"Stop," Drovian commanded, his voice dropping into a register that made the frost-laden air feel heavy.Solvek halted, his blade trembling slightly, not from exhaustion, but from the raw, suffocating pressure radiating from the man across from him. "You’re done? You’re just going to walk away?"Drovian sheathed his cleaver in the loop at his hip. The transition from lethal predator to tired traveler was instantaneous. "I have no quarrel with you, Solvek. You’re a tool for someone else’s ledger. I’m done being the ink.""You don't get to choose when the audit ends," a new voice cut through the silence.A man stepped from behind the skeletal trees. He wore robes of deep, oxblood red, stitched with gold thread—the unmistakable mark of the capital’s Meat Guild. Behind him stood two men, their hands resting on the pommels of matched, serrated knives.Drovian didn't look back at Solvek. He kept his gaze locked on the newcomer. "The Guild doesn't usually send their Enforcers out this far int

"Every secret technique you’ve utilized—that’s intellectual property of the guild, Drovian," the Enforcer continued, his pale eyes glinting with a hungry, predatory light. "You think you can just wander into the borderlands and keep the trade secrets of the High Table? That’s theft. Grand larceny, really."Drovian didn't blink. He felt the cold iron of his cleaver against his thigh, the weight familiar and grounding. "The techniques weren't yours to claim. I refined those strokes while starving in a ditch, not under your golden guildhalls.""Details," the Enforcer hissed, his thin lips curling into a sneer. "The law of the market is absolute. The Guild owns the supply. You are the supply. And frankly, you’re currently in a state of depreciation."Solvek, still standing behind Drovian, let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "You hear that, butcher? You’re a depreciating asset. I suppose I’m just an auditor, then."Drovian didn't turn his head. "Stay out of this, Solvek. You're a liability, not

"I have no interest in your inventory, Vane," Drovian said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that signaled the end of diplomacy. He took a half-step back, his boot finding a solid patch of frozen mud. "If you want to audit my techniques, I suggest you bring a ledger and a very sturdy quill. You’re going to find the entries quite bloody."Vane, the pale, insect-eyed Enforcer, didn't flinch. Instead, he signaled his guards. "Depreciate him, then. The Guild doesn't pay for quality if it’s broken, but they do pay for the marrow."The two flanking guards lunged. They didn't move like soldiers; they moved like industrial machines, synchronized and devoid of wasted energy. Their serrated knives hummed, carving arcs of cold, killing light through the damp, gray morning air.Drovian didn't reach for his signature cleaver. He reached into his belt and pulled out a simple, heavy-duty paring knife—the kind used for delicate, precise work. He stepped into the guard on his left,

"A brawler?" Drovian wiped a smear of cold, metallic grease from his paring knife onto his apron. The sound of the city’s morning bustle—the distant clatter of carts, the shouting of merchants, the heavy tolling of the clock tower—felt miles away. He looked at the two guards, now groaning on the cobblestones, their hands trembling with residual nerve damage. "A brawler cleans his block, Vane. An accountant, like you, just rearranges the numbers until they stop screaming."Vane sighed, the sound like dry parchment rubbing together. He didn't look at his fallen men. His insect-like eyes remained fixed on Drovian, unblinking and devoid of any human flicker. "Metaphors are for the desperate. You’ve killed three men in an open square, in front of the King’s own watch. Even if you were the finest butcher in the history of the Guild, you’re now a public liability. The High Table doesn't tolerate messiness."Solvek, leaning heavily against a crate of imported spices, let out a jagged, wet lau

Drovian tapped the tip of his paring knife against his own calloused palm. The rhythm was hypnotic, a steady, metronomic beat that seemed to drown out the approaching thunder of armored boots from the King’s Watch."A bill of sale," Drovian repeated, his voice devoid of any inflection. "I’ve spent a lifetime separating muscle from bone, Vane. I know the difference between a prime cut and offal. You’re asking me to sign myself over to a group of men who wouldn't know quality if it gutted them."Vane didn't flinch. He adjusted his oxblood sleeves, his movements fluid and rehearsed. "You overestimate your agency, Drovian. You are a resource. Currently, you are a volatile one. Every day you remain independent, the market price of your head fluctuates. The Guild prefers stability. We are offering you a monopoly on your own survival.""And if I prefer the risk of the streets?" Drovian asked, stepping closer."Then you become an expense," Vane replied smoothly. "And expenses are balanced by