The eighth bell tolled, its deep resonance rolling through the upper tiers like thunder. Alph glanced at the sky, where the first stars pricked through the mountain’s shadow. Time was slipping.

  Nylessa shifted beside him, "You’re really going in now?"

  Alph didn’t answer. His focus had already narrowed to the manor’s rear courtyard, where the servant entrance sat half-hidden behind a stack of empty barrels. Wet dirt and bruised greens thickened the air, kitchen scraps festering in the alley ditch.

  "Stay here," he ordered, voice low.

  Nylessa opened her mouth, probably to argue, but Alph already vanished, melting into the deeper shadows along the manor’s outer wall. He pressed himself against the cold stone pushing Reduced Presence to maximum.

  The courtyard lay before him, unnervingly still. No guards walked the walls, no armored figures stood watch at the corners. Only the occasional maid or kitchen helper hurried between doors, their arms full of sheets or sloshing buckets. Each time, Alph froze, becoming one with the stone until they passed.

  No security. Just servants.

  The thought bothered him. A man like Pavel, rich and well-connected with plenty of rivals, should have had guards. But the courtyard just carried on with the everyday tasks of a home that seemed unbothered by danger. Either he’s arrogant, or he’s hiding something worse inside.

  Alph ascended the weathered wall with practiced agility, his body moving with fluid grace as he utilized every small ledge and nook, every crevice fading into theing stone, as purchase. The hard edges scraped against his palms, rough and unforgiving, but he welcomed the discomfort; it felt real, grounding him in the moment. With one final push, he flipped over the railing, landing softly on the balcony of the first floor.

  Victory soured in his throat as the brass handle refused to turn. Locked. Of course. Frustration burned in Alph's chest, like a hot coal. He scanned the terrace's edges—then stilled.

  There!

  A vine cluster, thin not enough to hold his weight normally, dangled from the balcony above. Its leaves were wilted, brown-edged from the mountain’s thin air, but the main stem remained sturdy. Alph reached out, brushing his fingers against the rough bark. A pulse of warmth answered his touch.

  He invoked Nature’s Touch.

  The vine stiffened under his palm, fibers tightening as sap thickened into something closer to rope. The leaves curled inward, their edges sharpening like honed blades, while the stem lost its pliability, becoming rigid, reliable. Alph tested it with a sharp tug. It held.

  Gripping the vines, he climbed.

  The second-floor terrace loomed above, its open-air expanse facing the manor’s gated entrance. The wind here was sharper, carrying the scent of pine and distant forge smoke. Alph’s boots touched the flagstones, the impact barely a whisper.

  Alph tested the door, relief flooding him as it swung open. Thank the Gods, he thought, slipping inside. The opulence of the interior struck him, a stark contrast to the manor’s drab exterior. He moved quietly through the hallway, heart racing as he approached the study on the second floor, only to find it empty.

  He ought to be present right now, having returned from his outing; don't wealthy people always have heaps of letters to write?

  An open letter on table caught his eye. Leaning closer, he read the contents, a chill creeping up his spine as he realized Pavel was seeking to remarry. This man’s ambition knows no bounds, he gritted his teeth, conviction hardening within him. The thought of ending Pavel’s life felt more urgent now, a necessary act against a man who would only continue to exploit others.

  Where could he be?

  A faint sound drifted from the staircase, two sets of soft footsteps, accompanied by hushed whispers. Alph moved without conscious thought, pressing himself flat against the wall beside the study door. His cloak, dark as the shadows that clung to him, wrapped around his form.

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  Two maids entered. One clutched a dusting cloth, her head down. The other held a silver perfumer, its delicate scent wafting into the room. They spoke in low tones but, from his vantage point, Alph heard every word.

  "Jenna, listen," the maid with the duster whispered, her voice thin and strained. "Master… he dragged Mary downstairs. To that... place."

  Jenna's hands froze mid-motion, the perfumer trembling between her fingers. "Again? Gods..." Her voice cracked. "How many times now? Since mistress..."

  The first maid's hand shot out, gripping Jenna's wrist. "Don't." Her eyes cut toward the doorway. "The butler said we keep silent. About... that."

  Downstairs? A basement! Alph's fists tightened.

  Pavel's face flashed in his mind—Svena's lifeless body, the callous ambition. Now another victim. His gut twisted into a hard knot.

  Calm down.

  He forced his fists to unclench. One misstep would ruin everything. He held his breath, watching the maids' backs as they polished.

  The moment their attention fixed on their work, he slid from the shadows. A ghost slipping deeper into the manor's heart.

  Alph moved through the manor, a silent shadow flowing past heavy tapestries and polished oak. Each step was light, measuring, his senses alive to the house’s secrets. The scent of lavender from the maids faded, replaced by old dust and the faint undertone of damp stone. He passed grand reception rooms, drawing rooms, and studies, all empty, all echoing with an oppressive quiet.

  He descended the main staircase, velvet carpet muffling his cautious footsteps. The main floor was an expansive labyrinth of rooms, but he saw no doors leading to a basement.

  He circled the ground floor until he found it; a heavy, unmarked oak door tucked away in an alcove near the kitchen, almost camouflaged by the shadows. The air grew cooler here, tinged with an earthy, metallic smell he knew too well.

  He pressed his ear against the rough, unvarnished wood, listening intently. No sound, no movement, only the muffled silence of the house pressing back. Alph exhaled slowly, then turned the cold iron handle, his grip firm and his breath held tight in his chest. The mechanism clicked, smooth and unresisting. He pulled the heavy door open, its hinges groaning softly.

  A narrow, steep staircase of worn stone was revealed, plunging down into absolute darkness. The air that wafted up was thick and stagnant, carrying a deeper chill that raised gooseflesh on his arms. It smelled of damp earth and old, undisturbed stone. His wariness spiked, every sense screaming that this was the place. Then, a voice cut through the heavy silence from behind him, sharp and unexpected.

  "A rat slipped in," the man said, his tone unsettlingly calm, as if discussing the weather. Alph froze, caught mid-step. "I warned Dima I sensed someone trailing us, but he brushed it off as paranoia. Lucky for me I didn’t heed his nonsense and stayed alert; otherwise, our employer would’ve been dealt with, and my reputation would be in the gutter."

  Alph spun, his hand instinctively darting to the dagger at his hip. He drew the blade with a whispered rasp of steel against leather, dropping into a low, predatory crouch. His eyes scanned the newcomer, taking in every detail.

  The man was buff, broad-shouldered, radiating an aura of quiet menace. He rapped a mace; a wooden handle, bulging metal head against his palm, the soft thump echoing in the hushed hall. No armor, just simple leather, but his stance spoke of strength and training.

  Alph flicked his gaze toward the dark stairwell, then back to the man. "You know what this guy has done, right?"

  "I know, but that ain't my concern, lad." The man’s voice was rough, unyielding. He pointed his mace toward Alph with a casual, dismissive gesture. "He is my employer, and I protect him. Don't tell me you are not an assassin but a so-called vigilante?"

  Alph winced. The word tasted like ash.

  "Heh, looks like I was right on mark. A novice pup, come, I won't be gentle." The man twirled the mace in his hand, a heavy, bludgeoning arc, beckoning Alph to attack.

  Alph tightened his grip on the dagger, the weapon’s familiar weight a comfort in his palm. He threw Marked for Death on the man. He exploded forward, a blur of motion, dagger thrusting in a straightforward attack, targeting the man’s center mass.

  A smirk spread across the man's face. He lifted the mace high, not bothering to block or parry, and brought it down in a brutal overhead arc.

  Alph clicked his tongue.

  He read my feint completely. An instinctive jolt of frustration shot through him, but his body moved without hesitation. He used Deft Movement, pivoting on the balls of his feet, sidestepping to the left, barely missing the mace's crushing blow.

  The mace slammed into the flagstones with a thunderous crack. Sparks erupted as rock shattered beneath the impact. Pulverized stone burst outward, biting into the fabric of Alph's hood and sleeves. The impact rattled through the fibers, each tiny puncture a needle-prick against his skin.

  The brute's broad shoulders flexed beneath sweat-stained leather. He twisted his torso with a guttural grunt, muscles coiling like loaded springs. The mace whipped sideways in a brutal horizontal arc, its blunt head whistling through the air. The sweeping blow aimed precisely at Alph’s midsection, targeting the space where most combatants retreated, before he could process the change in attack pattern.

  Pain flared through Alph, sharp and sudden. He crashed through a wooden pantry door to his left, splinters flying as he tumbled in.