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  Isilyn

  The Rusted Tankard's room wasn't much—four walls that smelled like sweat and damp wood, a rickety bed that creaked like it had secrets, and a single window with a view of a piss-stained alley. But it was quiet, and that was enough.

  I locked the door behind me, slid the dagger from my belt, and let my body relax just enough to keep my nerves from snapping. My hands were still tense, fingers twitching from the way the city wrapped around me like a goddamn noose. Nethraven had that effect. It got under your skin, wormed its way into your bones until you weren't sure if you were surviving it or if it was feeding on you.

  I paced the length of the room, listening. The Tankard was loud, full of voices too slurred to care about anything but their next drink. That was good. Noise meant distraction. Meant I had time to think.

  And fuck, I had a lot to think about.

  I hadn't come to Nethraven on a whim. I was being hunted, and I wasn't fucking stupid enough to pretend otherwise. Whoever they were, they wanted me quiet, and I wasn't ready to give them the satisfaction. There were names I still needed. Answers I had to rip from the right people.

  I pulled the small scrap of parchment from my coat, the ink smudged but still legible. A name. Draeven Locke.

  I had no idea who the fuck he was, but he was my only lead. And in this city, a name was as good as a loaded crossbow—it could save your life or get you killed before sunrise.

  A sudden thud from the hallway made me freeze. A stumble? A body hitting the wall?

  I tightened my grip on my dagger and moved toward the door, my breath slow, measured. Someone was out there. And either they were drunk and stupid—or they were looking for me.

  I'd bet on the latter.

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  Zarek

  The streets of Nethraven were a fucking nightmare.

  We moved through the city like shadows, keeping close to the alleyways, avoiding the places where too many eyes could track our movements. I could feel the weight of the city pressing down, like it knew we didn't belong here. And maybe we didn't. But we had business to finish before we could leave.

  Korrin was tense beside me, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. The others followed close behind, silent, their steps carefully placed between the uneven cobblestones.

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  We had barely been in the city a few hours, and I already wanted to fucking leave.

  The corruption here was thick—thicker than I remembered. The guards didn't give a shit, the merchants were too busy counting their coin, and the people in the gutters? No one even looked at them. This city thrived on looking the other way.

  But I couldn't afford to do that.

  We cut through a side street, the stench of rotting garbage thick in the air. The informant we were supposed to meet was late, and I fucking hated waiting.

  "Something's not right," Korrin muttered, his voice low.

  "No shit," I bit back.

  Every instinct I had screamed that we were walking into a trap. The silence was wrong. The streets weren't supposed to be this quiet—not in Nethraven. There was always someone watching, someone whispering. But right now? Nothing.

  And then I heard it.

  A scrape of boots on stone. The shift of movement just beyond the alley's bend.

  My body reacted before my mind could process it. I grabbed Korrin's arm and pulled him back just as the first blade sliced through the air where he had been standing.

  "Fuck!" Korrin snarled, drawing his sword in a heartbeat.

  Figures stepped from the shadows—six, maybe seven. I didn't get the chance to count before the first one lunged for me, his knife glinting in the dim lantern light.

  I twisted, dodging the blade, and drove my elbow into his ribs. He let out a grunt, stumbling back, but before I could finish him, another was on me.

  Steel clashed. The alley became a whirlwind of motion, of metal cutting through air, of fists connecting with flesh.

  And I smiled.

  Because if these bastards thought they could take us out that easily, they were about to have a very, very bad fucking night.

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  Dravena

  The artifact burned beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. I could feel it thrumming in my veins, pulsing against my ribs. It was alive in a way that no magic should be. And the closer I got to the city's center, the stronger it became.

  Nethraven reeked of desperation and blood, and I fucking loved it. There was power in this place, even if most of it was wasted on the wrong people. Power that I intended to take.

  I moved through the streets like I belonged, because hesitation was the quickest way to get your throat slit. I had been here before, knew the way the city breathed, the way it watched and waited. There were rules to follow, and I had no intention of breaking them—unless I needed to.

  The marketplace was still active, despite the late hour. Lanterns flickered over makeshift stalls, merchants barking out their last offers before packing up for the night. I wasn't interested in their wares, but I kept my pace slow, listening. Watching.

  Someone was following me. I knew it the second I felt the shift in the air.

  I turned down a narrower path, one that led away from the crowds. The footsteps behind me hesitated for a split second before following.

  Idiots.

  The moment the alley closed in around me, I spun, feeling the rush of adrenaline as my hand shot out to grab the bastard by the throat before he could make a sound. He gasped, his eyes wide, his hands scrambling at my wrist. I pressed my thumb into the soft spot just below his jaw, cutting off his breath.

  "Who sent you?" My voice was calm, deadly.

  He choked, his face turning a lovely shade of red.

  I leaned in closer. "You've got about five fucking seconds before I lose my patience."

  His eyes darted wildly, his hands gripping at my arm. But then his lips curled in a bloody smile.

  Shit.

  A dark shape shifted in the corner of my vision. He wasn’t alone.

  The shadows behind me moved, and before I could react, the world exploded into chaos.

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  Three Paths, One City

  Nethraven had always been a city of secrets. A city of knives in the dark, of deals made with blood, of power shifting in the dead of night.

  Isilyn was hunting answers.

  Zarek was fighting his way through a city that wanted him dead.

  Dravena was being hunted by forces she didn't yet understand.

  And none of them had any fucking idea what was coming next.