The stench of blood hadn't faded.
It clung to the alleys. It hung in whispers across taverns and black markets. Even the most hardened criminals avoided the street where Mavik had died. The message had been too clean. Too surgical. Too loud.
And in a place like Lowend, power moves in silence. Unless someone decides to break the rules.
Ash had broken them.
And now someone had noticed.
"They're hunting us."
Kael's voice was tight, his eyes scanning the crumbling doorway as he paced the hidden cellar they now called base.
"Word is the Fangs want blood. They lost territory when we killed Mavik. Now they want it back."
Ash remained seated, calmly oiling his blade.
"They can try."
Another voice spoke from the corner—low, rough, female. "You're underestimating them. The Black Fangs ran Lowend before Mavik. Before anyone. They're not street thugs. They're organized. Ruthless."
It was Silna, the burn-scarred woman who had joined Ash after his speech. She had once worked for the Fangs—until they made her kill a friend. She never forgot.
Ash stood, his eyes sharp.
"I'm not underestimating them. I'm counting on them."
Kael looked confused. "What do you mean?"
Ash moved to the cracked window. Outside, Lowend pulsed with hunger and tension. People whispered. Watched. Waited.
"The Fangs think we're a gang," he said. "That we want turf, gold, fear. But we're not wolves looking for scraps."
He turned, eyes burning.
"We are wolves who broke the chain."
The ambush came two nights later.
Ash knew it would.
He had baited it.
He and Kael walked openly through the old spice market, where shadows ran deeper than stone. Four others from his crew followed at a distance, hidden, but ready.
"Too quiet," Kael murmured.
"Good," Ash said.
They passed the broken archway.
That's when the Fangs struck.
From above. From both sides. Twelve men in black leathers, moving with military precision. Blades flashed. A whistle blew.
Ash didn't flinch.
"Now," he said.
From the rooftops, Silna dropped a torch. It landed on a thin trail of oil poured hours before. Fire raced through the shadows and exploded into a wall of flame, cutting off half of the attackers.
Screams followed.
Kael moved like a storm, driving his dagger into the gut of a Fang thug and spinning into another with a vicious elbow.
Ash was pure death. Calm, surgical, efficient. He danced between blades, stepping inside guards, striking nerves, ending lives before they hit the ground.
The Fangs broke formation.
Then they ran.
Not because they were losing.
But because they realized something terrifying—these weren't just rebels.
These were soldiers.
Back in the cellar, Ash tended to Kael's wound—a shallow cut on the forearm.
"You fought well," he said.
Kael winced, but grinned. "They ran."
"Fear is useful," Ash replied. "But it doesn't last. We need loyalty."
Silna stepped forward. Her hands were stained with blood.
"There's a man," she said. "Used to lead a militia before the wars. Knows tactics. Gear. Men. He lives in the Pit now. Drinks himself blind most nights."
Ash raised an eyebrow. "Name?"
"Darius Varn. A ghost, but if we get him, we get a spine."
Ash nodded.
"Then we go find our ghost."
Elsewhere, deep in the heart of Ravenmark, a cloaked figure entered a polished chamber lined with books and velvet banners.
"My lord," the figure said, kneeling. "There's unrest in the slums. Someone is uniting the broken."
Behind a gold-inlaid desk, Lord Velron sipped his wine.
He raised one brow.
"Then break them again."