Vane stood his ground, though his pale hands trembled slightly within his cuffs. "Calculated risks, Butcher. My ledgers are robust enough to account for a minor localized surge in violence. But you are forgetting the King’s Watch. They aren't auditors. They don't negotiate. They process."Drovian didn't break his stride. He stood inches from Vane, his shadow looming over the thinner man like a shroud. "I’ve been processed by better men than your local constabulary. Your error, Vane, is thinking I’m here to negotiate. I’m here to close the account.""Kill me, and the bounty triples," Vane hissed, his bravado finally fraying at the edges. "My death is recorded in the central hub’s synchronized ledger. Every guild house from here to the border will have a standing order to skin you alive."Drovian reached out, gripping Vane by the lapel of his fine, blood-spattered coat. The fabric tore with a dry, ripping sound. "Then I suppose I’ll have to make sure they’re too busy dealing with their

Vane wheezed, his face turning a sickly shade of pallor that suggested he’d much rather be facing the sharp end of an executioner’s axe than the cold, unblinking stare of the man holding him aloft."The Iron Vault isn't a prison," Vane gasped, clutching at Drovian’s wrist, his fingers clawing uselessly against the corded muscle. "It's a holding cell for the Guild’s 'irreconcilable assets.' You aren't just breaking into a dungeon, Butcher. You're breaking into the most secure vault in the capital. It’s reinforced with cold-iron plating. Even if you get in, you’ll never get him out."Drovian released him suddenly. Vane slumped against the damp brickwork of the alley, gasping for air, his fine coat now hanging in tatters around his frame."I didn't ask for a security assessment," Drovian said, turning toward the mouth of the alleyway, where the distant, muffled clamor of the city’s trade district roared like a caged beast. "I asked for a location. Is it beneath the Merchant’s Exchange or

"Solvek is a survivor," Drovian replied, stepping into the dim light of the street. "He’s been trying to kill me for three years. If he dies in a flood, I suppose I’ll have to find a less efficient hobby."Vane scrambled to his feet, his velvet coat dragging in the muck of the alley. "Wait! You can't just walk out there. The Merchant’s Exchange is currently hosting the midnight tally. The Enforcers are everywhere. If they see you, they won't even try to arrest you—they’ll just drop the iron portcullis and fill the sector with gas."Drovian didn't break stride. He adjusted the collar of his rough-spun tunic, his silhouette blending into the shadows of the soot-stained buildings. "Then they’ll be too occupied with the gas to watch the sewers, won't they?""You're going through the sewers?" Vane’s voice cracked, rising into an undignified squeak. "That’s suicide! The runoff from the chemical processing plants flows through there. The fumes alone would melt your lungs in minutes."Drovian

"A liability?" Vane’s voice spiked, indignant despite his trembling frame. "I am the only one who can navigate the sub-levels of the Exchange. Without me, you’re just a man with a knife stumbling into a meat grinder. I am your key, Drovian. Your only key."Drovian didn't slow his pace. He stepped over a discarded crate, the wood splintering under his boot with a sharp, echoing crack. "Keys can be copied. I’d rather have a guide who knows how to open a door without triggering the alarm. Keep walking, Vane."The air in the lower district grew thick, a cloying cocktail of rotting refuse, wet iron, and the sharp, metallic tang of the chemical refineries that fed the Merchant’s Exchange. Drovian’s nostrils flared, not in disgust, but in recognition. It smelled like the kill floor, only layered with the stench of human corruption."We aren't going to the front gates," Vane whispered, catching up to him, his boots squelching in the black sludge that pooled in the gutters. "If we hit the main

"Drovian, wait!" Vane gasped, clutching at the butcher’s thick, worn leather tunic. "If you wrench that open, the pressure release will scream loud enough to wake the dead in the potter’s field. You don't understand the mechanisms of the Exchange!"Drovian didn't stop. His hand, calloused and mapped with the fine white lines of a thousand slips of the knife, gripped the rusted iron handle. He didn't pull; he listened. He pressed his ear against the cold, vibrating metal of the grate, closing his eyes to filter out the frantic, wet breathing of his companion. Beneath the roar of the rushing effluent, he heard it—the rhythmic, mechanical hiccup of a gear that had slipped its alignment."The foreman didn't just oil the hinges, Vane," Drovian said, his voice dropping into a low, steady rumble. "He greased the locking pawl. He was expecting someone, wasn't he?"Vane’s face turned the color of stale dough. "I… I might have mentioned that a client would be checking the structural integrity o