The climb from the lower districts to Golden Coin Street was long and arduous without taking a public carriage, the thin mountain air biting at his lungs with each step, making his chest burn with the effort. He could feel the altitude pressing against him, a reminder that Val Karok was carved into the mountainside itself, each tier rising higher than the last. The moment his boots touched the first cobblestone of the upper tiers, the difference pressed in around him, sharp and undeniable.

  The scent shifted. Gone was the smoke and unwashed bodies. Here, the smell was polished stone and well-maintained armor, the air cleaner, thinner. Even the wind seemed to hesitate before crossing into these upper tiers, as if it knew better than to carry the grime of the lower districts upward. The streets widened. The cobblestones lay precisely, each stone fitted against the next without gap or haste. The buildings rose tall, their facades unmarred by time or neglect, their windows catching the light like polished glass.

  This was wealth. Not the kind that counted coppers or haggled over bread, but the kind that built monuments to itself and expected the world to take notice.

  Yet for all their grandeur, these manors lacked something.

  No warmth here. Just stone and glass. No ivy clung to the walls, no weathered charm softened the edges.

  These aren't homes built to last—they're statements. They were erected to impress rather than to endure.

  New wealth. Brittle wealth. The kind that could crumble if the wind blew too hard. Alph kept his pace steady, his hands loose at his sides. He wasn’t here to admire architecture.

  The Golden Coin street curved gently upward, each manor more imposing than the last. Number 12 stood at the entrance, its iron gates gleaming, the courtyard beyond a hive of motion, servants hurrying between doorways, grooms leading horses, voices calling orders across the yard. The carriage near the stable wore the same emblem Alph had memorized, but wrong. Twelve teeth in the gear, not eight.

  Number 11 was quieter, its high walls lined with iron trellises, the faint smell of forge oil clinging to the air. By the time he reached Number 9, the activity had dwindled further, the estates growing more reserved, their occupants less inclined to flaunt their status.

  Then he saw it.

  Beyond the gates of the eighth manor he saw the carriage, eight teeth on its crest, the exact match. The plaque beside the entrance declared 'Duskryn Manor' in clean, unembellished letters. Alph's jaw tightened fractionally, his pulse controlled even as heat crept through his ribs.

  This is it!

  The manor itself was larger than the one before, but it lacked the same bustle. No gardeners trimmed hedges, no stable hands led horses to water. The windows were dark, the curtains drawn. A place this size should have hummed with activity, yet it stood eerily still, as if holding its breath.

  Alph breathed slowly, letting his shoulders relax into the rhythm of an unremarkable laborer. He stepped into the shadow of a nearby oak, its branches casting dappled shade across the street. A side door sat half-hidden behind stacked barrels, narrow enough to belong to the kitchen staff.

  Perfect.

  He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, willing his presence to shrink. The skill Reduced Presence flared to life, bending the edges of perception around him. To the casual observer, he would be just another face in the stonework, a smear of motion easily dismissed.

  After waiting for nearly two hours, he finally saw movement. The manor's heavy mahogany double doors groaned open, their brass hinges creaking in the stillness. A retinue of servants and guards emerged first, their footsteps echoing across the cobblestones with military precision. Behind them came a man dressed in luxurious clothes—deep burgundy velvet trimmed with gold thread, the kind of garment that announced wealth without needing to speak.

  Alph's breath caught. His Tier 1 Hunter perception sharpened instantly, pulling the man's features into crystalline focus despite the distance. The shape of the jaw, the set of the shoulders, the way he carried himself with casual authority—every detail burned into Alph's memory with perfect clarity.

  He recognized the face immediately.

  Him. The husband. The noble.

  The recognition hit hard, stealing his breath and setting his nerves alight. Heat surged in Alph's chest, spreading outward in waves that made his fingers twitch. His vision darkened at the periphery, red creeping in from the edges like blood seeping through cloth. The world narrowed to a single point: that burgundy-clad figure stepping into the sunlight.

  For half a heartbeat his control wavered. The slayer instinct stirred deep in his gut, something primal and violent that wanted to move, to act, to end this now. His muscles coiled tight, ready to spring.

  The red haze bled away under brutal control. His breath evened, Reduced Presence straining to swallow the murderous pulse, until he was just another servant on the sidewalk.

  Not yet. I need to watch. He could be trapped in this, threatened, controlled. The thought tasted like ash, but he forced himself to consider it anyway. Don't assume. Don't move until I know.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Alph's eyes tracked the noble's every movement as he approached the waiting carriage, cataloging each detail with the methodical precision of a hunter sizing up prey. Two guards moved first—their brown leather armor worn but serviceable, longswords hanging at their waists in plain scabbards. They climbed onto the carriage's exterior benches with practiced efficiency, settling into positions that offered clear sightlines in multiple directions.

  The noble ascended next, his polished boots clicking against the brass step-plate. A young maid in gray livery followed close behind, her head bowed, movements hurried and small. The carriage door swung shut with a solid thunk of expensive wood meeting expensive wood, white curtains immediately drawn across the windows to obscure the interior from view.

  The driver sat broad-shouldered on his bench, skin weathered brown as old bark. His thick fingers worked the brass levers and valves without pause, each movement flowing into the next from years of practice. He stared straight ahead, never blinking, never looking back. The carriage shook once, then settled into a steady hum as steam hissed from the side vents. Black smoke puffed out in measured bursts. The sharp stink of burning coal-oil and hot metal rolled across the cobblestones.

  The manor's gates groaned open, iron scraping against stone. The carriage rolled forward slowly, turning toward the street's exit with mechanical precision.

  Alph inhaled slowly, tapping into Olfactory Tracking. The carriage's interior spilled into his senses—bergamot from the noble, weapon oil and sweat from the guards. The maid carried a whisper of lavender soap, while the driver reeked of tobacco and road dust. Each scent became a trail, a way to track them through the city's maze.

  Follow first. Determine guilt or ignorance later.

  The carriage rattled through the streets of Val Karok, its polished wheels kicking up grime from the cobblestones. Alph kept to the shadows, his breath steady, his movements silent. The scent of bergamot and lavender clung to the air, a trail he followed with unyielding focus. The carriage slowed, and the nobleman stepped down. A doorman rushed forward, bowing low.

  "Lord Pavel," the doorman said, his voice eager. "Welcome back, sir. Your usual table?"

  "Of course," the man replied, his tone smooth. "And make sure the wine is properly chilled this time."

  His gaze sharpened, locking onto the figure stepping into the lamplight. Pavel Duskryn. The name settled into Alph's mind with cold fury.

  He studied the man's gait, the set of his shoulders beneath the fine velvet. This wasn't just confidence; it was the unthinking assurance of someone who believed the city and everyone in it belonged to him. The burgundy cloak swirled, a flash of opulence against the stone, before the gilded doors swallowed him whole.

  Alph, across the street, narrowed his eyes. Pavel’s polished exterior and false performance, marked by overloud laughter and broad gestures, required a better vantage point.

  He slipped through the Weaponsmith store opposite the restaurant, moving between servants and apprentices without drawing notice. Polishing oil hung thick in the air; hammer-blows rang out in steady rhythm, punctuated by smiths' rough voices correcting their trainees. The noise provided cover, a wall of sound that masked his passage.

  The balcony overlooking the main dining hall sat empty. Alph moved into its shadows, his Reduced Presence holding on to him like a second skin.

  From here, I can see everything; he can't see me.

  Using his enhanced perception to filter out the noise, Alph attuned his mind to listen in on the conversation Pavel was having in the restaurant opposite to him.

  Pavel held court at the center table, his voice ringing with false sorrow. "A tragic loss, my friends," he declared, his hand pressed to his chest in a show of grief. "My dear Svena, taken from me by a sudden illness. The healers could do nothing." His eyes glistened with manufactured tears, his tone dripping with insincerity.

  He's the one.

  The evidence lined up with grim certainty in Alph's mind. Pavel's performance was too polished, his grief too theatrical. Circumstantial? Maybe. But motive, opportunity, and the sheer lack of remorse in his eyes—that's enough for me. No jury is needed to acquit him. No court enforce judgment, for I shall do it myself.

  Alph's gut burned with fury beneath his cold exterior. His hands tensed into pale knuckles, closing tight. The sight of Pavel's fake grief, the easy cruelty hidden behind noble manners, made him want to cross the hall and strike.

  But his old instincts cut through the fire. Strategy mattered more than satisfaction now. Patience, not rage. Jaw tight, Alph turned from the balcony edge. He forced himself to swallow the anger, to focus on the next move.

  Follow Pavel. Track him. Then strike when it counted.

  Evening fell fast over Val Karok, the mountain's shadow swallowing the streets whole. Amber light flickered from ever-glow crystal lamps along the main avenues, fed by oil pipes and subtle magic. Their glow stretched long across the filthy cobblestones.

  From his hiding spot, Alph tracked Pavel's movements. The merchant-lord gave exaggerated farewells to his companions, voice dripping with false sorrow. Then he turned sharply toward the rear of the building, his theatrical mask dropping the moment noble backs were turned.

  Pavel's ornate carriage waited in the narrow service alley, isolated from the main thoroughfare. Alph's fingers twitched. This was the place. No witnesses. No interruptions. Just dark cobbles waiting to receive what was owed.

  The scales would balance tonight.

  But as he prepared to move, a primal warning shivered down his spine. Despite his Reduced Presence, something felt off—not through sight or sound, but the slayer’s instinct for unseen danger.

  His gaze snapped to the intersection where the alley met the cross-street. Deeper in the gloom, a figure stood so still it blurred into the architecture. Shrouded by a skill like his own, yet executed with flawless, liquid grace his ability couldn’t match.

  Cold sweat beaded at the nape of his neck, tracing an icy path down his spine. He hadn’t sensed the stalker until now. The realization doused his simmering anger like ice water.

  Someone of superior skill. A Tier 2 Shadow Rogue, at least.

  I need to stay still—absolute stillness. The sharp, coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth as he bit down on the inside of his cheek.

  Pain. Anchor. Focus. His every instinct screamed to flee or fight, but he remained frozen, a shadow among shadows.

  Wait! Not me. They’re not looking at me. The stalker's focus was fixed on Pavel Duskryn.

  My debut novel is available for order!

  Destiny on the Frozen Peak: The Myriad Constellations

  Released on January 1st, 2026