Dusken was not a town. It was a wound that had learned how to bleed slow.
Built along the ridgeline where coal once flowed like veins, its alleys slouched between crooked stone and rusted wire. The lamps flickered-not for welcome, but warning. The Syndicate ran things here. No banners. No uniforms. Just silence where justice used to be.
He came under dusk, cloaked and quiet, feet splashing through the gutter-tracks of old soot and rain.
Some had seen him before: the stranger who left Forger's Ford with blood on his boots and no name in the book. Word spread in low places-of a man who didn't speak, who hunted without mercy, and who delivered justice like it was coin owed.
But in Dusken, even ghosts earned names.
Someone whispered it in a cellar before the door slammed shut.
Someone else wrote it on the bounty board.
No one dared erase it.
Zee.
Not much more than a sound. One syllable, cut sharp. But it clung like frost to breath.
He passed The Ember Root tavern without glancing at the window's leering faces. Behind it, a boy was dragged out into the alley. Three Syndicate men followed-two with clubs, one with time to smile.
Zee walked by. And then, three paces later, he turned.
The first Syndicate man died with a boot to the knee and a blade to the ribs.
No warning. Just one clean move-fast enough that the second barely had time to shout.
The second swung wide with his club-Zee stepped in, caught the wrist, slammed the man's face into the wall. Once. Twice. He dropped.
The third stepped back, dagger shaking. "You don't know who I work for," he hissed.
Zee didn't answer. But he took one step closer.
The man ran.
A scrape behind him-quiet, deliberate.
A figure leaned against the alley wall, arms crossed. Sun-burned skin, sharp eyes, a crooked smirk.
"Could've handled that last one quieter," he said, nodding at the unconscious man. "But stylish. I'll give you that."
Zee turned, cautious.
The man straightened and offered a casual salute. "Torren. Freelance bladesman. Enemies: plenty. Allies: usually temporary."
He stepped over the fallen body. "You're Zee, right? Saw you in Ford. Didn't think you were real."
Zee didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Torren tilted his head. "I've got my own reasons to see the Syndicate bleed. They killed someone close. I've been hunting small fry. You... you make them scared."
A pause.
"Partner up? Just long enough to shake the tree."
Zee looked at the filth-streaked stones beneath his feet. Then up.
A nod.
Torren grinned. "Didn't think you were the type to say no."
------
They moved together under moonlight.
The collector's house was tall, iron-gated, surrounded by guards with more coin than caution. Torren took the back, lifting keys from a dozing drunk. Zee passed through the front gate-silent as wind. Two guards. Two shadows left behind pillars.
Inside, they split. One for the coin. One for the ledgers.
When they left, the house was burning.
By sunrise, the collector's body hung from the courthouse archway.
Hooded. Bound. A Syndicate crest scorched into his palm.
No signature. No threat.
Only silence.
And from that day forward, rumors began to gather around a name that no one could trace. A shadow with a blade. A ghost with no master.
Zee.