VENGEFUL SPIRIT

Asher crouched on the rooftop, his breath steady despite the cold wind biting at his skin. 

Below, the city pulsed with life—carriages rolling over cobblestone streets, merchants shouting over one another in the market, and the occasional patrol of armored guards marching through the alleys. 

It was a stark contrast to the quiet rage brewing inside him.

He had spent weeks tracking Gideon Varas, the man who had ordered the execution of his family. A powerful noble with deep connections, Gideon moved cautiously, surrounding himself with guards and staying hidden behind thick stone walls. But tonight, Asher had a lead—Gideon was meeting a business partner at The Silver Chalice, a high-end tavern near the city's center.

A perfect opportunity.

Asher exhaled and leaped from the rooftop, landing soundlessly in the narrow alley below. His black cloak billowed behind him as he moved through the shadows, his steps light, purposeful. The Silver Chalice was only a few blocks away.

His heart pounded, but not from fear. From anticipation.

The tavern was alive with laughter and music, the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine thick in the air. Asher moved through the crowd, his hood drawn low, blending effortlessly among the patrons. His sharp eyes scanned the room, seeking his target.

Then he saw him.

Gideon Varas sat in the far corner, his bulk resting comfortably in a cushioned chair. He was a man of excess—his rings glinted in the candlelight, his robes were embroidered with gold, and a goblet of expensive wine rested in his hand. Beside him sat another noble, deep in conversation, and behind them, two guards stood watch, their hands resting on their weapons.

Too many eyes. Too many risks.

Asher couldn't strike here. Not yet.

Instead, he moved to the bar, ordering a drink he had no intention of consuming. He needed patience. A mistake now would mean death, and he wasn't ready to die—not until Gideon paid in blood.

Time passed. The nobles drank, laughed, and whispered secrets Asher wished he could hear. But when Gideon finally stood, adjusting his heavy cloak, Asher knew his moment had come.

The noble muttered something to his guards and exited through the back door, likely heading toward his carriage. Asher abandoned his untouched drink and slipped through the crowd, his fingers grazing the hilt of his dagger.

The hunt had begun.

Outside, the alley behind the tavern was dimly lit, the scent of damp wood and old ale thick in the air. A carriage awaited near the entrance, its driver already seated, the horses restless.

Gideon emerged, his guards close behind.

Asher pressed himself against the wall, calculating his approach. He needed to separate Gideon from his men. A direct assault would be suicide—these weren't simple mercenaries but trained killers.

He reached into his belt and pulled free a small vial. A concoction of his own making. Poisonous, but not lethal—a distraction, nothing more. He smeared a bit on the tip of his dagger before stepping into the light.

"Lord Varas," he said, his voice low but clear.

The noble turned, eyes narrowing. His guards reacted instantly, drawing their blades, their stances disciplined. But Asher was faster.

He hurled a throwing knife, striking one of the guards in the shoulder. The man let out a sharp cry, staggering back as the poison spread through his veins. It wouldn't kill him, but it would slow him down.

The second guard lunged. Asher sidestepped, slashing across his arm before spinning and planting a kick to his ribs. The guard stumbled, but he wasn't done. He swung again, and Asher barely ducked in time.

Gideon, meanwhile, scrambled for the carriage, shouting for the driver to move.

No. He wasn't escaping.

Asher dodged another strike and drove his dagger into the second guard's thigh, twisting hard. The man howled in pain, collapsing.

With both guards down, Asher sprinted after Gideon, who was already climbing into the carriage. He leaped, grabbing the noble by his cloak and yanking him backward.

Gideon fell hard onto the cobblestones, his face contorted with rage and fear.

"Who are you?!" he spat, scrambling backward.

Asher didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed Gideon by the collar, shoving him against the carriage wheel. The noble struggled, but Asher pressed his dagger to his throat, his grip firm.

"You ordered the deaths of the Blackthorn family," Asher whispered. "Do you even remember them?"

Gideon's eyes flickered with realization. Then panic.

"The Blackthorns? I—" He swallowed hard. "It wasn't personal. It was business. I had no choice."

Asher's jaw clenched. He thought he had prepared for this moment, but hearing those words—so casual, so indifferent—ignited something deep inside him.

He pressed the blade harder. "Neither do I."

Gideon whimpered. "Wait! I can—"

A whistle pierced the night. The sound of approaching guards.

Damn it.

Asher had seconds to decide. If he killed Gideon now, he'd have to fight his way out. If he fled, he might lose his only chance at vengeance.

But he wasn't ready to die. Not yet.

With a growl of frustration, he slammed the hilt of his dagger against Gideon's temple. The noble slumped, unconscious.

Footsteps thundered toward the alley. Asher disappeared into the shadows just as the guards arrived, their torches flickering against the damp walls.

One day, Gideon Varas would die by his hand. But not tonight.

Tonight was only the beginning.