The city smelled different after fire. Not just smoke, but the stink of fear ground into cobblestones, pressed into hands that shook while they tried to count coin that wasn't enough.
Veyra's message in the plaza had landed, but so had ours. Warehouse 31 burned to its bones, and everyone knew Umbra had struck. The people whispered it when they thought no ears lingered. They whispered it even when Fang stood close, because hope is a stubborn thing.
Veyra couldn't afford those whispers. And that gave us our opening.
"You don't bring down a wall by charging it," I told them in the backroom, candlelight painting shadows up the plaster. "You pull out stones one by one until it collapses on its own."
Mara smirked, her blade laid across her knees. "Then let's start digging."
Jonas just nodded. "Slow. Steady. Walls fall."
The Lexicon pulsed warm under my ribs, like a page agreeing to turn.
---
Strike One: The Tavern
The South Gate tavern was a hive of sweat and sour liquor. Fang lieutenants liked to roost there, because no one dared spill their drinks or cheat their dice.
Jonas walked in through the front door like he belonged. Hood low, shoulders broad, arms crossed in front of his chest. The whole room seemed to bend around him, uncertain whether he was a drunk with shoulders or a wall that had learned to walk.
At a corner table, two lieutenants drank themselves bold. Gold rings glinted on their hands, coin spilled across the table beside their mugs. They laughed too loud, words slurred with arrogance.
"Warehouse goes up in flames, and she still thinks she's queen," one said, shaking his head.
"Queen with knives," the other replied. "I'll drink to that."
Jonas approached without hurry. Their laughter faltered when his shadow fell across the table.
"What are you looking at, ox?" the first sneered.
Jonas didn't answer. He reached down, wrapped his hand around the man's wrist, and squeezed. Bone cracked sharp in the tavern hush. The lieutenant screamed, mug spilling ale across the floor.
The second lunged with a knife, sloppy with drink. Jonas pivoted, grabbed his collar, and slammed him face-first into the table. Wood splintered, coin scattering. The knife clattered away.
No words. No names. Just pain left behind. Jonas walked out as the room stared, silence heavy as stone.
By morning, whispers spread that two lieutenants had been broken by a man who never spoke.
---
Strike Two: The Rooftops
Mara moved like smoke across the rooftops. Fang's smugglers thought the alleys belonged to them. They never looked up.
Below her, a cart creaked through the night, pulled by two weary horses. Four guards flanked it, weapons loose at their sides, coin and relic shards stacked in crates.
Mara crouched low, eyes sharp, waiting until they turned the corner where shadows thickened. Then she dropped.
The first guard never screamed. Her blade slit his throat before he knew he'd been touched. The second whirled, swinging his club. Mara ducked, drove her knife into his ribs, and shoved him against the wall before he could fall.
The last two shouted, blades raised. Mara darted between them, a blur of steel and breath. Her dagger cut tendon, her elbow cracked a jaw, and both men collapsed in blood.
She pried open the crates. Coin gleamed in one. Relic shards rattled in another, faintly glowing with unstable light. In the third, powdered herbs packed tight, the kind Fang boiled into crude stimulants.
Mara pulled a torch from her belt, struck flint, and tossed it in. The herbs went up first, smoke rising thick and ugly. The fire ate through the crates, swallowing coin and shards alike.
By the time Fang's reinforcements arrived, the street was ash and silence.
Mara was already back on the rooftops, blade clean, smile sharp.
---
Strike Three: The Den
My strike was quieter.
The Fang ran a den two streets from the plaza, where coin washed through dice and cards. It stank of sweat and greed, lanterns swinging over tables heavy with noise.
I slipped inside, hood low, just another shadow among gamblers. The Lexicon thrummed in my chest, threads of intent glowing faint around the dealers. Greed. Fear. Pride.
I leaned close to the first, whispering in his ear as he shuffled. "Veyra thinks you keep too much for yourself."
His hands faltered. The cards spilled crooked. His partner noticed, eyes narrowing.
I moved to the next table, murmured the same poison into another ear. "Your friend's been skimming. Veyra knows."
The den buzzed with tension. Dice clattered too sharp, voices cracked, arguments flared. By the time I left, two dealers had drawn blades on each other.
That night, two bodies turned up in the gutter. Fang had gutted themselves, suspicion sharpened into knives.
---
The People
The strikes spread faster than rumors usually did.
Vendors in the market spoke with low voices, heads bent together. "Two lieutenants, broken bones."
"Cart burned in the night. Smoke thick as a funeral."
"Fang men killing each other in their own den."
Children whispered the word Umbra as if it were a spell, something that might keep knives from their throats. Old men leaned heavier on their canes, muttering that maybe shadows could still protect.
And the Fang? They walked meaner, eyes darting into alleys, knives drawn too quick at nothing. They weren't sure where the cuts would land next.
Hope grows fastest in cracks.
---
The Ledger
Back in the shop, the candle burned low, wax running in rivers down the brass holder. Jonas sat silent, blood still dried on his knuckles. Mara leaned against the wall, sharpening her blade with slow strokes.
"They're cracking," Mara said. "Smugglers dead, lieutenants scared, coin in flames. Veyra's wall is rotting."
Jonas nodded. "A wall falls slow. But it falls."
I dipped the pen and wrote into the ledger:
Lieutenants broken. Smugglers cut. Fang bleeds its own blood.
The Lexicon pulsed warm against my chest, calm, steady. Pages turned, not rushed, but sure.
We were still small. Still shadows. But the wall was crumbling, stone by stone.
And when it fell, Veyra would be standing in the rubble.
---
Author's Note (Relic):
Relic Shards (Common): Fragments of destroyed relics. Unstable, faintly glowing. Can be sold, burned, or ground into powders for stimulants. Dangerous in untrained hands, but valuable enough for gangs to kill over.