.

  “Sit,” Kyrell commanded, his tone ced with an authority he hadn’t possessed before.

  The guard hesitated but then sank down against the wall, too terrified to protest. Kyrell took a moment to study him, the way his hands shook, clenched tightly in his p. He felt a faint thrill at the sight, the man’s fear like a tangible presence, thickening the air.

  “Who do you work for?” Kyrell asked, his voice steady, the shadows around him deepening, seeming to press in closer.

  The guard swallowed, his gaze darting to the floor. “Lord Estan. I work for Estan.”

  Kyrell’s eyes narrowed. “I know that much. But who commands you? Who tells you where to go, who to watch? Is it Estan himself?”

  The guard shook his head, his voice trembling. “N-no… not directly. We… we receive orders from a man named Orvin. He’s the one in charge of us, the one who handles the assignments.”

  “Orvin…” Kyrell murmured, the name curling in his mind. “And who does Orvin answer to?”

  The guard hesitated, gncing away. Kyrell felt the pulse of the stone against his chest, a dark energy stirring within him, fuelling his frustration. He stepped closer, his gaze boring into the guard, letting the anger build, focusing it.

  As he concentrated, he felt something shift, a faint pulse of energy radiating from him, seeping into the room. The guard’s face paled further, his eyes widening as he began to shake, a deep-rooted terror gripping him. Kyrell watched, fascinated, as the guard’s composure crumpled, his mind unravelling in the grip of something unseen.

  “Yes…” the voice hissed enthusiastically. “Fear. It is a weapon as sharp as any bde, as deadly as any poison. Use it, let it seep into his mind.”

  The guard’s breathing turned ragged, his hands cwing at the floor as he fought to keep himself steady. Kyrell leaned down, his voice a low, menacing whisper. “Who does Orvin answer to? Tell me, or it won’t stop.”

  The guard’s gaze met his, and Kyrell saw the flicker of panic turn into outright terror, his mind breaking under the strain. “I…I don’t know,” he stammered, his words a desperate plea. “Orvin… he speaks of someone… someone powerful, but… I don’t know his name. They say he’s… he’s known as the Marshall.”

  The guard trembled, his face paling as he began to lose control. Kyrell realized he had pushed too hard, the man’s mind buckling under the weight of his terror. He pulled back, watching as the guard’s gaze grew vacant, his body slumping against the wall as if drained.

  Kyrell took a step back, his heart pounding. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, the lingering remnants of fear clinging to the walls like a spectre. A faint satisfaction curled in his chest, mingling with a sense of wonder at the power he now held.

  “The Marshall…” the voice whispered, a note of intrigue in its tone.

  Kyrell nodded, filing away the name. The guard had slumped to the floor, barely conscious, his breaths shallow and uneven. Kyrell considered his options, weighing the risks. If he let the guard go, there was a chance he would report back, alerting Orvin and the rest of the Grey Cloaks to Kyrell’s whereabouts. But if he silenced the man here, he would remain hidden, his actions shrouded in mystery.

  As he pondered,

  “There’s no need to rush,” the voice murmured, almost soothing. “One death here won’t serve you as well as you think… but what if this man were useful to you, Kyrell? What if he could help you do something far more… effective.”

  Kyrell’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger as he gnced at the guard’s ashen face. The man’s breathing had steadied, though his eyes still held traces of terror. There was a flicker of hesitation within Kyrell, the ghost of a conscience; but he pushed it down, letting the voice’s guidance take root.

  “Useful, huh?” he muttered under his breath, curious. “How so?”

  “Ask him about the others. About his companions. How many are there? Where do they go? Learn their faces, their routines…Imagine, Kyrell, how their fear would grow if they started disappearing, one by one. The Grey Cloaks wouldn’t dare step into the night.”

  The idea settled into Kyrell’s mind, igniting something dark and thrilling. He crouched down, bringing his gaze level with the guard, who flinched as Kyrell’s shadow seemed to spill over him.

  “Who else is out there tonight?” Kyrell asked, his voice low, ced with threat. “I want names. Routes. Details.”

  The guard mumbled; all resistance broken. “There’s… there’s two others. Shifts tonight – they’re patrolling the inner wards near merchant nes. My… my friends, they…”

  Kyrell’s lips curled into a smile. “Perfect. Now, you’re going to stay right here,” he said, “And if I come back to find you’ve tried anything clever, you’ll be wishing I had killed you tonight.”

  Leaving the guard helpless, Kyrell slipped back into the darkness of the street, a focused purpose guiding his every step. He moved with practiced silence, each footfall muffled by the damp cobblestones, each breath measured as he crept through the alleys, scanning his surroundings for any sign of his targets.

  As he neared the merchant nes, Kyrell spotted the faint flicker of a ntern swinging in the distance. He crouched low, watching as the two figures came into view, strolling side by side with an ease, as if they owned the streets.

  “Remember, Kyrell,” the voice purred in his mind, “the shadows are yours now. They are your ally, your weapon. Use them well.”

  Kyrell felt a surge of cold energy pulse through him, and as he focused, the shadows seemed to gather around him, deepening, cloaking him from sight. It was as if he had become part of the darkness itself, invisible, silent. With newfound confidence, he moved closer, slipping along the edge of the street until he was just a few paces behind them.

  The two men didn’t notice him; their ughter echoed off the walls as they swapped stories of recent exploits, revelling in their own bravado.

  “I swear,” the left one was saying, his voice a rumbling ugh, “that fool near pissed himself when I pulled the bde on him. Can’t say I bme him… sometimes, you have to remind people who keeps this pce in order.”

  The right one chuckled in agreement. “Aye, he looked ready to faint. Next time, maybe we’ll make an example of one of them.”

  Kyrell’s grip tightened around his dagger as he closed in, his mind calcuting his approach. He had the element of surprise, and he intended to use it well.

  In a single fluid motion, he lunged forward, his bde fshing in the dim light. He grabbed the left one by the shoulder, pulling him back, and drove the dagger into the man’s side, feeling the sharp resistance as it pierced through flesh. He let out a strangled gasp, his eyes going wide with shock, but Kyrell was already twisting the bde, silencing him before he could react.

  The other one froze, his eyes widening as he registered the sight of his companion’s limp body slumping to the ground. Kyrell moved with the shadows, swift and merciless, his dagger fshing again as he caught the next one off guard. The man stumbled back, trying to draw his sword, but Kyrell was faster, stepping forward to close the distance.

  The Grey Cloaks hand shook, his gaze darting between Kyrell’s face and the shadow that seemed to ripple around him, dark and unnerving.

  “Who…what are you?” He stammered, his voice trembling with fear.

  Kyrell felt a dark thrill at the question. He didn’t answer, instead focusing his mind, allowing the fear to flow from him like an unseen force, seeping into the man’s thoughts, turning his fear into something palpable, suffocating. His face went pale, his movements slowed, his limbs growing heavy under the weight of dread.

  “Good,” the voice whispered, an edge of satisfaction in its tone. “Let the fear take him. It will break him faster than any bde.”

  The guard’s hand faltered, his sword cttering to the ground as he staggered back, his eyes wide with terror, his body trembling. Kyrell stepped closer, his shadow stretching over the man, blocking out the faint glow of the distant streetlights.

  “What is it you fear?” Kyrell murmured, his voice low and menacing. “What nightmares haunt you?”

  His lips quivered, his breathing ragged as he struggled to answer. “P-please… don’t… I don’t know anything… please…”

  Kyrell felt the familiar pull of power within him, the stone’s energy merging with his own intent. He reached out, his hands brushing away a speck of dirt on the man’s shoulder, as he leaned in close, his words a quiet, menacing whisper.

  “Run back to your comrades. Tell them what you saw here and tell them this: I am coming for each and every one of them. There is nowhere to hide, no pce safe.”

  The guard’s body shook violently, his face drained of all colours. Without another word, he scrambled to his feet and stumbled back down the alley, his steps unsteady as he fled into the night.

  Satisfied, Kyrell turned his attention to the body of the first grey cloak he had dispatched, crouching beside the corpse as the faint smell of blood hung in the air.

  He slipped his hand into the man’s coat, rifling through pockets and pouches until his fingers brushed against a small leather pouch filled with a handful of coins. With a flicker of satisfaction, he tucked it into his own belt, patting it once as if to seal the cim. His stomach gave a low, insistent growl, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in a while.

  “Food first,” he muttered to himself, straightening. “You’ll need your strength,” the voice agreed, the tone smooth, as if pleased by Kyrell’s efficiency. “But stay in the shadows… just in case.”

  Slipping through the twisting alleys and quiet streets, Kyrell moved toward the less crowded side of Makar, a part where only a few lights glowed from the windows of inns and alehouses that stayed open well into the night. The air smelled faintly of roasting meat and stale ale as he approached a modest-looking inn with a rough wooden sign swaying in the breeze.

  Inside, the inn was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the scarred tables and the few patrons scattered around them. A heavy-set woman with a weathered face moved from table to table, refilling mugs and collecting coins with a tired efficiency. She gnced up briefly as Kyrell entered, her gaze lingering for a moment before she turned back to her work, dismissing him as just another te-night visitor.

  He chose a table near the far corner, shadowed and out of direct sight from the others. The innkeeper’s wife shuffled over, eyeing him with the kind of indifference that only came from years of serving all types.

  “What’ll it be?” she asked, her tone ft.

  “Just some stew and ale,” he replied, sliding a coin across the table. “Keep it coming.”

  She raised an eyebrow at the extra coin but nodded, disappearing back toward the kitchen.

  Kyrell leaned back in his chair, letting his hand rest casually on the hilt of his dagger. The events of the night seemed to him through him – each strike, each careful movement had been precise, almost effortless.

  Moments ter, the innkeeper’s wife returned with a steaming bowl of stew, a thick slice of bread, and a tankard of ale. She set them down without a word and returned to her duties, barely sparing him a gnce.

  Kyrell ate quickly, savouring the rich fvour of the meat and the warmth that spread through him with each bite. The bread was coarse, but it soaked up the stew well enough, and he ate it all, washing it down with deep gulps of ale. The warmth of the meal settled in his belly, steadying him, renewing his energy.

  As he finished, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, gncing around to make sure no one was paying him any particur attention. Satisfied, he slipped back out into the night, the cold air sharpening his senses. The city was quiet, with most citizens tucked away in their homes, leaving only the occasional patrol or drunken straggler wandering the streets.

  He moved with a purpose, keeping to the shadows as he wound his way through the alleys, his steps silent, his senses heightened. He had a goal in mind – a methodical dismantling of the Grey Cloaks, one by one, pnting seeds of terror that would ripple through their ranks.

  As he slipped through a narrow passage between two buildings, he spotted another Grey Cloak standing at the mouth of an alley, leaning against the wall with a ntern in hand. The man’s stance was casual, bored, as he peered down the empty street, unaware of the shadow closing in behind him.

  Kyrell moved with precision, his footsteps blending into the night. He crept up until he was just a step behind, close enough to see the slow rise and fall of the man’s shoulders as he exhaled. With a swift, silent motion, Kyrell reached around, his hand cmping over the man’s mouth as he drove his dagger up into the soft flesh of his neck, cutting off any chance of a scream.

  The guard jerked once, his body going rigid as the bde found its mark. Kyrell held him steady, feeling the life drain out of him, until the man slumped, his weight shifting forward. Kyrell let the body slide gently to the ground, wiping his bde on the guard’s tunic before stepping back into the shadows.

  He didn’t linger, slipping away before anyone could notice the silent figure vanishing into the dark. The thrill of it settled into his veins, a sense of purpose growing with each strike, each life snugged out in a heartbeat.

  It wasn’t long before he found another target – a Grey Cloak walking alone through the narrow backstreets, his steps slow and unhurried. Kyrell watched him for a moment, noting the way the man hummed softly to himself, unaware of the shadow trailing him.

  With a deliberate calm, Kyrell moved into position, watching the guard’s movements, waiting for the right moment. As the man passed by a dark alcove, Kyrell struck, his bde fshing in the dim light. He stepped in in close, grabbed the guard’s shoulder, and plunged the dagger into his neck, the steel slicing through muscle and sinew.

  The man made a choking sound, a brief, panicked gurgle as his hands cwed at his throat. Kyrell held him steady, his grip unyielding until the guard’s struggles faded, his body going limp.

  In the quiet that followed, Kyrell felt the familiar, satisfying weight of the night settle over him. He left the body where it fell, slipping back into the shadows, his senses tuned to the silence that surrounded him. He could feel the voice’s approval, a silent echo in his mind, urging him on, feeding his resolve.

  “They will remember your name, Kyrell,” the voice whispered, a dark satisfaction colouring each word. “By the time we are through, they will fear to even speak it.”

  Kyrell slipped through the quiet streets; his mind began to churn with ideas. Sying the Grey Cloaks was satisfying, but he knew it was only a start. An image took root in his mind: cutting off their strength not just by numbers but by choking out their resources.

  The thought grew, as vivid and sharp as the bde he carried, filling his mind with purpose.

  “Destroy their weapons, their supplies,” the voice murmured, its tone measured and thoughtful. “Strike at the things they depend on… Make them feel helpless.”

  He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward at the thought. Yes, cutting away their tools would weaken them, make them vulnerable, unprepared.

  Reaching his hideout, he slipped through the creaky door, the old wood barely protesting at his touch. Inside, huddled in the far corner, sat the guard he captured. He looked up at Kyrell, his eyes, widening with fear.

  Kyrell walked closer, his gaze sharp, the weight of intent settling heavily into his stance. He stopped just a few paces from the guard, folding his arms as he regarded the man with a mixture of curiosity and calcuted menace.

  “You’ll tell me where the weapon storage is. And where the barracks are.” Kyrell said, his voice low, cold.

  The guard stared back; lips pressed tightly together. Kyrell saw the defiance flicker in his eyes, saw him weighing the risk of speaking. He watched the man’s struggle, a faint amusement rising in him. With barely a thought, he let the darkness slip outward, like an invisible force pressing into the room, the faintest curl of shadow wrapping around him.

  The guard’s resolve broke, his face paling as he stammered, “It’s… it’s near the old stables. The storage is two buildings down from the guard barracks, in the east part of the low quarter… but they keep guards posted.”

  Kyrell nodded, committing the directions to memory. He watched the guard for another long, heavy moment before slowly drawing his dagger, the bde glinting in the dim light.

  “Thank you for your help,” he said simply, before driving the bde into the man’s heart, swift and precise. He watched as the guard went still, feeling only a faint flicker of regret.

  “He was a tool, Kyrell,” the voice murmured reassuringly. “One we no longer need.”

  Kyrell nodded, the voice’s presence grounding him. He knew his path, his purpose. Without another thought, he y down in the opposite corner, allowing the exhaustion of the night’s work to lull him into a deep, dreamless sleep.