The honey cake turned to nothing in Regulus' mouth as the depot bell's echoes faded. Nyx's words coiled in his mind like smoke—'Does it matter why I know, if I'm right?'
A commotion erupted near the eastern gates. Three Andromedan guards dragged a screaming scholar through the mud, his gray robes torn to reveal the crossed-quill sigil of Athena Familia hanging from his necklace.
Nyx's fingers dug into Regulus' arm. "Don't stare." She steered him toward a spice stall, her voice dropping to a whisper. "They're purging informants."
The scholar's cries cut off with a wet crunch.
Regulus felt his new stats thrum—useless here, where strength meant keeping your head down. "You knew this would happen."
"Guessed." Nyx snatched a cinnamon stick from a barrel, rolling it between her fingers. "People with backing overplaying their hand. Every. Single. Time." She snapped her fingers. A crisp sound ensuing from it.
A shadow fell across them.
A stallkeeper leaned close, his breath reeking of garlic and fear. "You're the ones who came in with the Far Eastern merchant." Not a question.
Nyx's hand drifted toward her thigh where a knife wasn't. Not visibly.
The man slid a scrap of parchment between cinnamon bundles. "His last message. For the 'shadow goddess'."
Regulus saw it then—the minute tremor in Nyx's fingers as she took the paper. The way her pupils dilated just enough to betray surprise.
The stallkeeper vanished into the crowd.
Nyx unfolded the note with exaggerated care. Two words, written in what might have been blood:
They're coming
Regulus crumbled the note between his fingers. "A trap?"
Nyx snorted, plucking the parchment from his grip. "Definitely. That merchant wouldn't be this conscientious." She held the paper up to the morning light, revealing faint watermarks. "That cheapskate didn't even give us the full reward we agreed on."
The depot's usual clamor took on a sharper edge around them - guards moving with purpose, merchants hastily packing wares. A child's balloon escaped its owner's grasp, bobbing ominously toward the bloodstains near the eastern gate.
Regulus scanned the rooftops. "So we leave the depot?"
"Tch. And waste a perfectly good trap?" Nyx's grin widened as she folded the note into a tiny square and tucked it behind her ear. "We're going to the one place Athena Familia wouldn't expect."
Regulus stared at Nyx as a stray sunbeam caught in her too-sharp grin. "You think I can get stronger fighting other humans?" His fingers brushed the fresh ink on his back. "I heard it's not as effective as fighting monsters."
Nyx pinched the tender skin of his inner arm hard enough to leave a bruise. "Where did my harem-seeking moth go?" She twisted the flesh between her fingers. "When did you become such a muscle-headed idiot? Stop asking stupid questions and follow me."
He swatted her hand away. "Where?"
The depot's noon bell rang just as Nyx's smile turned feral. "To the Familia's main base." Her shadow—despite her earlier restraint—licked at her ankles like an excited hound. "We're taking their stuff."
Nyx's hands disappeared and emerged holding two gray Athena Familia robes, still faintly damp with someone else's sweat. The embroidered quill sigils gleamed under the midday sun like fresh ink.
Regulus blinked. "Are you actually the goddess of thieves?"
The second robe hit him square in the face, smelling of lavender and iron. "Fight. Be bait." Nyx's fingers danced along the stitching of her stolen garb, adjusting it with unsettling precision. "You wanted better prey? Earn your keep." She jerked her chin toward the fortified compound across the plaza, where two researchers argued over a clipboard. "I'll be busy liberating their shiny things."
Regulus' first mistake was assuming Nyx meant symbolic bait.
His second was thinking he could survive this.
A dozen gray-cloaked Altenan fighters moved in eerie synchronization, their formation tightening around him like a noose. Steel glinted in the midday sun—short swords, daggers, and something that looked suspiciously like a surgical saw.
"Tch," he breathed, fingers tightening around his knife.
Then the first blade came for his throat.
Regulus' knife clattered to the stones as a blade bit deep into his forearm. Blood sprayed across his stolen Athena cloak, the gray fabric drinking it hungrily.
The Altenan fighter twisted their wrist, widening the wound. Pain flared—sharp and bright—but Regulus gritted his teeth. His endurance dulled the edge of it, turning what should have been debilitating into something manageable.
Across the plaza, Nyx's laughter echoed as she kicked open a vault door.
Regulus raised his knife to block the next strike—
—and his entire arm itched. The sensation worsened as he tensed, his grip tightening on the knife.
Wrong
He forced his fingers to loosen slightly.
The discomfort faded.
The Altenan's blade came down—
—and this time, his parry rang true, deflecting the strike with minimal effort.
Regulus' heel hit something metal—a fallen shortsword. He grabbed it just as an Altenan's boot connected with his ribs.
The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, but his fingers closed around the hilt.
Immediately, his wrist throbbed with that same unnatural discomfort.
Wrong grip
He adjusted, shifting his thumb along the flat of the blade.
The sensation eased.
Just in time—
A blade came down toward his skull. His stolen sword rose to meet it.
The clash sent a jolt up his arm, but he held.
Blood ran down Regulus' thigh from a lucky stab. His left eye was swelling shut from a pommel strike.
But he was learning.
Every misstep brought that creeping unease—his shoulders tensing too much before a swing, his stance too wide, his breath held too long. Each correction came with fleeting relief, the discomfort vanishing the moment he adjusted.
A dagger grazed his cheek.
His neck itched—he wasn't turning his head enough to track the next attack.
He pivoted.
The next strike missed completely.
Regulus' fingers fumbled for the vial at his belt—thick, greenish kobold venom, collected from Nyx's incessant insistence days ago. He bit the cork free and swallowed.
Fire raced down his throat. His veins lit up like live wires. The shallow cuts along his arms itched as they stitched themselves closed—but this time, the discomfort was natural.
Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, Nyx's voice carried over the clang of steel:
"That's my moth! Now stop fighting, it's time to book it!"
A shadow passed overhead—hers, he realized, as she leapt from the Altenan vault toward the neighboring rooftop, leaving him to his bloody lesson. Bewildered by the sight of Nyx carrying a load four times her size, he are her. "This better have been worth it Nyx! Or I swear to another god that I will discipline your behind!"
"It's Lady Nyx to you little moth!" She responds happily. "I have a surprise for you right here! So come and get it!"