Rohan stepped into Sera’s small room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. His body ached from exhaustion, but his mind was sharper than ever. He had learned things, things that could finally lead him to the Iron Talons. Yet, for all his progress, unease coiled in his gut like a serpent.

  Sera sat on the edge of the bed, her sharp eyes already scanning him. But they didn’t linger on his wounds or his tired posture. They locked onto the heavy pouch of gold hanging from his belt.

  She crossed her arms.

  “That’s a lot of coin for a waiter.”

  Rohan hesitated. He could lie, say the nobles tipped well, that they were wasteful with their wealth. But something in Sera’s gaze told him she wouldn’t buy it. She stood, closing the distance between them.

  “You’re playing with dangerous people, aren’t you?”

  Her voice was quieter now, laced with concern.

  “I’ve seen men come into money like that before. It never ends well.”

  He exhaled, pulling the pouch from his belt and setting it on the table.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Then what’s it like?”

  Before he could answer, the feeling struck him again, that creeping, nagging sensation that someone was watching. His pulse quickened. Was it just paranoia? Or had he been followed?

  His eyes flicked to the window. Nothing but shadows beyond the glass.

  Sera touched his arm gently.

  “Rohan…?”

  He snapped back to the moment. He couldn’t risk Sera getting caught up in this. If someone had taken notice of him, they could come for her, too. He needed to move.

  “I have to go.”

  He said, pulling away. Her brow furrowed.

  “Go where?”

  “The pits.”

  He grabbed his cloak.

  “I need to disappear for a while.”

  Sera scoffed.

  “And you think the pits are safer?”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  She looked like she wanted to argue, but she sighed and stepped back, watching as he headed for the door.

  “Just don’t end up dead, Rohan.”

  Without another word, he slipped into the night, his destination clear. If someone was tracking him, he needed to be harder to follow. And that meant aligning himself with people who knew how to stay hidden.

  Rohan moved through the dimly lit tunnels of the pits, his mind set on one thing, proving himself. If he wanted to get into a mercenary guild, he needed to show he was more than just another street brawler. He needed to be dangerous.

  The guard at the entrance barely spared him a glance before letting him through. Word had spread about his fights. He was no longer just some kid trying to survive, he was someone the crowd enjoyed watching bleed.

  A pit boss leaned against the wall near the fighter’s entrance, chewing on a stick of dried meat. He glanced up as Rohan approached.

  “Back already?”

  Rohan nodded.

  “Put me in a match.”

  The pit boss chuckled.

  “Eager to die, huh?”

  Rohan didn’t react.

  “Put me in.”

  The pit boss studied him for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Fine. There’s a match starting soon, no rules, just blood. You win, you get paid double. You die, well…”

  Rohan rolled his shoulders, shaking out the stiffness. “Who am I fighting?”

  The pit boss jerked his head toward the arena.

  “Does it matter?”

  Rohan stepped forward, pushing through the heavy iron gate. The air was thick with sweat, blood, and the metallic scent of rust. The crowd was smaller than the noble fights, but they were louder, more vicious.

  The moment he entered, his opponent was waiting. A mountain of a man, shirtless, his chest covered in old scars. He held a massive club, already stained from past fights.

  The pit boss’s voice rang out over the crowd.

  “Fight!”

  The brute swung first, a predictable overhead strike. Slow and sloppy. Rohan sidestepped with ease, the club smashing into the dirt where he had just been. Before his opponent could recover, Rohan moved in. A quick jab to the ribs. Another to the throat. The man choked, stumbling back.

  He was wide open.

  Rohan swept his leg under the brute’s knee, knocking him off balance. As the man stumbled, Rohan drove his elbow into his jaw, sending him crashing to the ground.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The crowd barely had time to react before Rohan had already stepped back, calm and composed.

  The brute groaned, trying to rise. Rohan sighed, stepping forward again. A quick kick to the temple, and his opponent went limp.

  Silence. Then cheers erupted, but Rohan barely paid attention. He didn’t feel relief, nor excitement. It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t desperation.

  It was control.

  As he looked up, he caught the pit boss watching him with narrowed eyes. Others in the crowd, men who didn’t cheer, had taken notice too. Rohan had proven himself. Now, they were starting to see him as something else entirely.

  As Rohan stepped out of the pit, wiping the sweat and dust from his face, a man leaned against the stone wall, watching him with a smirk.

  "Where'd the old boy go?"

  The man asked, tilting his head.

  "The wild beast? That thing that tore through the pit like it had nothing to lose?"

  Rohan met his gaze, eyes steady.

  "I learned to control my mind.”

  The man stepped in front of Rohan before he could walk past.

  "You’re wasted down here, a fighter like you? You should be making real money, not scraps thrown by nobles."

  Rohan crossed his arms.

  "And I suppose you have a better offer?"

  The man smirked.

  "Depends. You looking for work?"

  Rohan hesitated. This could be exactly what he needed, protection, connections, and a way to disappear from the eyes that were watching him.

  "Maybe. What kind of work?”

  "Mercenary work. My crew takes contracts all over Duskwatch. Protection, smuggling, the occasional… clean-up job. You get paid well, and no one asks questions."

  The man extended a hand.

  "Name’s Darius. What do you say?"

  Rohan looked at the hand for a moment before shaking it.

  "I’m in."

  Darius grinned.

  "Good. Meet me at the Cracked Flagon tomorrow night. We’ll see what you’re really made of."

  As Darius walked off, Rohan exhaled, clenching his fists, this was the next step.

  Rohan pushed open the door to Sera’s small room, she sat by the candlelight, stitching up a torn dress. She barely looked up as he entered.

  "You’re back late."

  He tossed the small pouch of coins onto the table.

  "Got recruited into a mercenary crew. Should keep the wrong people off my back for a while."

  Sera stilled, her fingers gripping the fabric a little tighter.

  "A mercenary crew."

  She repeated, her voice hollow.

  "It’s safer than running alone, you should come with me. They’d protect you."

  She let out a dry, bitter laugh.

  "Like my husband’s crew protected him?"

  Rohan’s jaw tightened.

  "It’s different."

  "Is it?"

  She finally looked up at him, her eyes tired but sharp.

  "I know how this ends, Rohan. You kill and kill until there's nothing left of you but a blade for someone else to use. And one day, you die for a cause that isn't even your own."

  Sera sighed and rubbed her temples.

  "I won’t stop you. Just don’t expect me to follow you down that road."

  Rohan stared at her for a long moment, then turned for the door.

  "Fine."

  He didn’t slam it shut. Didn’t say anything else. He just walked out into the cold night, the weight of her words pressing against his chest.

  Rohan moved swiftly through the darkened streets, his mind replaying Sera’s words, but he shoved them aside. He had no time for doubt. The city was shifting around him, and if he wanted to stay ahead, he had to keep moving.

  He arrived at the secluded alleyway where he had previously seen the noble meeting with the shadowy figure. The scent of damp stone and rotting wood filled the air, the alleyway eerily silent save for the distant hum of the nightlife.

  Pressing himself against a crumbling wall, he waited. Minutes passed, the cold settling into his bones, but then, movement.

  Two figures emerged from the shadows, cloaked in thick, heavy garments. Another soon followed. a noble, his rich attire barely concealed beneath a dark hood.

  “We’ve waited long enough.”

  One of the cloaked figures muttered, his voice low and sharp.

  “If we keep playing defense, we’ll be the ones buried.”

  The noble scoffed.

  “I thought we had a plan.”

  “The situation is slipping. Too many eyes, too many questions. If we wait any longer, we’ll lose control entirely.”

  The noble exhaled sharply.

  “We were supposed to be discreet.”

  “Discretion doesn’t matter anymore, your benefactor, she’s been prying where she shouldn’t. Asking questions, watching movements. She thinks we haven’t noticed, but we have. If we let her live, she could unravel everything.”

  Rohan stiffened. They were talking about her.

  “And what of the pits?”

  The noble asked.

  “They’ve become a liability. Too many fighters, too many mouths. The boy, Rohan, he’s not as ignorant as we thought. He’s been watching, tracking movements. And he’s not the only one.”

  The second figure nodded.

  “There are others. Some of the pit fighters. Even a few of the mercenaries are starting to whisper. We don’t need to know how much they know. It’s safer to cut them all down before this gets out of hand.”

  The noble hesitated.

  “That many bodies at once? It’ll raise suspicion.”

  A cold chuckle escaped one of the cloaked figures.

  “Not if we do it right. Accidents happen all the time.”

  Rohan’s fingers curled into fists. He had heard enough.

  Slipping back into the darkness, he turned and sprinted away. They weren’t just after him anymore, they were planning to wipe out anyone who might stand in their way. Sera, the fighters, even the woman who had dragged him into this world of spies and whispers. If he didn’t act fast, they’d all be dead before the sun rose.

  Rohan ran.

  The cold night air burned his lungs, his legs carried him through the twisting alleys of Duskwatch faster than he had ever moved before. The city blurred around him, the only thing in his mind was Sera.

  He turned down the final street, his heart hammering against his ribs. The door to her small home was swaying slightly in the wind.

  He forced himself forward, pushing through the entrance. The moment he stepped inside, he knew.

  Sera lay crumpled on the floor, her dark hair fanned out like ink against the wood. A deep gash ran across her throat, staining her clothes crimson. Her eyes, once sharp, tired, alive, were empty, staring past him into nothing.

  His vision blurred, the world went silent.

  Rohan took a step forward, his legs nearly giving out beneath him. He swallowed the scream clawing up his throat. His hands trembled, then clenched into fists so tight his nails cut into his palms, warm blood pooling between his fingers.

  Tears streamed down his face, his body shaking from something far worse than exhaustion.

  She was gone.

  She had nothing to do with this. She had only ever warned him, worried for him, tried to stop him from going down this path, and for that, she had died.

  Rage boiled inside him, black and endless. His vision turned red, his breathing heavy and uneven. His heart felt like it would rip itself from his chest.

  He forced himself to take a breath. His hands still shook, blood dripping from his palms, but his mind sharpened like a blade. He wasn’t going to die here. He wasn’t going to be their prey.

  They had taken everything from him. Now, it was his turn.

  Rohan moved through the streets like a ghost, his body fueled by pure rage and purpose. His hands still bled from where his nails had dug into them, but he felt none of it. Every step was heavy with the weight of what had been taken from him.

  As he neared the pits, a flickering glow illuminated the night sky, fire.

  The flames roared, consuming the wooden structures, sending black smoke billowing into the air. The fighting pits, his battleground, his foothold, were being wiped away.

  Bodies littered the ground, some fighters, some guards. He heard screaming, the clash of steel, the final gasps of the dying. The attack was still fresh.

  They weren’t just tying up loose ends. They were erasing them. Rohan clenched his jaw, forcing himself to move. He had no time to waste. If the pits were burning, that meant his benefactor was next.

  He sprinted through the streets, his pulse hammering in his ears. Every alley, every rooftop, every shadow felt like it was crawling with enemies. They were trying to snuff out every trace of resistance before it could grow.

  By the time he reached her estate, the front gates were shattered, guards lying dead in pools of blood. The once-lavish mansion was alive with chaos, mercenaries swarmed the halls, steel flashing under torchlight, shouts of panic and combat echoing through the grand entrance.

  Rohan didn’t hesitate, he unsheathed his dagger, his breath slow, his movements precise.

  As he stepped inside he was ready to kill every last one of them.