"Inside. Now." Drovian didn't wait for Vane’s legs to stop shaking. He shoved the man into the cramped, oil-slicked darkness of the ventilation shaft and followed immediately, kicking the grate back into place.It clicked shut with a precision that betrayed Vane’s earlier insistence on its decay. The silence that rushed in to fill the void was heavier than the roar of the sluice."You said it was rusted," Drovian whispered, his voice barely audible above the rhythmic, distant dripping of condensation. He wasn't looking at the tunnel ahead; he was staring at the back of Vane’s neck. "Rust doesn't vanish because someone oiled a hinge. This iron was polished."Vane wiped sweat from his brow, his hands trembling violently. "I told you, I hired a foreman! I didn't ask how he did it. Maybe he replaced the pins. Does it matter? We're inside!""It matters," Drovian said, moving forward with the predatory grace of a man who didn't fear the dark, but understood its utility. "Because we are walk

"I swear by the gods, I didn't know!" Vane’s voice cracked, bordering on a high-pitched whimper that echoed uncomfortably within the claustrophobic metal ducting. He clawed at Drovian’s wrist, his fingernails scraping uselessly against the hardened, calloused skin. "I was promised a clean cut! A simple job, a simple payout. Nobody said anything about the butcher’s own rival waiting for a rescue!"Drovian didn't release him. He maintained his grip, his gaze fixed on the darkness ahead, where the faint, rhythmic glow of a blue-flame lantern pulsed through the gaps in the vent floor. "Professional courtesy, Vane. That’s what they called it when they dragged Solvek into this hole. They knew I wouldn't leave him to rot. They banked on my vanity.""Vanity?" Vane gasped, air whistling through his throat. "You’re heading into a trap! If you know it's a trap, why are you still crawling forward? Turn back! We can still make it out."Drovian tilted his head, his expression shifting from a mask o

"One man is all it takes to ruin a perfectly good inventory," Drovian muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the cold iron of the vents.He didn't wait for Vane’s rebuttal. He pressed his shoulder against the heavy grate at the end of the duct, his fingers finding the seam where the metal had been poorly welded. With a singular, sharp twist of his wrist, he didn't just pry the grate—he sheared the iron pins clean through, letting the heavy frame drop silently onto a pile of discarded shipping crates below.Vane scrambled behind him, peering over the edge into the dimly lit, vaulted ceiling of the central warehouse. "We’re over the main armory! Look at them, Drovian. There’s enough steel down there to equip a small army. If we drop now, we’re dead before our boots hit the floor."Drovian didn't look. He dropped, landing with the soundless grace of a cat, his knees absorbing the impact. He stood up, already moving toward the shadow of a massive stone pillar. "They aren't looking u

"If you're going to die, Vane, try to do it in a way that doesn't alert the entire garrison," Drovian muttered, his voice barely a tremor in the cold, stagnant air of the armory.He didn't wait for Vane to scramble into position. Drovian moved, a shadow stitched into the architecture of the room. He slipped behind the first patrol—two men-at-arms talking about the rising price of grain in the southern provinces. They didn't hear him. They didn't feel the shift in air pressure. By the time the first man blinked, Drovian was behind them, his hand clamped over the man’s mouth while his thumb found the soft, vulnerable space beneath the armor’s gorget.One precise, rhythmic exertion. No flair. No wasted energy. A quiet collapse followed."Did you hear that?" the second guard asked, turning, his hand hovering over the pommel of his sword.Drovian was already gone, melting into the dark expanse beneath a shipment of timber. Vane, pale and trembling, pressed his back against the crates, watc

"Rats don't have boots, Harl," Drovian whispered, his voice manifesting directly behind the guard’s left ear. It wasn't loud, but it possessed the chilling, metallic resonance of a blade being drawn from a scabbard.Harl didn't have time to scream. Drovian’s calloused hand, stained with the phantom grease of a thousand carcasses, clamped over the man’s jaw. A sharp, violent twist of the wrist followed—the sickening pop of cervical vertebrae snapping sounded like a dry branch caught under a heavy carriage wheel. Harl slumped, silenced before he could draw a single ragged breath.The second guard, the superstitious fool who had dismissed the warning, spun around. His eyes widened, reflecting the dim lantern light like a startled animal. He went for his sword, but Drovian was already inside his guard, his movements economical, devoid of the theatrical flair that defined the legends of the Saint-level warriors. He didn't use a sword. He used the butt of a heavy, iron-bound meat hook he’d