The Whispers lived up to its name.
A thick, rolling mist clung to the streets, swallowing sound, muffling the shuffle of hurried feet and the distant, drunken laughter of those too deep in their cups to notice the storm brewing on the edges of the district. The street lanterns barely pierced through the fog, their golden glow flickering like dying stars in the gloom.
Rook exhaled, a slow breath curling into the cold air, his sharp eyes scanning the shifting gray veil ahead. Beside him, Davin tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his expression grim.
Then, they heard them.
Heavy boots on wet stone. The rhythmic march of twenty Syndicate enforcers moving as one.
From the murk, shapes took form—dark silhouettes with blades glinting beneath their coats, musket stocks peeking over their shoulders. They carried themselves with the familiar confidence of men who had done this a hundred times before—who had cut their way through the back alleys of Oryn-Vel without ever looking back.
And Rook recognized two of them immediately.
Grendon. Harker.
The two Syndicate men emerged first, their figures sharper in the mist.
Grendon's thick, dark beard was streaked with gray, his muscular form wrapped in a long coat, a flintlock holstered at his hip. He walked with the ease of a man who had been through hell and back and found it unimpressive. Harker, thinner but no less dangerous, had his arms crossed over his chest, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. His blonde hair, always messy, barely concealed the sharp glint in his calculating eyes.
"Well, well, look what the mist dragged in," Harker murmured, tilting his head as he stopped a few paces away. "Rook, in the flesh. Thought you were done with us?"
Rook didn't smile.
"Guess you should've tied up your loose ends better."
Grendon chuckled, the sound low and rough. "We never really expected you to stay gone, not after all the time you spent under Braelan Marrow. But I gotta admit, seeing you and Davin together again? That's a surprise."
Davin snorted. "Yeah, well, betrayal does weird things to people."
Harker exhaled a mock sigh. "See, that's where you're both confused. You betrayed us. You walked away from something bigger than yourself, Rook. You abandoned what we built—what we bled for."
Rook's jaw tightened. He could feel the old anger rising, the kind that smelled like gunpowder and tasted like blood.
"You don't bleed for the Syndicate anymore," he said. "You just follow orders. Like good little hounds."
Harker's smirk widened, but Grendon's face darkened.
"It's bigger than you think, Rook. Bigger than us." Grendon's voice was quieter now, the mirth gone. "This city? It's rotting from the inside. The Syndicate? We're just giving it a push."
Rook's fingers twitched at his sides, a familiar itch creeping into his muscles. He could feel it—the storm about to break.
"And what exactly are you pushing it into?"
Grendon's gaze flickered, just for a moment.
Then Harker laughed. "Hell, if we're lucky."
Rook's good mood—what little he had left—vanished.
Something cold settled in his gut as his mind pieced together what they weren't saying. The weight behind Grendon's words, the way Harker's smirk lingered—they were waiting for something.
"How many?" Rook's voice was low, sharp as a blade.
Grendon glanced at Harker, then exhaled. "Three clusters of explosive reactive crystals have been set around the city."
The words hit Rook like a hammer.
Davin swore, his entire body tensing beside him.
"Where?" Rook demanded.
Grendon hesitated.
"Where, Grendon?!"
The bearded man's eyes narrowed, his shoulders squaring like a man preparing for a storm. "The eastern gate. The Whispers."
The Whispers.
Right here.
The world tilted for a fraction of a second, then snapped back into focus.
Rook's pulse hammered in his ears. Explosive reactive crystals weren't just destructive—they were city killers. A single well-placed charge could level entire streets, send buildings crumbling, reduce entire neighborhoods to dust and bone.
And one was sitting somewhere nearby, waiting to detonate.
"You bastards." Davin's voice was a raw snarl. "You'd burn this whole district down?"
Harker's smile was razor-thin. "It's already dead. We're just making sure it stays that way."
Something inside Rook snapped.
His body moved before his mind could process it, the weight of his weapon suddenly in his hand. A single second of stillness—then the world exploded into motion.
Davin launched forward, his blade flashing through the mist, forcing Grendon to stumble back, barely parrying in time.
Rook went for Harker.
The two men collided, steel clashing, sparks flying. The other Syndicate members reacted instantly, shouts ringing through the street as they surged forward, twenty men against two.
Rook didn't care.
He swung his saber in a brutal arc, forcing Harker back, his expression twisting into something halfway between amusement and exhilaration.
"That's more like it!" Harker hissed, twisting away from Rook's next strike, only to lash out with his own. Rook barely dodged the dagger aimed for his throat, his boots skidding against wet stone.
Davin was a whirlwind of steel, his blade catching the dim light as he tore into the first man who lunged for him.
The Syndicate closed in, bodies pressing from all sides.
Rook gritted his teeth, knocking a pistol aside just as someone tried to shoot him point-blank. The gun fired wildly, the bullet whistling past his ear.
Then came the knives.
The first blade caught his coat, slicing fabric but missing flesh.
The second one was faster.
Pain exploded in his side.
Rook grunted, twisting before the blade could go deeper, his sword flashing up to cut across his attacker's chest.
Davin was beside him in an instant, his breathing heavy, his stance low.
"Twenty men against two." Davin spat blood onto the ground. "Not exactly fair."
Rook exhaled sharply, a grin tugging at his lips despite the pain.
"Yeah? I like our odds."
The Syndicate men closed in again, blades gleaming, the mist thickening around them like a closing fist.
And the battle was just beginning.
*
The southern gate district was alive with chaos.
What had once been a street filled with the scents of baked bread and sizzling meats, with the hum of merchants calling out to last-minute shoppers and festival-goers, had turned into a battlefield.
Tess barely had time to duck as a hatchet sailed over her head, splitting a wooden beam behind her with a sickening crunch. She whipped around, boots skidding against the stone, her twin knives flashing in her grip.
To her left, Marin was already in motion, her fists dancing like a serpent's fang, sweeping through the air and forcing back three of Ivara's enforcers at once. Callen stood firm nearby, his sword gleaming as he parried an incoming strike with brutal efficiency.
And then, Ivara stepped forward.
Her silver-threaded cloak barely moved as she advanced, her every motion fluid, graceful, deadly. The torchlight flickered against the curved dagger in her hand, and her green eyes glowed with something cold and merciless.
"Tch. You should've stayed out of this," she murmured, voice calm even as the battle raged.
Tess spat blood onto the cobblestones. "Yeah? You should've brought more men."
Ivara smirked. Then she lunged.
Tess barely caught the movement.
Ivara's dagger blurred, a silver streak aimed straight for Tess's ribs. She twisted, just enough to avoid a lethal strike, but the blade grazed her side, slicing through her jacket.
Pain bit into her flesh.
Tess gritted her teeth, ignored the sting, and retaliated—her right-hand dagger flashed forward, aiming for Ivara's neck.
But Ivara was faster.
With an almost lazy movement, she leaned back, Tess's blade whistling past her face. Then, with a flick of her wrist, Ivara's dagger came up—and Tess barely raised her other knife in time to catch it.
Steel screeched against steel.
Ivara's eyes gleamed. "Not bad."
Then she pushed off, spinning away, her cloak billowing behind her like shadowed silk.
Tess exhaled sharply, shifting her stance. Her knives felt heavy, but she couldn't afford hesitation. Not with fifteen Syndicate enforcers swarming them.
And speaking of them—
To her left, Marin was a blur of motion, her blade slicing through the air with precise, lethal strikes. She also had employed her Iron Reinforcement into her fight style, using it to repel incoming attacks.
A Syndicate thug lunged for him with a spear, but Marin sidestepped smoothly, twisting her body around and cracking the weapon against the attacker's temple. She then took it for her own.
The man staggered, dazed—just long enough for Marin to spin the spear and drive the butt of it into the man's gut, sending him crumpling.
But there was no time to celebrate.
Two more men came at her immediately.
One swung a heavy war pick, its hooked end aimed for Marin's shoulder. Marin ducked low, then jabbed her spear forward with pinpoint accuracy, striking the attacker in the knee.
A scream.
The second man, wielding twin short swords, took the opening—he darted in, blades flashing like a pair of fangs.
Marin snapped the spear upward, catching one of the swords with the wooden haft, but the other blade carved across his upper arm.
He hissed through clenched teeth.
The pain was nothing. The battle wasn't over yet.
With a sudden, powerful twist of her spear, Marin knocked the swordsman off balance—and Callen was already there.
The sword came down like a falling executioner's axe.
Steel met flesh.
The swordsman collapsed, gurgling, blood pooling beneath him.
Callen didn't even pause, turning to intercept another foe.
His blade locked with a Syndicate enforcer's, their weapons clashing in a storm of sparks. Callen was stronger, but his opponent was faster, weaving around his strikes, trying to slip past his guard.
Then the enforcer's eyes flicked behind Callen.
Tess saw it before he did.
"Behind you!" she shouted.
But Callen was already moving.
Instead of turning, he dropped low—just as another attacker swung at where his neck had been.
The blow missed.
Callen's broadsword lashed out, tearing across the attacker's thigh before he even had a chance to react. He howled in agony, collapsing.
"Thanks, Tess!" Callen called, breathless.
"Buy me a drink later!" Tess shot back, already dancing away from another Syndicate blade.
The street was a churning mass of bodies, steel flashing, boots scraping against stone, the scent of blood thick in the cold air.
Marin, Callen, and Tess fought with everything they had, but the Syndicate enforcers were relentless, disciplined.
And then—
Marin saw it.
Out of the corner of her eye, he caught a glimpse of Ivara again—this time, closing the distance on Tess with alarming speed.
Tess had just finished dispatching one of the enforcers, her breath heavy, blood on her cheek.
And she didn't see Ivara coming.
Marin's stomach twisted.
"Tess! Move!"
Tess turned—but too late.
Ivara's dagger arced downward, and Tess barely managed to bring her knives up in time.
Steel met steel—but Ivara pressed forward, her weight behind the strike, pushing Tess back against a nearby wooden crate.
Ivara smirked, breathless. "You're good. But you're getting tired."
Tess growled, struggling against the pressure, trying to shove Ivara off.
"Too bad," Ivara murmured. "You won't last much longer."
Marin moved before thinking.
Her spear whistled through the air, aimed directly for Ivara's exposed ribs.
But at the last second, she twisted away—
—and Marin's spear plunged straight into the wooden crate behind her.
Tess used the opening.
She broke free, twisting her entire body to drive a brutal kick into Ivara's stomach.
Ivara staggered back, coughing—but she was still smiling.
Marin yanked her spear free, positioning herself beside Tess.
Across the battlefield, Callen had just finished cutting down another enforcer, blood dripping from his blade. He looked up, breathing hard.
The Syndicate still had numbers on their side.
Fifteen had become nine.
Nine against three.
And Ivara? Still untouched.
She tilted her head, watching them, then gave a soft, almost disappointed sigh.
"Still standing?" she mused. "Fine. Let's end this."
She raised her dagger—and the remaining enforcers closed in.
Marin, Tess, and Callen braced themselves.
The fight was far from over.