"Bonny only ever came to the Guild once. That was three months ago," Roy said. "But her presence is thick within this place. Half of it is filled with her associates. The other half? People who owe her far too many favors."
Lariat slid two carats across the counter and gestured toward a bottle of bitter wine behind Roy. With practiced ease, Roy retrieved the bottle and placed it on the counter. He reached under the bar for a diamond-shaped glass, wiped its insides with a cloth, and poured the frigid wine. Sliding the glass across the counter, he smiled. "You're quite the man of taste."
Lariat took a slow sip, letting the flavor flirt with his tongue. He swirled it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. "I try."
"Word has it she's set up a hub up north," Roy continued, "gathering the local thieves for a stint at the 'Manor.' Which manor, we don't know. But the price? It's good. Around five hundred carats—five bars."
"That's steep for a simple stint," Lariat said, narrowing his eyes. "Especially for a noble's yard. That's… quite a lot."
"It is. But you won't believe this." Roy leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Bonny had a lover who lived out in the country. The place? Razed to the ground. No one knows who's responsible, but she's furious. Might be why she's organizing the stint."
"Is that so?" Lariat's tone was dry, dismissive. "Hope the fucker's dead and buried." He waved the information off like a bad smell. "Give me something more concrete."
Roy sighed, leaning back. "If you want to meet her, you'll need to request an appointment. Everyone here? Just foot soldiers. No reach. No power. But I've heard a noble by the name of Alexandria has been using her services for years. Nightly services."
The name hit Lariat like a ghost's whisper. **Alexandria.** He knew it well—too well. To someone like him, Alexandria wasn't a noble. He was a victim. For lack of better phrasing, Alexandria was his personal banker. All the wealth the man flaunted? Blanc had taken his share, time and time again, under the cover of shadow. The name stirred memories he'd thought he'd buried—a decadent past he was desperate to leave behind. But history had a way of repeating itself.
"I see. Call this a tip," Lariat said, sliding an extra three carats across the counter. "It's been nice meeting you, Roy. Hopefully, the next time we meet will be under better circumstances."
"I'm always joyful," Roy replied instinctively, his smile unwavering.
"That depends."
Lariat said no more. His proverbial clock ticked in the back of his mind. Time was a luxury he couldn't afford to waste.
The stench hit him again as he pushed through the door and stepped outside, draining what little joy he'd managed to gather. He patted his pockets, ensuring the pouch of carats he'd "borrowed" earlier was still there. It was a shame, really—those fifty pieces were his last. An honest living didn't suit someone like him. He'd tried. For fifteen years, he'd tried.
He followed the road, staying in the shadows until he crossed the invisible border between the slums and the city. The foul stench of the slums gave way to the cleaner air of the city, but the weight on his shoulders remained.
He blended in with his black dress pants, coat, and hat. All black. The city itself, though, had a way of overwhelming the senses with its gaudy luxury—gold pillars, street accessories lit with mana stones, and an excess of wealth on display at every corner. Cars rolled along immaculate roads, the latest ones powered by some genius magician's invention from over two centuries ago.
The residential houses were opulent gems crafted from metals and enchanted materials. Swirling runes hovered around each property—protective talismans and formations that had become mainstream at the turn of the century. Lariat came from a time when such things were rare, reserved for the greatest Mystic Corporations, the stupendously wealthy, or hidden clans. Things had changed.
Alexandria lived in the centermost ring of Lortorn City. Like all important cities in Eglasia, Lortorn was divided into four rings—and an unofficial fifth. Lariat stood on the periphery of the fourth ring, where the lower-class citizens lived. It would have stayed that way, too, if not for Dr. Elweek's invention of the Diffusion Array, which allowed near-instant travel between arrays.
His safe house was on the lower west side of Bree Street, nestled among the quietest neighbors he'd ever encountered. He'd purchased it a year ago, intending for it to become their new home once Beth went through her Awakening. Now, it was hollow. Pointless.
He pushed open the door and hung his coat on the rack beside it. The silence was deafening. It lulled him into a trance, flashing Beth's features in his mind—her face contorted in horrendous fear. **Wait a little longer,** he thought, clenching his fist. Shoving the negativity aside, he rushed down the hallway and straight into the bedroom.
He tossed the coin sack onto the desk near the east window, then scrambled to the bed, lifting it to reveal a large black briefcase hidden beneath. The darkness of the case felt like a chain, pulling him back into his past. Memories of flings, flirtations with death, and the lecherous addiction to danger clawed at his mind.
**Click.**
He opened it, revealing an immaculate tuxedo—a shade of black so deep it seemed to absorb light. He ran his fingers along its durable fabric, the mana orbs above him casting a faint blue glint on its surface. In the reflection, he caught sight of silver strands threading through his once-youthful hair.
He coughed, snapping his head to the side as blood stained the wooden floor. Without his golden core, he was dying. The thousands of years of life he'd gained through relentless cultivation were slipping away, his youth regressing into old age. He didn't know how much longer he had before he turned to dust. Bonny Clyde was his only chance—his last hope of restoring his strength.
If she still had the wretched scroll they'd stolen from the Immortal Blackrym Institute of Higher Learning forty years ago, he might survive. Back then, they'd dismissed its ideas as cruel and pointless. Now? He was willing to do whatever it took.
Wiping the blood from his lips, he grabbed the tuxedo.
He moved with ritualistic precision, laying out the three-piece antique on the bed. He switched off the mana orb, lighting twelve candles on the desk. Closing the curtains, he stared into the opulent mirror—a reflection of the aging man behind it. What he saw unnerved him. Dull, gray eyes filled with too much humanity. Too much love. Too much pain.
He exhaled, releasing a long breath.
With a scowl as sharp as a razor's edge, he tore apart the visage of a father. He diced it into pieces and hurled it into the abyss of his mind. Lariat wasn't needed anymore. As much as it pained him, as much as it burned like molten lava in his chest, he reached into the darker parts of himself.
Blanc stepped forward. Blanc wasn't a father. Blanc was something else entirely.