Jarek hit the ground hard.

  Pain flared through his ribs, sharp and deep. His breath came ragged, his vision swam, but he forced himself to move. Rolling to his side, he barely avoided the assassin’s blade as it stabbed into the stone where his chest had been a moment before. A deep crack split the pavement.

  Too close.

  He pushed off with his forearm, scrambling upright just as the assassin adjusted his grip. The man was breathing heavier now, his stance shifting slightly—left foot back, weight rolling onto the ball of his injured leg. Jarek had forced him to move differently. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  Blood dripped from both of them, soaking into the dust between them. Jarek could feel his own staining his shirt, warm and sluggish, but the assassin’s was fresher. The cut on his forearm, the deeper wound along his ribs—small cracks in his perfect form.

  The assassin exhaled, his eyes scanning Jarek like he was solving a puzzle.

  “You’re still standing.”

  Jarek spat iron from his mouth. His arms felt heavier, his stance looser than it should have been. He was running on instinct now. Thought wouldn’t save him.

  The assassin flicked his blade to the side, sending a streak of blood onto the stone. “Annoying.”

  Then he was gone.

  Jarek saw him move, but his body wasn’t fast enough to keep up. He barely got his blade up in time—steel met steel, a flash of sparks in the dark. The impact jarred his arm down to the bone. He staggered back, but the assassin was already following up, twisting to bring his blade across Jarek’s throat.

  Jarek dropped low.

  The sword whistled over his head, missing by inches. He lunged forward, shoulder first, slamming into the assassin’s chest. The impact drove them both backward, the assassin’s boots skidding against the stone. Jarek used the momentum to push off, twisting in midair, trying to drive his blade into the bastard’s ribs—

  Too slow.

  The assassin’s free hand caught Jarek’s wrist. His grip was like iron. Before Jarek could wrench free, the assassin twisted, forcing his arm sideways. Pain shot up his shoulder as his own momentum betrayed him.

  Then the knee came.

  Jarek barely registered the movement before the impact crushed into his gut. His body folded inward. He choked, breath stolen, stomach twisting violently.

  The assassin wrenched his wrist again, this time sending him crashing to the ground. The stone bit into his back. A shadow loomed over him.

  “This is over.”

  The sword fell.

  Jarek threw himself sideways. The blade sank into his shoulder instead of his throat. He bit back a scream, vision flickering with white-hot pain. The assassin twisted the weapon, trying to drive it deeper. Jarek’s fingers scraped against the pavement, searching—

  His hand closed around a jagged chunk of broken stone.

  He swung.

  The impact landed hard against the assassin’s temple. The man’s head snapped to the side. His grip loosened just enough.

  Jarek wrenched himself free, tearing his shoulder against the blade in the process. It felt like fire ripping through muscle, but he didn’t care. He needed to move.

  He rolled to his feet. His breath was ragged, his stance unsteady. The assassin recovered fast, shaking off the blow, but there was something in his eyes now.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Not amusement.

  Not disgust.

  Something colder.

  Jarek didn’t give him time to react. He lunged, using every ounce of momentum left in his body. The assassin moved to block, but Jarek had already adjusted. He wasn’t aiming for a clean strike.

  His foot slammed into the assassin’s wounded ribs.

  The man grunted, barely audible, but Jarek felt the way his body faltered, the fraction of a second where his balance broke. He pressed forward.

  A feint—his blade flicked toward the assassin’s neck. The man reacted, pulling back—just enough to expose his torso.

  Jarek dropped low, reversing his grip. His blade sank deep beneath the assassin’s ribs.

  A sharp inhale. The assassin’s hand twitched, his sword lifting slightly—but Jarek twisted the blade.

  The body stilled.

  The assassin’s breath came out in a slow, surprised sigh. His fingers clenched once, then loosened. His knees hit the ground before the rest of him followed.

  Jarek staggered backward.

  He stared down at the body, his own chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. The pain in his ribs pulsed, his shoulder was screaming, and his fingers barely felt like they belonged to him anymore.

  But he was alive.

  His blade dripped, the blood pooling beneath the assassin’s body. Jarek exhaled, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. His vision swam for a moment, but he pushed through it. He needed to move before—

  A voice.

  “Damn. You actually did it.”

  Jarek turned sharply, his grip tightening on his weapon—then he saw her.

  Cyrille.

  She stood in the alley’s entrance, arms crossed, watching the scene with unreadable eyes. She was fine. Not a scratch on her.

  His exhaustion turned into something sharper.

  “Where the hell were you?” His voice was hoarse, raw.

  Cyrille tilted her head. “Watching.”

  Jarek’s fingers curled into fists. His ribs screamed in protest, but he ignored them.

  “You just—stood there?”

  She sighed. “I couldn’t interfere. You pick a fight with House Halvark, you deal with the consequences. My guild doesn’t need that kind of heat.”

  Jarek laughed. A rough, breathless sound. He couldn’t tell if it was from rage or exhaustion. Maybe both.

  “You let me almost die.”

  Cyrille’s eyes flicked to the corpse at his feet. “And yet, you didn’t.”

  Jarek wanted to punch something. He wanted to scream at her. But there was something else clawing its way to the surface—

  The assassin’s words.

  Zero.

  Jarek glanced back at the body. Blood soaked into the cracks between the stone. His pulse still hadn’t slowed.

  Jarek lifted his head, breath shallow, his body swaying under its own weight. His wounds burned. His anger burned hotter.

  And yet, Cyrille was untouched.

  She stood just beyond the reach of the blood soaking into the stone, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. But she didn’t speak. Not at first. She just watched him, her gaze flicking over his injuries, his torn coat, the crimson staining his skin.

  Jarek’s grip tightened around the hilt of Dain Halvark’s sword. His voice came quieter this time, rough but deliberate.

  “They knew.”

  Cyrille frowned. “Knew what?”

  Jarek swallowed the taste of iron in his mouth. “That I killed Dain.”

  For the first time, her expression shifted.

  Not shock. Not anger.

  Something worse.

  Resignation.

  She let out a slow breath, running a gloved hand through her hair. Her fingers twitched—not a nervous habit. A hesitation.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than before.

  “I told you to be more careful with that damn sword.”

  Jarek’s body swayed, exhaustion creeping in, but he didn’t look away. He could barely stand, but he still held her gaze. She had known. She had always known.

  And still—

  She left him to fight alone.

  His voice was hoarse. “And you still didn’t help me.”

  Cyrille exhaled through her nose, shifting her weight. But she didn’t break eye contact. There was something in her stare now—something strained.

  “I couldn’t help you, Jarek.” She shook her head, frustration bleeding into her voice. “If I did, my guild would be signing its own death warrant.”

  Jarek clenched his teeth. He wanted to argue, wanted to spit the words back in her face—but he couldn’t.

  Because he understood.

  Because it made sense.

  And that just made it hurt more.

  Cyrille looked away for the first time, arms crossing tighter over her chest. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her coat like she was holding something in.

  “You saved my life back in the Wildlands.” Her voice was quieter now, like she hated admitting it. “I owe you for that. If things were different…”

  She trailed off.

  Jarek narrowed his eyes. “But they aren’t.”

  A muscle in her jaw twitched. “No. They aren’t.”

  She exhaled sharply, running a hand over her face. For a moment—just a moment—she almost looked tired.

  Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.

  Her arms loosened, her weight shifted, and she turned away. Not quickly. Not sharply. Just enough that he knew this conversation was over.

  But she hesitated.

  Jarek saw it.

  The fraction of a second where her step faltered, the way her fingers twitched by her side—like she wanted to say something else.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead, she sighed. “Be careful, Jarek.”

  It wasn’t an apology.

  But it wasn’t nothing, either.

  And then she was gone, swallowed by the mist.

  Jarek let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  He stood there for a long moment, alone.

  His fingers flexed around the hilt of his blade. His ribs ached. His muscles trembled. The blood soaking his clothes was cold now.

  Cyrille had made her choice.

  And he was still standing alone.

  If House Halvark knew about Dain…

  This wasn’t over.

  Not even close.