Pavel’s carriage pulled away, its wheels crunching over the damp cobbles in a steady, receding rhythm. The black lacquered frame drank the alley’s weak light before vanishing into the deeper gloom of the street beyond.

  From the corner of his eye, Alph caught the stalker’s movement—a swift, silent ripple in the shadow pooled beneath the alley’s stone eaves. The figure froze mid-step, a stark silhouette against the grimy brick. A moment’s hesitation hung in the air, thick and palpable. Then, with a slow, deliberate shift of weight, the stalker began a retreat, melting back into the solid wall of darkness from which they had emerged.

  Alph's breath caught, the air thickening in his throat as if the alley itself had turned to mud. The silence stretched, brittle and heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic clang of a forge and the deep groan of a shifting bridge carrying its lonely sound across the cold air. Then, a primal warning shrieked from the core of his being; his Slayer instincts screamed at the shadows, a raw, visceral signal of imminent death.

  His body reacted before his mind could process the threat, a surge of adrenaline overriding conscious thought. He jerked sideways with a violent twist, muscles coiling tight as wound springs, just as a black metallic dagger flashed through the space he'd occupied. The blade sliced the air with a sharp thwip before embedding itself with a solid thud in the grimy brick wall. It quivered there, a dark, humming promise of violence mere inches from where his ribs had been.

  He landed hard on the damp cobbles, the cold stone biting through his tunic. He scrambled up, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his sternum.

  Too close. Too fast.

  I'm a damn fool. I saw the carriage crest and just had to follow it. He cursed himself, the internal rebuke sharp and biting. Impulsive. Overreaching. A dead man's mistake.

  He had no weapon, and he carried no shield, nor did he wear minimal armor to defend against a sharp weapon; only offensive tools were his hands that remained bare.

  Alph invoked Defensive Stance, his stance dropping low and solid, feet planting on the slick cobbles with deliberate finality. From the shadows, a figure detached itself, moving with a liquid silence that seemed to drink the sound from the damp air. The stalker emerged.

  The figure was clad head-to-toe in form-fitting black cloth that revealed only piercing brown eyes with a crimson tint and tight, bluish lips. Their muscular frame moved with predatory stillness, face expressionless—a shadow given lethal form.

  Before Alph could observe more, the figure moved—a blur of lethal intent—swiftly retrieving the embedded dagger from the brick with practiced ease. The stalker charged, closing the distance in three fluid strides.

  Steel sang through the damp air.

  Alph invoked Deft Movement, his body responding with reflexive precision as the blade carved through empty space where his throat had been. The dagger came again, aimed at his ribs. He twisted, feeling the tip of sharpened obsidian kiss the fabric of his tunic without breaking skin.

  The attacks came faster now—rapid bladework executed with cold efficiency. Each slash forced him back, each feint tested his reaction time.

  Can't stay pinned here.

  Alph pivoted, trying to pull away from the grimy wall. He needed open ground to counter. The stalker saw through him instantly.

  The attacks came faster, blade flashing in a deadly rhythm. No gaps. No pause. Each slash precise, controlled, lethal.

  Alph's breath turned ragged. His pulse pounded against his ribs. Cold steel kissed his forearm.

  Damp stone and rusted iron filled his nose. The smells anchored him in the fight.

  No room for hesitation.

  Alph triggered Marked for Death, the world snapping into sharp focus. Peripheral vision dissolved until only the attacker remained.

  The stalker's movements became a series of shifting frames—one stack forming, then two. Alph catalogued each micro-flaw in their relentless assault. The faintest overextension after a feint. The slight delay as their dagger completed an arc.

  By the fifth stack, the openings materialized like cracks in ice. Alph’s muscles coiled, his weight shifting onto the balls of his feet. The stalker’s next strike came, a diagonal slash aimed at his temple. He sidestepped, the blade hissing past his ear close enough to stir the hair at his nape. Then he lunged.

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  Alph invoked Power Strike, his shoulder driving forward like a battering ram. Every muscle, every ounce of momentum, focused into the collision. His boot scraped damp cobbles as he twisted, torque amplifying the impact.

  The stalker’s ribs met his strike with a sickening crunch. Air burst from their lungs in a ragged gasp. Bones creaked under the force, bending too far, too fast. Control shattered midair as their body arced backward.

  The wall caught them with brutal finality. Stone crushed against spine, the impact reverberating through brick and mortar like a hammer blow. Their body crumpled against the weathered surface, limbs folding awkwardly.

  "WHUF—!" The sound tore from their throat, raw and desperate, as ribs compressed against unforgiving stone.

  Alph registered the sensation through his shoulder—a surprising lack of resistance, a softness where he’d expected hardened muscle or leather armor. That tactile feedback, combined with the distinctly feminine pitch of that stifled cry, clicked into place in his mind. The attacker was a woman, and a young one at that.

  The dagger's hilt was still warm from her grip when Alph snatched it from the cobbles. He moved before the woman's breath steadied, before her fingers could twitch toward another hidden blade. The flat of her own steel kissed her throat as he pinned her against the wall, his forearm braced against her collarbone.

  Alph pressed the dagger’s edge against the stalker’s throat, his breathing steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. He couldn’t afford to reveal any other skills—just raw, physical dominance.

  "Who sent you?" he demanded, voice low. "Why are you shadowing the noble?"

  The woman clutched her stomach, a deep, wet cough rattling her ribs as she hacked up a bitter-tasting phlegm. The air between them carried the coppery scent of blood and the sharp tang of sweat. Through the narrow slits of her leather mask, her eyes burned with a raw, undiluted contempt.

  "I’d die before I answer a noble’s lapdog," she spat, the words thick with disgust. "So do it. Get it over with."

  Alph paused, the dagger’s weight suddenly heavy in his hand. Lapdog? The insult didn’t fit. It landed wrong, like a mis-thrown punch.

  He replayed the fight in his mind, the movements stripped of adrenaline. She hadn’t lunged to intercept him, to shield Pavel’s carriage. She’d targeted him. Her strikes were meant to remove a guard, to clear a path. She’d attacked because she believed he was protecting Pavel.

  A slow, cold realization dawned, seeping through the lingering heat of combat. The pieces shifted, locking into a new and troubling alignment.

  Alph leaned back, lowering his guard slightly. The tension in his shoulders eased, but the dagger remained a cold weight in his palm.

  "Protection?" His voice came out rough, still edged with the fight's aftermath.

  He jerked his chin toward the empty street where the carriage had vanished. Damp stone and distant refuse lingered in the air.

  "You think I'm guarding that scum?" His grip tightened on the dagger. "I was calculating the best spot to bury him."

  The words hung in the chill air between them, stark and simple.

  The stalker froze. Her ragged breath hitched. The contempt in her eyes flickered out, replaced by blank bewilderment.

  She stared at him, uncomprehending, her pain momentarily forgotten. Her gaze darted from his face to the empty street and back, searching for deception.

  She blinked twice. Then her entire demeanor shifted.

  "Wait." She jabbed a finger at him. "You're trying to kill him too?" Her voice cracked with indignation. "Then why hit me so hard?"

  Alph stared at her.

  She was at least a Tier 2 Shadow Rogue. A professional. She had nearly slit his throat in three moves. And now she was pouting like a child who’d been cheated out of sweets.

  Alph sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Get up," he muttered, releasing her. "We need to move."

  She groaned, clutching her ribs. "You cracked something."

  "And you tried to stab me."

  "Fair."

  Alph grabbed her arm and hauled her upright, ignoring her hiss of pain.

  This is going to be a headache.

  The dull throb behind his eyes sharpened into a pounding pulse. He'd thought this encounter might have given him a valuable advantage, a skilled rogue who shared his target. Instead, the so-called professional was whining about bruised ribs after instigating the fight herself.

  Alph watched her knead her ribs, wincing sound escaping her lips. The performance was baffling, a thin veneer of vulnerability that did not match the coiled tension still radiating from her slight frame.

  "Your name?" he asked, his voice low, his focus still on the surrounding sounds of the city.

  "Nylessa." She showed no hesitation, tilting her head with an odd, demanding curiosity. "Yours?"

  Professional training, childish temper. She might be useful, perhaps a temporary tool for gathering information, but is she reliable?

  He turned his back on her, beginning to walk rapidly toward the nearest crossing street.

  "Oi!" she shouted, stumbling to catch up, her high voice thin and sharp with sudden offense. "You didn't answer me, you brute. That’s just bad manners where I come from, you know."

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  Released on January 1st, 2026