The rain had started, a slow whisper, the streets glistening beneath the weak glow of magitech lanterns.
Lucian adjusted the hood of his black raincoat, stepping out onto the uneven pavement, his boots splashing softly against the puddles gathering in the cracks.
He had done what he could. Selene was safe. At least, for now. But something wasn't right.
Leaving his bike behind, he walked. Trying to avoid any more attention, he had to look if anyone had followed them.
He passed through the marketplace. People gathered beneath the lights. There were stall owners offering rusted relics and half-repaired spelltech.
Children barefoot in the soot.
Old women in layered shawls selling warm broth out of dented flasks.
On the far side of the market, a shimmering orb hovered midair, a surveillance drone, disguised as a lantern. Its lens turned as Lucian passed beneath it, recording every breath.
He turned the next turn into a dark alley, leaving the lights and attention of the marketplace.
A woman passed him there, young, elegant, dressed in faded crimson robes that had once been fine. Her eyes glinted gold in the dark. She offered Lucian a knowing smile.
A memory-runner.
People said they carried moments instead of coin, traded in old love, stolen dreams, or fragments of time.
She gave him a sign telling him that he is being followed and he nodded in return that only she understood.
He felt it first, that cold tickle down the back of his neck that always came before blades.
He turned down another narrow passage flanked by empty windows and drew Mourne. It flickered with its usual blue light. Faint very faint.
Behind him, the shadows turned.
Two figures followed, dressed in gray, too quiet, too smooth. They were watchers, not enforcers, not openly. Watchers are the hired eyes of the Dominion's lower net. They lingered in places where the Dominion could not, not at least openly.
He took another sharp turn, diving through a collapsed tram tunnel.
One of the figures followed.
The other stayed.
A breath passed. Another one and then.
The follower stepped in the alley.
Lucian grabbed him before he could react, slammed him hard into the wall and held Mourne to his throat.
"What'syour business," Lucian said coldly.
The man stammered. He didn't answer.
Lucian drew a line with the dagger, not deep, just enough to let Mourne taste him.
The man gasped, his eyes rolling back, but he remained silent. Lucian struck him against the wall and the man fell down to the ground, unconscious.
The rain now fell faster, cloaking the dark alley into a chaotic gloom, covering every noise, every movement in its wake. But Lucian could feel it, figures stirring in the shadows.
They were here, The Umbral Blades. Ready to cut him into pieces. But would he allow it.
His pulse evened, breath controlled, movements slow as he took a careful step forward.
Then, a sudden flicker of motion.
Lucian exhaled, letting his grip tighten around the handle of his dagger, feeling the familiar weight of it, the cold steel humming against his skin. Lucian's fingers curled around the worn leather grip of Mourne.
It was a weapon that had seen more deaths than most men. The black steel blade, curved like a crescent moon, swallowed light instead of reflecting it, its edges lined with rune-etched grooves that pulsed faintly when blood touched them. The handle, wrapped in faded, time-worn leather, fit against his palm like it had been made for him.
Mourne did not hum with magic. It did not glow. It was not enchanted to burn, freeze, or summon storms.
It simply killed.
And tonight, it would drink deeply.
Somewhere in the darkness, a blade whispered against its sheath. A signal.
Lucian shifted his stance, boots pressing into the slick pavement.
The Umbral Blades were already closing in, shadows that barely disturbed the mist curling at their feet. They moved without sound, their bodies wrapped in cloaks the color of a starless sky.
He had fought Umbral Blades before. Not the usual ones but those who had defied the Dominion. He knew their tactics. He had observed how they move, how they attack, how they close in on their target.
They would strike first from the shadows, aiming for the neck, the spine, the arteries. Fast, clean kills.
Lucian counted their steps, the weight of their movements. There were four of them.
He saw one on the rooftop, a crossbow at the ready.
One in the alley's mouth, blade drawn, cutting off escape.
Two more in his blind spots, moving in sync, ready to strike when he turned.
Lucian didn't turn.
Instead, he exhaled slowly and spoke into the silence.
"You should have brought more."
The crossbow fired.
Lucian moved before the bolt had even left the string.
He pivoted, a blur of motion, Mourne snapping upward. The steel flashed once, sharp, fluid, effortless. The bolt never reached him.
Instead, it clattered to the ground, cleanly split in half.
The assassin on the rooftop barely had time to curse before Lucian was already moving.
He lunged toward the closest shadow—the one waiting in the alley's mouth.
The assassin reacted too late.
Lucian dropped low, boots sliding across the wet stone as he drove Mourne upward, not into the ribs, not into the stomach.
Straight into the throat.
The blade slid through flesh like silk, severing the artery before the assassin could even register pain.
A sharp, wet gasp and then a stumble.
Followed by silence.
The first body fell.
Lucian didn't stop moving.
The rooftop assassin had already drawn another bolt, aiming lower this time. There was no hesitation, no second shot wasted.
Smart.
But not smart enough.
Lucian kicked off the stone wall, scaling it in three quick strides. His coat whipped behind him, rain splattering across his face.
The assassin fired.
Lucian twisted midair, just enough to let the bolt graze past his shoulder.
Then he was on them.
The assassin barely had time to move his sword before Mourne buried itself between his ribs.
The breath that left his mouth was sharp, almost surprised.
Lucian twisted the blade.
Another body hit the stone.
The remaining two assassins knew better than to hesitate.
They came at him in perfect tandem, one high, one low, blades flashing in the lantern glow.
Lucian let instinct take over.
He took a step back, twisted his wrist.
Mourne met the first blade, turning it aside like water slipping over rock. His other hand caught the second assassin's wrist, yanking him forward, off balance.
That was all he needed.
Lucian drove his knee into his ribs, a sickening crack, and shoved Mourne up into his chest, pushing past the sternum, feeling the hitch of breath as his lungs forgot how to work.
The last assassin barely managed a step backward before Lucian was on him.
Mourne cut low, a clean slash across the tendons in the leg.
He staggered.
Lucian grabbed the assassin by the collar, dragging them in close.
Their mask had cracked in the struggle, revealing startled, panicked eyes.
Lucian held the assassin there, stared at him or her, he wasn't sure. When they are hooded completely, you cannot tell the difference.
Then he murmured to the assassin in a very low, but hoarse voice.
"You should have run."
And with that, Mourne slid across the assassin's throat.
This was the final breath. And the final body fell to the stone floor.
And then, silence.
Lucian stood among the dead, breathing evenly, Mourne still dripping red at his side.
He exhaled, slow and tired. There were a few, shallow cuts on his body here and there that he didn't even realize he has gotten them, until now.
The city watched in silence, the rain whispering secrets against the stone. The dead lay cooling in the alley, their blood washing into the cracks, forgotten by everything, except the ones who still stood.
Lucian took a slow breath, rolling the tension from his shoulders, ignoring the sharp sting along his ribs where a blade had grazed too close.
Four were dead.
And yet, he was still outnumbered.
Because the alley wasn't empty. Not anymore.
Eight more figures emerged from the shadows, silent, deliberate, their movements seamless with the night itself. The Umbral Blades had come in force.
Their masks were featureless, reflecting the dim lantern glow, their hands gripping weapons designed not just to kill—but to erase.
Lucian exhaled, shifting Mourne in his grip. His body was starting to slow. The cut along his ribs burned where one of the blades had bitten too deep. Lucian noticed it only now when it started to throb persistently, the pain refusing to dim. And the wounds from rhe shroud started aching too.
He should have asked Raine for something.
He could still fight. But eight?
Eight was pushing it.
Still, he smiled. "You're late."
The nearest assassin tilted their head, voice cold behind the mask. "You're bleeding."
Lucian wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "So are your friends."
There was a pause. A breath of a second.
And then they moved.