The stone stairs felt like a throat, narrow and closing in. Alph descended into the dark, the air growing heavier with every step until it pressed against his lungs. It didn't smell of the manor's fine perfumes anymore; here, the air held the salt of stale sweat and the sharp edge of fresh copper.

  Alph reached the bottom. A thick oak door hung slightly open, bleeding a shaky, yellow light across the wet stone.

  The basement door stood slightly ajar; it opened into a vaulted chamber of cold granite. Mary, the maid, hung from a wooden frame at the far end, iron cuffs biting into her wrists. Her head rested against her shoulder, dark hair matted with sweat and grime. She had passed out, her weight dragging against the chains. Her back was a ruin of weeping welts, the skin flayed into a pattern of raw, angry red lines that glistened under the torchlight.

  Pavel Duskryn stood over her.

  The noble had discarded his burgundy velvet jacket, his fine silk shirt clinging to a back damp with exertion. He breathed in heavy, ragged hitches, his face flushed and oily. In his right hand, he gripped a weighted whip, its leather thong dripping.

  "Ungrateful... little... wretch," Pavel muttered, his voice cracking with a frantic, high-pitched edge. He didn't look at the girl; he looked through her, his eyes wide and unfocused.

  He lashed out again, the whip whistling through the stagnant air to bite into the girl’s shoulder. Mary’s body lurched, a dry groan escaping her throat, but she didn't wake.

  "I’ll show them," Pavel hissed, wiping sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. "I will build a legacy they cannot ignore, I will buy the influence."

  The latch of the door clicked as Alph stepped into the room. Pavel didn't turn. He merely straightened his posture, shoulders dropping as he exhaled a long, shaky breath.

  "About time," Pavel said, his voice dropping from a frantic edge into a sharp, biting snap. He didn't turn around, his attention fixed on the limp girl. "Did you kill that rat? The one that snuck in?"

  He lashed the whip against the stone floor. Crack.

  "I pay silver to keep filth out of my manor, yet you let it inside. Don't let it happen again, or I'll take the cost from your purse. Do you hear me?"

  The flour from the shattered pantry sacks clung to Alph’s clothes, dusting the air as he entered. Pavel’s back tensed when no answer came to his command. The merchant spun, silk whispering against his skin, and froze.

  Lamplight caught the blood on Alph’s dagger first—the thick, dark streaks glistening as they slid down the blade, dripping onto the stone. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp clumps, his tunic pale with flour. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just held the weapon steady.

  Pavel’s breath hitched. His pupils contracted, the wild edge in his voice snapping into something colder, something that recognized the newcomer wasn't his bodyguard but the grim reaper.

  Pavel’s mouth hung open, his face draining of color. The weighted whip slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud. He didn't reach for a weapon, not that he had any. He scrambled backward, his boots skidding on the damp stone as he threw himself behind a heavy oak table cluttered with iron implements and stained glass vials.

  "Gold?" Pavel’s voice cracked, a frantic, wet sound. "I can pay double what they offered. Triple. Whatever the contract is, I’ll quintuple it. Just name the sum."

  Alph didn't break his stride. He moved with a heavy, rhythmic deliberateness, rounding the corner of the table. He used the weight of his presence to fill the room, a physical pressure that seemed to suck the air out of the basement.

  "Stay back!" Pavel shrieked, shoving a heavy ledger off the table toward Alph. "You don't understand. I’m almost there! I haven't become Count yet! My brothers... if I die now, they'll win! They’ll take everything I built!"

  Alph stepped over the fallen book. He didn't look at the gold rings on Pavel's hands or the fine silk of his shirt. His aim was clear.

  Pavel retreated until his spine slammed into the cold masonry of the far wall. He trapped himself between a rack of tongs and the stone.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  His eyes began to wander, flickering wildly toward the shadows in the corner of the room. The terror in his mind began to leak into his vision, warping the torchlight.

  Alph didn't hesitate. He drove the obsidian dagger upward, under the ribs and straight into the center of Pavel's chest. The blade sank through silk and skin with a sickening, wet slide.

  Pavel’s eyes snapped back to Alph, wide and bulging. A soft, bubbling wheeze escaped his lips. Alph gripped the hilt tight, twisting the obsidian edge forty-five degrees. He felt the heart stutter and seize against the stone-cold blade. He held it there for three seconds, ensuring the light faded from the merchant’s pupils, before withdrawing the weapon in one smooth motion.

  "Svena?" Pavel whispered, his knees buckling. He stared past Alph’s shoulder, his jaw trembling. "No. I buried you... I put you in the ground. You shouldn't be here. Get away from me!"

  He reached out as if to ward off a ghost, his hands shaking so violently they blurred.

  Pavel slumped against the wall, then slid down the stone to the floor, a heap of discarded velvet and greed.

  Alph did not look at the corpse. He pulled the leather sheath Nylessa had given him from his belt. He slid the blood-slicked obsidian directly into the opening, and the warm, thick liquid coated the interior. The light-colored leather darkened instantly, staining a deep, permanent crimson.

  He turned toward the wooden frame. The maid remained suspended by her wrists, her head lolling against her chest. Her breathing was a shallow, rhythmic hitch. She hadn't witnessed the strike, lost in the grey fog of her own pain.

  Alph reached out to the iron cuffs but stopped. If he released her now, she wouldn't be able to walk. Carrying a catatonic witness through a manor crawling with servants was a death sentence for them both. Leaving her bound was a cruelty, but the guards would find her within few minutes anyway, and she would be the only one left to tell the story of the monster in the basement.

  He turned his back on the girl and the dead man. He stepped over the pool of expanding blood and began the climb up the stone stairs in large strides. Behind him, the basement remained silent, swallowed by the dark.

  Alph vaulted the low stone wall marking the servant entrance, his boots hitting the gravel with a muted crunch. He pressed his back against the masonry, lungs burning as he filtered the night air. From the manor’s front gates, the rhythmic clank of iron plating and the harsh bark of orders drifted through the garden. The city guards had arrived.

  He didn't wait to see if they found the basement. He pivoted, aiming for the mouth of an adjoining alleyway, when a lantern beam cut through the dark, splashing across his chest.

  "Halt!"

  Three dwarves in heavy chainmail stood ten paces away, their bearded faces grim under steel sallets. The central guard raised a silver whistle to his lips and blew a piercing, shrill note that echoed off the high manor walls.

  Alph didn't stop to confront them. He spun on his heel and sprinted.

  "Suspect fleeing toward the transit hub!" one dwarf roared, his voice like grinding stones.

  Alph’s thighs burned as his boots hammered the slick stones. Each stride sent a jolt from his feet to his ribs. The dagger bounced against his leg with every step.

  The alley narrowed. Rough masonry scraped his shoulders as he squeezed through. Behind him, steel-shod boots pounded the cobbles, shaking the ground. Their rhythmic clangor grew louder, closer.

  He cut left at the junction, one hand braced against the brick to pivot. Lantern light spilled across the main road ahead—too wide, too open. A death trap if they spotted him there.

  He skidded into a four-way intersection, the shadows stretching long under the guttering street lamps.

  "Duck, you idiot!" a voice hissed from behind a stack of splintered crates.

  Alph dropped. He didn't think, didn't look; he simply collapsed his frame toward the damp ground. A glass sphere whistled over his head, shattering against the opposite wall. A thick, acrid cloud of grey smoke erupted instantly, swallowing the intersection in a choking veil.

  A hand gripped his collar, jerking him backward into a narrow crevice between two buildings.

  "Move," Nylessa muttered, her silhouette a mere ripple in the smog.

  Sharp whistles cut through the air. Dwarven patrols barked guttural commands that bounced off the stone walls. Nylessa pivoted at each sound, boots barely touching the slick cobbles. Her movements were precise, predatory.

  Alph's lungs burned. His pulse hammered in his ears, ragged breaths scraping his throat. He focused on the ripple of her silhouette through the gloom, how she melted into shadows rather than just hiding behind them.

  They twisted through narrow corridors reeking of wet soot and rancid grease. Every turn shook off pursuers. Alph's muscles screamed, but Nylessa's lethal grace drove him forward. He pushed through the fatigue, matching her pace through sheer will.

  They finally stopped, thirty minutes later, deep in the lower district's belly. The air hung heavy, thick with coal dust and the stench of waste. Alph leaned against a massive brass sewer pipe, the metal vibrating with the rush of subterranean water. He bent double, hands on his knees, gasping for air.

  Nylessa stood a few feet away, her chest rising and falling in a steady, controlled pace. She reached up, hooking her thumbs under the edge of her black leather mask. She pulled it down, letting the fabric rest around her neck.

  Alph looked up, his gaze fixing on her face.