Jarek hit the ground hard.


    Pain flared through his ribs, sharp and deep. His breath came ragged, his vision swam, but he forced himself to move. Rolling to his side, he barely avoided the assassin’s blade as it stabbed into the stone where his chest had been a moment before. A deep crack split the pavement.


    Too close.


    He pushed off with his forearm, scrambling upright just as the assassin adjusted his grip. The man was breathing heavier now, his stance shifting slightly—left foot back, weight rolling onto the ball of his injured leg. Jarek had forced him to move differently. It wasn’t much, but it was something.


    Blood dripped from both of them, soaking into the dust between them. Jarek could feel his own staining his shirt, warm and sluggish, but the assassin’s was fresher. The cut on his forearm, the deeper wound along his ribs—small cracks in his perfect form.


    The assassin exhaled, his eyes scanning Jarek like he was solving a puzzle.


    “You’re still standing.”


    Jarek spat iron from his mouth. His arms felt heavier, his stance looser than it should have been. He was running on instinct now. Thought wouldn’t save him.


    The assassin flicked his blade to the side, sending a streak of blood onto the stone. “Annoying.”


    Then he was gone.


    Jarek saw him move, but his body wasn’t fast enough to keep up. He barely got his blade up in time—steel met steel, a flash of sparks in the dark. The impact jarred his arm down to the bone. He staggered back, but the assassin was already following up, twisting to bring his blade across Jarek’s throat.


    Jarek dropped low.


    The sword whistled over his head, missing by inches. He lunged forward, shoulder first, slamming into the assassin’s chest. The impact drove them both backward, the assassin’s boots skidding against the stone. Jarek used the momentum to push off, twisting in midair, trying to drive his blade into the bastard’s ribs—


    Too slow.


    The assassin’s free hand caught Jarek’s wrist. His grip was like iron. Before Jarek could wrench free, the assassin twisted, forcing his arm sideways. Pain shot up his shoulder as his own momentum betrayed him.


    Then the knee came.


    Jarek barely registered the movement before the impact crushed into his gut. His body folded inward. He choked, breath stolen, stomach twisting violently.


    The assassin wrenched his wrist again, this time sending him crashing to the ground. The stone bit into his back. A shadow loomed over him.


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    “This is over.”


    The sword fell.


    Jarek threw himself sideways. The blade sank into his shoulder instead of his throat. He bit back a scream, vision flickering with white-hot pain. The assassin twisted the weapon, trying to drive it deeper. Jarek’s fingers scraped against the pavement, searching—


    His hand closed around a jagged chunk of broken stone.


    He swung.


    The impact landed hard against the assassin’s temple. The man’s head snapped to the side. His grip loosened just enough.


    Jarek wrenched himself free, tearing his shoulder against the blade in the process. It felt like fire ripping through muscle, but he didn’t care. He needed to move.


    He rolled to his feet. His breath was ragged, his stance unsteady. The assassin recovered fast, shaking off the blow, but there was something in his eyes now.


    Not amusement.


    Not disgust.


    Something colder.


    Jarek didn’t give him time to react. He lunged, using every ounce of momentum left in his body. The assassin moved to block, but Jarek had already adjusted. He wasn’t aiming for a clean strike.


    His foot slammed into the assassin’s wounded ribs.


    The man grunted, barely audible, but Jarek felt the way his body faltered, the fraction of a second where his balance broke. He pressed forward.


    A feint—his blade flicked toward the assassin’s neck. The man reacted, pulling back—just enough to expose his torso.


    Jarek dropped low, reversing his grip. His blade sank deep beneath the assassin’s ribs.


    A sharp inhale. The assassin’s hand twitched, his sword lifting slightly—but Jarek twisted the blade.


    The body stilled.


    The assassin’s breath came out in a slow, surprised sigh. His fingers clenched once, then loosened. His knees hit the ground before the rest of him followed.


    Jarek staggered backward.


    He stared down at the body, his own chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. The pain in his ribs pulsed, his shoulder was screaming, and his fingers barely felt like they belonged to him anymore.


    But he was alive.


    His blade dripped, the blood pooling beneath the assassin’s body. Jarek exhaled, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. His vision swam for a moment, but he pushed through it. He needed to move before—


    A voice.


    “Damn. You actually did it.”


    Jarek turned sharply, his grip tightening on his weapon—then he saw her.


    Cyrille.


    She stood in the alley’s entrance, arms crossed, watching the scene with unreadable eyes. She was fine. Not a scratch on her.


    His exhaustion turned into something sharper.


    “Where the hell were you?” His voice was hoarse, raw.


    Cyrille tilted her head. “Watching.”


    Jarek’s fingers curled into fists. His ribs screamed in protest, but he ignored them.


    “You just—stood there?”


    She sighed. “I couldn’t interfere. You pick a fight with House Halvark, you deal with the consequences. My guild doesn’t need that kind of heat.”


    Jarek laughed. A rough, breathless sound. He couldn’t tell if it was from rage or exhaustion. Maybe both.


    “You let me almost die.”


    Cyrille’s eyes flicked to the corpse at his feet. “And yet, you didn’t.”


    Jarek wanted to punch something. He wanted to scream at her. But there was something else clawing its way to the surface—


    The assassin’s words.


    Zero.


    Jarek glanced back at the body. Blood soaked into the cracks between the stone. His pulse still hadn’t slowed.


    They knew.


    He lifted his head, staring at Cyrille. His voice came out quieter this time.


    “They knew.”


    She frowned. “Knew what?”


    Jarek swallowed the taste of blood in his mouth. “That I killed Dain.”


    For the first time, Cyrille’s expression shifted.


    She hadn’t known.


    Jarek exhaled slowly, wiping the blood from his hands onto his coat. He didn’t feel like celebrating. Didn’t feel like winning.


    If House Halvark knew about Dain…


    This wasn’t over.


    Not even close.