The alley smelled of blood and old piss. Kael Thorne spat iron from his mouth and dragged his sword across the cobbles, bootheels slipping on something slick.
"Bastards," he muttered, wiping sweat and rain from his eyes. "Could've waited until I was drunk, at least."
Three corpses sprawled around him, men he'd drunk with only two nights ago, dice-players and card cheats, mercenaries from the Black Vultures company. Now their throats gaped like split pigs, their eyes wide with the same disbelief Kael had felt when the blades first came out.
Brothers-in-arms don't stab each other in the dark. Not unless gold's involved.
"Kael!" a voice snarled from the shadows. More boots scuffed, steel hissed free.
Of course more of them. The Vultures never did anything half-measured.
Kael's grin was quick and vicious. "Good. Thought you were all cowards."
A shape lunged at him, blade flashing. Kael twisted, let the sword scrape sparks off the stone wall, and drove his elbow into the attacker's jaw. Teeth cracked. He finished the job with a stab up through the gut, then shoved the body aside.
Another came at him from behind — Kael ducked, spun, and slashed low, hamstringing the man before driving steel through his back. The scream echoed between the close stone walls, thin and desperate.
The fight should've ended quick. It didn't. They kept coming.
By the time Kael staggered out into the lamplight at the end of the alley, seven Vultures lay cooling behind him. His shirt clung with sweat and blood — not all of it theirs. A slice ran deep across his ribs, burning every time he breathed. His swordarm trembled.
And standing in the lamplight, blocking the street, was Darric Varne.
Darric, captain of the Black Vultures. Darric, the man who'd recruited Kael with promises of gold and brotherhood. Darric, the one who'd shared Kael's bread in camps and whores in taverns.
And now, Darric with a blade in hand and murder in his eyes.
"You should've stayed loyal, Kael."
Kael wiped his sword on a dead man's cloak and barked a laugh. "Loyalty? That what this is? You sent pups at me in an alley. Seven of 'em. Didn't even buy me a drink first."
Darric's jaw tightened. "Orders are orders. Coin's coin."
Kael tilted his head. "Whose coin?"
Silence. That was answer enough.
The street was empty, rain whispering against broken cobbles, lamps flickering like they feared to watch. The whole damned city of Korrath was dying anyway — walls crumbling, thieves ruling the night, and now mercenaries gutting their own for scraps of silver.
Kael rolled his shoulders, ignoring the way blood stuck his shirt to his skin. "Well. If it's coin that bought my head, I hope it was a fat purse. Because you'll have to earn it."
Darric's mouth curled in something like regret. Then he lunged.
The clash rang out hard and fast. Darric was stronger, heavier, his strikes meant to crush. Kael fought quicker, darting and twisting, sword scraping sparks, boots skidding on wet stone. Pain gnawed at his side, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.
"You could've led men," Darric snarled between blows. "You could've had rank. Command!"
"Command what? Idiots like you?" Kael spat blood at his boots. "Pass."
Their blades locked, steel grinding against steel, faces inches apart. Rain dripped from Darric's scarred brow. Kael smelled wine on his breath.
"You're already dead," Darric growled.
"Then let's see if the grave has room for two."
Kael shoved, broke the lock, ducked under a killing swing, and rammed his sword up through Darric's chest. The captain's eyes widened. His mouth worked soundlessly as blood bubbled over his lips.
Kael twisted the blade, yanked it free, and let the man collapse into the gutter.
For a long moment he just stood there, panting, blood dripping from sword and body alike. The rain washed red streams along the cobbles, carrying his captain away piece by piece.
The Black Vultures were finished for him. No company. No coin. No brothers left alive who wouldn't gladly slit his throat on sight.
Kael sheathed his sword and lit a stolen pipe with shaking hands. The smoke tasted bitter, but it steadied him.
"Should've known better," he muttered into the dark. "Should've known the day you call someone 'friend,' you're already planning which knife you'll use in their back."
The wind shifted. Somewhere to the east, thunder rolled.
Kael looked up at the storm clouds gathering over the mountains, black and swollen like the world itself was rotting.
Something was coming.
He didn't know what. Didn't care yet.
For now, he was alive. And that was enough.