The scream ended too quickly.

  Darwin knew that before he understood it.

  There was no drawn-out terror, no panicked echo bouncing between the valley walls. Just a sharp, human sound—cut cleanly in half, as if someone had closed a door on it.

  He was already moving.

  Snow tore beneath his boots as he ran, breath snapping in controlled bursts as Forge Breathing steadied his core. The valley narrowed around him, stone slopes rising like clenched jaws. The air felt heavier here, compressed, as if sound itself struggled to travel.

  Wardens moved in his peripheral vision—disciplined, fast, silent. No shouting. No confusion. Just response.

  Darwin reached the shallow basin seconds before Maquish.

  The ground dipped unnaturally smooth, a wide bowl carved by time and meltwater. No trees. No high cover. Shadows lay thin and useless against the sloped stone.

  Snow was disturbed near the center.

  Dragged.

  Blood already freezing dark.

  Darwin stopped himself at the edge.

  His pulse thundered, but his stance held. He forced his breathing into rhythm, letting the ache in his shoulder settle into background noise.

  Late.

  Wardens fanned out around the basin in perfect intervals, blades half-drawn. Jurisdiction markers flickered faintly in the air—contract-bound lines invisible to civilians, absolute to them.

  Maquish stepped in last.

  “One casualty,” a Warden reported. “Courier. Terminated before resistance.”

  Maquish nodded once. “Time?”

  “Less than a minute.”

  Darwin stared at the marks in the snow.

  The assassin had acted inside the pressure.

  Inside containment.

  Not to escape.

  To test.

  “He wanted us here,” Darwin said quietly.

  Maquish didn’t look at him. “Explain.”

  “He chose the basin,” Darwin continued. “No shadows. No elevation. He wanted to see how fast you respond.”

  “And?” Maquish asked.

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  Darwin swallowed. “Fast enough to matter. Not fast enough to stop him.”

  The captain’s gaze flicked toward him—brief, sharp.

  “That is not a failure,” Maquish said.

  “No,” Darwin agreed. “It’s a message.”

  Before Maquish could respond, the air shifted.

  Darwin felt it first.

  Not sound.

  Not movement.

  Pressure—like a hand placed gently against the back of his neck.

  His instincts screamed, but he didn’t turn. Not yet.

  The snow to his left darkened.

  Smoke bled upward from the ground, thin at first, then thickening unnaturally fast. Not thrown. Not ignited.

  Released.

  “Smoke!” a Warden called.

  Maquish’s voice cut through immediately. “Hold formation. Do not pursue blind.”

  The basin began to vanish.

  White dissolved into gray. Gray into nothing.

  Sound warped—footsteps too close, then distant. The clean geometry of the Wardens’ spacing distorted, swallowed by shifting haze.

  Darwin took one step back—

  And the ground pulled.

  Something snapped tight around his ankle.

  Invisible.

  Burning.

  He went down hard, shoulder slamming into stone as his balance vanished. Pain flared bright and sharp, but his body rolled on instinct, sword scraping free as he twisted.

  Threads.

  He saw them now—faint lines shimmering briefly in the smoke, thinner than hair, vibrating with tension. They weren’t anchored to stone.

  They were anchored to space.

  Darwin slashed instinctively. The blade passed through empty air, missing the thread by a breath. The line tightened instead, yanking his leg sideways, dragging him across the basin floor.

  “Darwin!” someone shouted—muffled, distant.

  The smoke thickened.

  The world collapsed inward.

  He cut again, this time severing the thread at the cost of skin. Pain flared along his calf, hot and wet, but he forced himself upright, stance broken, breath jagged.

  The smoke thinned just enough for him to see—

  Nothing.

  No Wardens.

  No jurisdiction markers.

  Just stone, snow, and silence.

  He was alone.

  Darwin’s breathing slowed deliberately.

  Isolated, his mind supplied.

  Not by terrain.

  By law.

  By design.

  A shape moved through the thinning smoke.

  The Rift Assassin stepped into view as if he’d always been there.

  No rush. No flourish.

  His posture was loose, almost casual, one shoulder dipped slightly where blood had soaked and dried into the fabric. His blade hung low in his right hand, tip angled toward the ground.

  Threads shimmered faintly from his fingers, stretching outward into the smoke, disappearing into unseen anchors.

  A web.

  The assassin smiled when Darwin met his eyes.

  “No running,” he said lightly. “I hate when they run.”

  Darwin adjusted his footing, ignoring the blood soaking into his boot. His sword came up—not threatening, just ready.

  “You separated us,” Darwin said.

  “Yes,” the assassin agreed. “Legally.”

  His gaze flicked briefly toward the smoke. “They can’t cross yet. Not without cause.”

  Darwin’s jaw tightened.

  “You killed the courier to draw us here.”

  The assassin shrugged. “He was convenient.”

  Darwin didn’t rise to it. “And now?”

  “And now,” the assassin said, stepping closer, “I get what I came for.”

  Darwin felt the threads tighten around the space, pressure building like a held breath.

  “You,” the assassin said simply.

  Darwin’s grip tightened.

  “Did you do all this,” Darwin asked, “just to kill me?”

  The assassin’s smile widened—not amused.

  Interested.

  “Oh no,” he said softly. “Killing you is easy.”

  He tilted his head, eyes bright with something unpleasant.

  “What I want,” he continued, “is time.”

  The threads twitched.

  Darwin felt them brush the air near his throat, near his wrist—close enough to feel the cold.

  “I enjoy weak opponents,” the assassin said casually. “Not because they fall fast.”

  He took another step.

  “But because they last.”

  Darwin shifted his weight sideways, testing the ground. The threads adjusted immediately, responding to intent before movement.

  A predator’s web.

  The assassin noticed the calculation.

  “That look,” he said. “You’re already measuring how long you can stay alive.”

  Darwin didn’t answer.

  The assassin chuckled. “Good.”

  The smoke thinned further, revealing the basin’s full shape—smooth, curved, merciless. No cover. No escape vector.

  Only space to endure.

  “Let’s begin,” the assassin said.

  Threads snapped tight.

  And the hunt truly started.