Nigel slowed his steps, keeping his distance. A Sentinel High Official had no business here. They ruled from their fortified towers, issuing commands from behind gilded walls, only descending into the lower Rings with purpose.

  And judging by the man’s posture—rigid, patient, watching—this wasn’t a casual visit.

  Nigel followed his gaze.

  At the far end of the alley, half-swallowed by shadow, stood Elyra.

  A girl—fifteen at most—shifting uneasily beneath the weight of the Sentinel’s attention.

  His fingers curled slightly.

  Something about this felt wrong.

  But it wasn’t his problem.

  Nigel kept walking, but his mind lingered. The image of Elyra—small, nervous, exposed—clawed at the edges of his thoughts. The Sentinel hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, but his mere presence painted an ugly picture.

  A man of his rank. Stalking a child.

  There was no version of this that ended well.

  His thoughts circled like vultures, tearing at the situation from every angle. He had no proof, no certainty. Maybe the man was investigating something. Maybe Elyra had gotten herself tangled in the wrong kind of trouble.

  Or maybe—he was about to do exactly what Nigel feared.

  His grip tightened.

  He had spent years learning when to step in and when to walk away. Experience had taught him the cost of reckless action. He had seen what happened to those who intervened without thought, without a plan. And he had learned—painfully—that rushing into a fight unprepared only got you killed.

  Helping meant exposing yourself. It meant drawing attention. It meant making enemies.

  And for what? A girl he barely knew? A city that would let him rot in a ditch if their places were reversed?

  His jaw clenched.

  But if he walked away now…

  Would Elyra still be there tomorrow?

  A slow exhale left his lips. Not my problem.

  His thoughts had almost settled, retreating back into the safety of indifference when—

  A scream.

  Sharp. High-pitched. Desperate.

  His heart stopped.

  Then—he moved.

  By the time he reached the alley, his pulse was a thunderous roar in his ears.

  The sight before him made his stomach lurch.

  Elyra was pinned against the wall, her legs kicking helplessly, one of the Sentinel’s gloved hands clamped around her throat. The other—gripping the hem of her dress, forcing it higher.

  Her eyes were wide with terror, her fingers clawing weakly at his arm, struggling for breath.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  And the bastard was grinning.

  Nigel didn’t remember moving, but his boot scraped against the ground.

  The Sentinel’s head snapped toward him.

  For a moment, silence.

  Then, a slow, irritated sigh.

  “You should walk away, boy.” His voice was calm—too calm. Bored, almost. “If you do, you’ll live. Simple as that.”

  Nigel’s hands curled into fists.

  The official tilted his head, scanning him with something between amusement and condescension. “You’re from the mines, aren’t you? I recognize the uniform.” He clicked his tongue. “Why throw your life away for some filthy rat?” His grip on Elyra tightened, drawing a weak, strangled whimper from her lips. “Step back. Go home. Forget this ever happened. You’ll be doing yourself a favor.”

  Nigel didn’t answer.

  He stepped forward.

  The official’s expression soured. With a growl of annoyance, he shoved Elyra aside. She hit the ground hard, her breath escaping in a sharp gasp.

  Then, he lunged.

  The first strike came fast—a blur of movement, aimed straight for Nigel’s ribs.

  Nigel twisted, barely dodging, but the second attack followed instantly. A sharp, punishing kick to his stomach. Impact. The force sent him staggering back.

  He clenched his teeth. The bastard was good.

  Sentinels weren’t just powerful. They were trained killers. Every motion refined. Every strike efficient. Nigel had the strength advantage, but the official had control. And it showed.

  Blow after blow, each one deliberate. Calculated to break him down.

  Every counter he attempted—intercepted. Redirected. Punished.

  His breath grew ragged.

  His mind screamed at him, demanding to know why the hell he had stepped in at all.

  He had a life. A routine. Peace.

  Now? He was fighting for it. Losing it.

  The next strike crashed into his jaw, snapping his head back. Pain. His body slammed against the alley wall, knees nearly buckling. Dizzy. Heavy. Wrong.

  He wasn’t moving the way he should.

  The anger. The regret. The despair.

  And then.

  A voice, not his.

  "You’re holding back."

  Cold. Familiar. Coiling inside his chest like a slow, creeping tide.

  "Why?"

  It slithered through his mind, smooth, quiet, heavy—like an avalanche waiting to fall.

  "You know how to end this."

  His body moved before his thoughts could catch up.

  One sharp step forward.

  His hand shot out—piercing flesh, sinking deep—like a blade through wet paper.

  For a moment, nothing.

  The Sentinel's eyes widened. Lips parted; a strangled sound caught in his throat. But before he could scream—before he could move—Nigel’s fingers clenched around his heart.

  And ripped it free.

  The organ burst in his grip. Blood sprayed across the alley walls, warm, viscous, staining everything in its path.

  The Sentinel swayed. A breath. A twitch. And finally, he collapsed.

  His body crumpled at Nigel’s feet, dead.

  Nigel stood motionless, chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. The haze in his mind lifted.

  Silence.

  Then—awareness.

  His gaze fell. To the body. To the blood. To his own trembling hands.

  He had won.

  But at what cost?

  Elyra was still there. Frozen.

  Her wide, terrified eyes darted between Nigel and the lifeless body. She was shaking. Breathing too fast. Clutching at the torn fabric of her dress.

  “Run.”

  She flinched at his voice.

  Nigel took a step toward her, forcing his tone to stay even. “Go home. Say nothing. Forget this ever happened.”

  She hesitated. Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak—but then, she just nodded sharply and ran.

  Nigel listened to her footsteps fade into the dark.

  Then, he exhaled—shaky, uneven.

  His gaze dropped.

  The Sentinel’s lifeless stare met his. Unseeing. Unmoving. White and gold soaked in red.

  His fists clenched.

  What the hell had he done?

  His breathing hitched. Pulse hammering against his skull. The air felt thick. Suffocating. A weight pressing against his ribs, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

  No.

  Not now.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced his body to move—dropping to his knees beside the corpse.

  He had to get rid of it.

  No time to think. No time to process.

  His hands hit the dirt. Fingers dug into the earth, tearing through it with raw, inhuman strength. Soil ripped apart like wet clay, stones crumbling beneath his touch.

  His breath came in short, sharp bursts. His muscles burned. His nails split against the rough ground.

  He didn’t stop.

  He couldn’t stop.

  Dig. Breathe. Dig. Breathe.

  The hole was deep enough. Deep enough to make it disappear.

  Nigel grabbed the body by the collar, dragging it over, shoving it in without ceremony. He stared down for a second, his vision blurring at the edges, before he started piling the dirt back in.

  Hands moving fast. Ruthless. Efficient.

  Until the body was gone.

  Buried, and forgotten.

  Only then did he sit back, chest heaving.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  The blood was still there. Staining his hands. His clothes. Seeping into his skin.

  The metallic scent choked his lungs.

  He needed to get home. Now.