The door clicked shut behind Anya's retreating footsteps, leaving only the stale tavern air and Elira's restless fingers drumming against the table. She exhaled sharply. "So.." A pause, then she leaned forward, eyes locked onto Victor's. "What's actually happening?"
Victor rolled his shoulders back, stretching like a wolf settling into its den. "You saw the list."
"That's not what I asked." Her voice dropped low. "You want Marta dead?"
The corner of Victor's mouth twitched. "I want options."
Elira scoffed but didn't argue.
Victor studied the way her weight shifted toward the door, the nervous flicker of her gaze toward his coat pocket where coins usually rested. Predator's instincts told him when prey was weighing flight versus reward.
He leaned back against the bedframe. "You want in?"
Her spine straightened defensively. "Didn't say"
"You don't have to." He reached under the mattress, threadbare straw prickling his knuckles, and pulled out the heavy coin pouch Selene had 'given' him. "But here's the thing. Whether you're in or out, I'm buying information tonight."
Elira's eyes lingered on the pouch.
Victor tossed it onto the table between them.
The weight made the wood groan.
He didn't speak. Just watched.
She exhaled sharply. "Fine." Her fingers twitched toward the pouch, then stopped. "You already met Grisha, Iron Rings' local leash-holder. Runs their pit fights, smuggling sidelines..." A shrug. "Small fish compared to the rest."
Victor nodded once.
Elira wet her lips. "But the Titheless?" Her voice dropped conspiratorially. "They're different."
Victor flicked two fingers, keep talking.
"They not only steal," she whispered, leaning in despite the empty room. "They burn. Noble caravans, tax collectors, whole granaries, gone by dawn." Her fingers traced invisible flames on the tabletop. "And nobody rats because half the Warrens starve without their raids."
Victor's pulse kicked up. "Organized."
"A damn army," Elira corrected. "People tend to think they're just bandits, but..." She hesitated, chewing her lower lip. "Rumor says they've got eyes everywhere. Even nobles' households."
Victor's eyebrow rose.
Her fingers finally closed around the coin pouch, dragging it closer. "If you're looking to crack this city open, that's who you watch." Her eyes glittered, part greed, part warning. "And who watches you back."
Silence stretched.
Victor exhaled through his nose. "How many?"
"Enough." She hesitated, then added reluctantly, "They recruit fighters sometimes. If you're brutal enough."
Victor's head tilted slightly as he studied Elira. The flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the way her fingers tightened around the coin pouch, it was all there, laid bare for someone who knew how to read people. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "That all you got?"
Elira stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "It's what you paid for."
"Don't play coy," he said, his voice low but firm. "If you've got more, now's the time to say it."
She hesitated, then shrugged. "I've got more. Names, places, but I'd need to take notes. Can't carry that kind of detail in my head without risking it spilling out at the wrong moment."
Victor's gaze didn't waver. "Useful places?"
"A few." Her tone was cautious now, as if she wasn't sure how much to give. "Safehouses, smuggling routes, places where the Titheless might gather. But it's not like I've got a map to their hideouts."
He leaned back, his expression unreadable. Elira was sharp, sharper than most in the Warrens. She had instincts, a knack for survival, and a mind that could connect dots others wouldn't even see. But she was still a street thief, scrounging for scraps in a city that would chew her up and spit her out the moment she slipped.
Victor weighed his options. She could be a useful asset if he played it right. But if he left her to her own devices, she'd stay exactly where she was, another nameless rat in the city's underbelly.
He exhaled slowly. "I'm building something," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "Something of my own. After I deal with the mess ahead, I'm going to plant my flag in this shithole of a city. And I'll need people who can think on their feet, who don't fall apart when things get messy."
Elira's eyes narrowed, but she didn't interrupt.
"I don't expect you to show up," he continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "But if you're interested, I'll be moving to a new location after tomorrow. If you want to explore this chance, you'll find me here, getting ready to leave."
Her lips parted, but no words came out. For a moment, the calculating mask she wore slipped, revealing something raw and uncertain beneath.
Victor didn't push. He just sat there, watching her process the offer.
Finally, she stood, the coin pouch clutched tightly in her hand. "I'll think about it," she said, her voice steady but her eyes betraying the storm of thoughts churning behind them.
Victor nodded once. "Good enough."
She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but then turned and left without another word. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Victor alone in the dark room.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Elira was a gamble, but so was everything in this godforsaken city. If she showed up, she could be a valuable piece in the game he was playing. If she didn't, well, he'd lost nothing.
Victor exhaled sharply, tipping the remnants of his coin pouch onto the splintered table. Silver skittered across the wood, still enough for bribes, but thinner than he'd like. He swept half back into the bag, the rest into his boot lining. Never put all your leverage in one place.
The fight wouldn't be clean. Grisha's pits thrived on spectacle, blood, broken bones, desperate men with nothing left to lose. Victor flexed his hands, knuckles already marred with old scars. He needed every advantage, even makeshift ones.
A rough tear split the dingy bed-sheet down its seam. Victor wound the cloth strips around his forearms, tight enough to bite into flesh. Poor man's gambeson, better than nothing when teeth and nails started flying. He secured the last knot with his teeth, tasting dust and mildew.
The chair creaked under his weight as he dropped into it. First real gamble in this shithole world, and his plan amounted to walk in, kill, don't die.
Pathetic.