“You think you’re in deep shit?” barked Torren Vale, dragging a blade across cobblestone. “No. You’re in choice. And choice is worse, because you can’t blame anyone when you pick the wrong fucking door.”

  Torren Vale

  Nickname: “Deadstep.”

  Everywhere he walked, something stopped walking.

  Shit.

  Crow Square had turned into an abattoir. Bodies strewn across the stones like someone had kicked over a bucket of knights. Golden Order tabards soaked dark, lanterns glinting off blood that hadn’t decided whether to pool or run. Two dozen dead, maybe more. No accident. This was deliberate, surgical, and fresh.

  I froze at the alley mouth, smoke from the burning building still clinging to my sleeves. One man was still moving a knight, helmet gone, face pale with shock. He had a woman cradled against his chest, half-conscious, blood on her side. His sword hung loose from his wrist by the strap. He staggered toward the nearest alley, the one opposite mine, trying to get her clear.

  Three steps. That’s all he managed.

  The shadow detached itself from the darkness between two lanterns. Not a man. Not even close. Just a folding of night with edges, red eyes glowing like coals under ash. It moved faster than thought—one slash, and the knight’s throat opened. He dropped without a sound, the woman tumbling from his arms to the stones.

  She gasped, tried to crawl. The shadow loomed over her.

  I should have stayed hidden. Should have let the night finish its meal. That’s the rule down here: don’t get involved in other people’s endings.

  Instead I blinked.

  Not a clean hop. A messy, desperate swap—the kind I’d only half-believed possible. I poured everything into the anchor: her shape, her breath, the exact spot where she lay. The world snapped like a whip. One heartbeat I was pressed against damp brick in the alley shadows; the next I was sprawled in the open square where she’d been, the stones cold under my palms.

  She was where I had been—safe, for now, behind cover.

  The shadow turned. Those red eyes fixed on me like I’d just insulted its mother. It tilted its head, curious or annoyed, then stepped forward.

  Fuck am in deep shit now

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  My dagger was already in my hand. Old habit. I stabbed upward, aiming for whatever counted as a chest. The blade sank into smoke, came out wet and cold, useless. The thing didn’t even flinch. A limb—arm, claw, whatever—lashed out. Pain flared across my shoulder, hot and bright. Then pressure. It lifted me clean off the ground, fingers of darkness clamped around my torso, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

  I dangled there, boots kicking empty air, blood running warm down my arm. From this height I could see the whole square laid out below: the scattered bodies, the knight’s abandoned sword, the woman now hidden in the alley mouth where I’d been…

  …and the black powder.

  I’d spread it earlier, after setting the building alight. Not just inside—trails leading out, thin lines snaking across the square toward the distraction fire on the far side. Insurance. If the Order showed up too quick, a spark would turn the whole district into chaos. Genius, right? Except I hadn’t planned on being the one hanging over it like a pi?ata.

  The shadow lifted me higher, studying me the way a cat studies a half-dead bird.

  “Look down, asshole,” I croaked.

  It did.

  The powder trails glinted faintly in the lantern light—thick enough in patches, connected enough that one good flame would run the whole pattern like a fuse.

  My free hand found the matchbox tucked inside my coat. Fingers numb, slippery with blood, but they remembered the motion. Strike. Scratch. Tiny sun blooming between us.

  The shadow tightened its grip, curious.

  I cupped the flame for half a second—just long enough—then let the match fall.

  I blinked again.

  Survival jump this time, no finesse. The world folded, yanked me sideways across the square and slammed me against the wall of the alley I’d started in. I hit hard, shoulder screaming, breath gone.

  Behind me the match landed.

  The powder caught with a hiss, then a roar. Lines of fire raced across the stones like living things, meeting, merging, blooming into a single rolling blast. Heat punched the air out of the square. The explosion wasn’t huge—black powder rarely is—but it was enough: a wall of flame and pressure that shredded shadows and scattered bodies like dolls.

  The shadow shrieked—a sound like tearing metal—and recoiled, edges unraveling in the sudden light. It folded in on itself and vanished into the nearest patch of dark, wounded or just deciding I wasn’t worth the trouble.

  The woman coughed somewhere behind me, alive.

  My mask was still on.

  Stupid. Golden Order crawling all over this district now, and a masked figure in the middle of an explosion? That’s a hanging offense with extra questions.

  I ripped it off, wincing as dried blood tugged at skin. Folded it once, twice, shoved it into a crack between stones and kicked filth over the gap. Gone.

  A shard of broken glass in the gutter showed me my reflection: pale, soot-streaked, eyes too wide. Unremarkable. Perfect.

  “Don’t know me,” I told the glass. “Good.”

  The square was chaos now—fire crackling, someone screaming orders in the distance, whistles shrilling. The Order would be here in minutes, sealing streets, asking questions with steel.

  My shoulder throbbed like a drum. Blood soaked my sleeve, warm and steady. Legs shaky from two hard jumps in a row. Head ringing.

  I laughed short, ragged, tasting copper and smoke.

  “Quiet job,” I muttered to the alley. “Sure.”

  The world tilted. I slid down the wall until stone met my back.

  Five minutes. Just five.

  Darkness took me before I could count to three.

  Eymire