Jarek lay beneath the weight of the Alpha Ravager’s corpse, blood seeping into the cracks of the stone beneath him. His breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale a knife through his ribs. The mist curled around them, a pale shroud, clinging to his skin like a second shadow.

  The echo of his new power hummed under his skin, a low thrum that beat in time with his pulse. The Umbral Veil wasn’t like any mutation he’d had until now. The mist obeyed him, shadows bending to his will, making him part of the fog itself.

  Darkness pressed in, the weight of the corpse threatening to crush him. Jarek shifted, the edges of his form smudging into shadow. His new skill whispered to him, the mist wrapping tighter, his presence slipping through the cracks. Inch by inch, he pulled himself free, his body a ghost against the stone.

  “Jarek?” Cyrille’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with worry.

  He exhaled slowly, his form solidifying as the shadows receded, like ink swirling back into a bottle.

  Relief rippled across Cyrille’s face. She dropped to one knee, blades still in hand, her knuckles white. “Shit. Thought you were dead.”

  Jarek forced a smirk, though his chest ached with each breath. “Not yet. Still got shit to do.”

  Her laugh was sharp, the sound grounding them both. “Then let’s get paid.”

  Jarek nodded. His gaze slid back to the Alpha’s corpse, its golden eyes now dull, its blood a dark stain against the stone. The beast’s core was the real prize—the only reason they’d gambled their lives in the Gate.

  But the Alpha wasn’t the only beast they’d killed. The Gate had been crawling with lesser Ravagers—creatures with sharp fangs and cores worth enough to keep them fed for weeks.

  “Strip them all,” Jarek muttered. “We didn’t bleed for half a haul.”

  Cyrille’s grin was wicked, her blade already cutting through the Alpha’s flesh. “I like the way you think.”

  She worked quickly, hands slick with blood, each core pulled free with a wet crunch. Jarek watched, the heat of the blood curling through him, his hunger pulsing, but he kept his hands steady. Cyrille pocketed the cores, their deal clear—she paid, he fought, and he didn’t care what she did with them.

  The last core glowed faintly, a dull purple light leaking through the gore. Cyrille wiped it on her sleeve, the motion casual, but her eyes sharp. “These’ll fetch a nice price. Enough to keep you from gnawing on corpses, anyway.”

  Jarek rolled his eyes. “Like you’d feed me for free.”

  “Damn right I wouldn’t.” She slipped the core into her pouch, the leather bulging with their spoils. “I’d make you dance for it.”

  “Pretty sure you can’t afford that show.”

  She snorted, a sound too dry to be amusement. “Let’s move. Before something bigger smells the blood.”

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  They slipped through the mist, their steps soft against the stone. Jarek’s new power hummed beneath his skin, a whisper that coaxed the fog to thicken around them. He didn’t need it yet—the Gate was empty, the echoes of their battle swallowing all other sounds—but it was a comfort, a reminder of his edge.

  When they reached the threshold of the Gate, the mist thinned, reality creeping back in. Jarek’s form solidified, shadows peeling away, leaving him sharp-edged and exposed.

  Cyrille shot him a sidelong glance. “That new trick of yours... it’s not just the fog, is it?”

  Jarek’s lips curled. “Something like that.”

  Before she could dig deeper, a figure emerged from the thinning mist—a guard. His armor was piecemeal, metal plates strapped over leather, a spear resting against his shoulder. His eyes narrowed as they landed on Jarek, suspicion immediate and sharp.

  “Where’d you get that blade?” The guard’s voice was flat, but the grip on his spear tightened.

  Jarek’s jaw clenched. “Found it in the Gate. The dead don’t need weapons.”

  The guard’s stare was heavy, his fingers tapping against the shaft of his spear. “Funny. That looks like an Apex Clan weapon. You two don’t smell like Apex to me.”

  Cyrille’s hand drifted to her belt, fingers brushing the hilt of her knife. Her voice was smooth, a blade wrapped in silk. “Found it on a corpse. You want to ask him where he got it, be my guest.”

  A muscle in the guard’s jaw twitched. His stance shifted, weight rolling back on his heels. “Blades like that don’t just get lost. And people who hold onto them too long?” His lips curled, a warning sharp as steel. “They tend to end up in shallow graves.”

  He turned, disappearing into the fog, but his shadow lingered—a threat left unspoken.

  Jarek exhaled, the tension bleeding from his muscles. His veins still hummed, his new power curling against his skin, shadows clinging to his outline.

  “That was close,” Cyrille muttered, her eyes sharp, scanning the thinning mist. “You need to be more careful.”

  Jarek smirked, though his chest still burned. “I’m always careful.”

  She huffed, her amusement edged with something sharper. “You’re lucky I like you.”

  They wound through the back alleys, the city swallowing them. Jarek’s steps softened, his form slipping into the shadows where the fog clung thickest. His fingers brushed the hilt of his blade, the metal still warm from the Alpha’s blood.

  But as they moved deeper into the city, Jarek felt it—eyes on him, the weight of a predator’s gaze. Shadows that did not belong to his power.

  The guard’s warning echoed, and beneath it, the quiet, relentless whisper of the mist.

  The Umbral Veil had made him part of the fog, but fog could only hide so much.

  He wasn’t just a hunter. He was prey, too.

  The world tightened around him, each shadow a potential threat. His pulse quickened, the air sharpening, the hunger in him twisting. His senses expanded, the mist breathing in tandem with him. His vision slipped, catching the edges of a figure that moved too smoothly, too quietly.

  Jarek slowed his steps, his movements folding into the mist, his outline smudging into shadow. His instincts curled, his power stretching, the shadows a thin veil between him and the hunter that stalked him.

  A footstep. Soft. Deliberate.

  Jarek’s breath stilled. His heartbeat a slow, deliberate drum. The assassin was close. He could feel the weight of intent, the pull of violence that stretched the air tight.

  He was being hunted.

  The alley twisted, the shadows deepening, and Jarek slipped into the wall, his form thinning, the Umbral Veil wrapping him tight. His power folded over him, mist and shadow coiling into armor, his breath slipping into the quiet.

  The figure drew closer, a silhouette with a blade. The edge of the weapon caught a sliver of light, a thin, silver curve designed for killing.

  Jarek’s body tightened, his muscles coiling, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade. His hunger flared, the need to consume, to survive, driving needles into his skin.

  The shadow froze, the air between them drawn tight, a wire ready to snap.

  Jarek's vision sharpened, his senses bleeding into the mist, every nerve a live wire threaded through the dark.

  The figure shifted—

  Jarek's power surged, shadows curling like hungry serpents—

  The alley constricted—darkness slammed shut.