The Ash District was not on Arven's tourist maps, and for good reason: it smelled of fermented despair, damp charcoal, and cat urine.
Kael walked down the narrow alley, meticulously dodging puddles of dubious origin. His gray servant's tunic blended well with the environment, but his posture—too straight, too confident—betrayed him as an outsider in this ecosystem of misery.
Beside him, Nia advanced with a determination that didn't match her size or age. She wore an old cloak that Aldric had secured, her hood pulled low over her nose, and she walked fast, as if the ground were burning.
'Look at her,' Kael thought, glancing sideways. 'Three days ago she was crying because a guard yelled at her. Now she's heading straight into the city's worst neighborhood as if it were nothing.'
Trauma was a cruel but efficient teacher. It had forged the spoiled girl into something harder, more useful.
"Are you sure it's here?" Kael asked, wrinkling his nose at the stench of an open sewer.
"Yes," Nia whispered, without stopping.
"The washerwomen talked about him. They said he lives where the old mill burned down. They said he spends his days drinking to forget and his nights fighting to remember."
"How poetic," Kael murmured. "The heroic drunkard. I hope he can at least stand up straight."
"He's not a hero," Nia corrected, turning a corner toward a desolate square filled with rubble.
"He's a ghost. His name is Thorne. He used to be a guard at the port warehouses. Until Daemon..."
"Until Daemon set his sights on his sister," Kael finished.
The story was sadly common. A pretty low-class girl. A bored, sadistic noble. A legal system that looked the other way when gold changed hands. Thorne's sister had ended up... badly. And Thorne had ended up here, in the Ashes, with his honor broken and his life shattered.
'Perfect,' Kael thought. 'He's angry and hurting. All I have to do is set that on fire.'
They arrived at the structure of the old mill. It was a skeleton of charred wood and black stone that rose against the gray twilight sky like an accusing finger. There were no doors, just dark openings.
"It's there," Nia pointed. "They say if you get too close, he'll break your bones."
"Charming. Wait for me here."
"I'm coming with you," Nia said instantly.
Kael stopped and looked at her.
"No. I need you to watch the alley entrance. If you see the city guard or anyone who looks like a Kladis mercenary, you throw a stone against the wall. Three knocks."
Nia hesitated but nodded. She understood the hierarchy. Kael was the general, she was the scout.
"Be careful, Kael. They say he's crazy."
"Madness depends on who's looking," Kael replied, and he stepped into the ruins.
The interior of the mill was in gloom. The dying sunlight entered through the collapsed roof, illuminating motes of dust and ash floating in the stagnant air.
In the center, sitting on a broken wooden crate, was a man.
He was big. Not tall like Aldric, but wide. Dense muscle covered in scars and dirt. He had long, greasy hair falling over his face, and a neglected beard that obscured half his features.
He was sharpening a knife. A rhythmic, hypnotic movement. Shhhk. Shhhk. Shhhk.
At his feet, three empty bottles.
Kael stopped five meters away. He crossed his hands behind his back.
"Thorne," he said. His voice echoed in the empty space, clear and unafraid.
The man didn't look up. He kept sharpening.
Shhhk. Shhhk.
"I'm looking for you for a job," Kael continued.
Thorne stopped. He slowly raised his head. His eyes were dark, bloodshot, surrounded by purple shadows. They were the eyes of a man who hadn't slept well in years.
"Get lost," he growled. His voice sounded like gravel being crushed.
"I don't work for children. And I don't work sober."
"I don't need you to carry boxes," Kael said, taking a step forward. "I need someone who hates well."
Thorne let out a dry, humorless laugh.
"Hate is free, kid. I don't charge for it. Now go before I cut off a finger to teach you manners."
He returned to his knife. Complete disinterest.
Kael sighed internally.
'Always the same. The broken ones and their stupid pride. You have to break them more so they'll be useful.'
"Daemon Kladis is getting married in two days," Kael said.
The knife stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy.
Thorne didn't move, but the tension in his shoulders was visible. The muscles in his neck tightened like steel cables.
"To Elara Voss," Kael continued, walking in a semicircle around the man, like a predator evaluating a much larger prey. "A pretty girl. Young. Innocent. Does she remind you of someone?"
Thorne stood up. It was an explosive, violent movement. The wooden crate flew away.
In a second, he had crossed the distance. His hand, large and dirty, grabbed Kael by the tunic collar and lifted him off the ground.
Kael hung, his feet lightly kicking in the air. Thorne's breath reeked of cheap alcohol and fury.
"Don't mention that name!" Thorne roared, spitting as he spoke. "Don't you dare talk about him in my presence!"
Kael didn't fight. He didn't try to break free. He just looked Thorne in the eyes, with that unnatural calm that disconcerted adults and warriors alike.
"Why?" Kael asked, his voice slightly strangled but firm.
"Does it hurt? Does it bother you that he continues to live his life, buying new wives, drinking expensive wine, while your sister rots in the ground and you rot in this hole?"
Thorne tightened his grip. Kael felt the cloth cutting off his breath.
"I'm going to kill you, brat," Thorne hissed.
"Kill me," Kael rasped. "And Daemon will win. Again. He'll win because you're too much of a coward to do anything more than scare children and drink yourself unconscious."
Thorne trembled. Fury struggled with shame in his eyes.
"I'm not a coward," he growled, but his grip loosened a millimeter.
"Yes, you are," Kael insisted, taking advantage of the opening.
"You hide here. You lick your wounds. They call you The Avenger. What a joke. Who did you avenge, Thorne? Who did you save?"
Thorne let him go. Kael fell to the ground, landing agilely on his feet. He adjusted the collar of his tunic, coughing slightly.
Thorne stepped back, running his hands over his face, as if trying to tear off his skin.
"You can't touch him," the man murmured, his voice breaking.
"He has guards. He has money. The Torrens protect him. I tried... I tried going to the guard. I tried going to the magistrate. They laughed at me. They beat me up and threw me into the street."
He dropped to his knees among the rubble, defeated by the memory.
"I am nobody."
Kael observed him.
'There it is. He's hit rock bottom. Now I can use him.'
"You're right," Kael said, approaching again. "You're nobody. You're a drunkard in a ruin. And that's why you're perfect."
Thorne looked up, confused.
"What are you talking about?"
"Daemon believes he's untouchable," Kael explained. "He believes money and his last name protect him. But he has one weakness. His ego. He needs to be adored, to be seen as important."
Kael pulled a folded parchment from his pocket. One of the stolen documents. It wasn't the most important one, but it had the Kladis House seal.
"I have proof, Thorne. I have papers that show the Kladis are criminals. That they owe money. That they are desperate."
"Papers?" Thorne spat on the ground. "Papers are useless. The magistrate will burn them."
"Not if they're read in front of three hundred people," Kael said with a cold smile. "Not if they're read at his own wedding."
Thorne stood motionless. The idea began to filter into his alcohol-clouded brain.
"The wedding?"
"It's going to be the event of the year," Kael said, painting the scene with words. "All the nobles of Arven. The rich merchants. Torren's partners. All watching Daemon be crowned."
Kael crouched in front of Thorne, putting himself at his level.
"Imagine, Thorne. Daemon on the stage, smiling, believing he has won. And then you walk in."
"Me?"
"You. Not as a beggar. We'll give you clothes. We'll give you entry. You go in there and scream to the world what he did to your sister. You scream the truth in his face."
"They'll kill me," Thorne said. "His guards will kill me before I finish speaking."
"No," Kael promised. "Because I'll be there. And my men will be there. We'll create chaos. We'll give you the stage. And when you speak... when you accuse... we will show the evidence."
Kael placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I don't offer you gold. I don't offer you a better life. I offer you five minutes."
Thorne's eyes locked onto Kael's.
"Five minutes," he repeated.
"Five minutes to destroy him. Five minutes to see fear in his eyes. Five minutes to give justice to your sister."
Thorne looked at his calloused hands. Hands that had failed to protect what he loved most. Then he looked at the knife on the ground.
Slowly, a transformation occurred. The posture of defeat disappeared. His back straightened. His jaw tightened.
The Avenger was not dead. He was just asleep.
"And after?" Thorne asked. "After the five minutes?"
Kael shrugged.
"Afterward, all hell breaks loose. And if we survive, Daemon Kladis will be a corpse or a beggar. You choose if that's worth it."
Thorne stood up. He looked bigger now. More solid.
He picked up his knife and sheathed it at his belt.
"When?" he asked.
"Two days," Kael replied. "I need you to be sober. I need you to be clean. And I need you to be angry."
"I'm always angry," Thorne growled.
"Good. Nia will tell you where to find us tomorrow. We'll give you what you need."
Thorne nodded. There was no handshake. No smiles. Just a pact of blood and hatred sealed in the shadows of a burned mill.
Kael turned around and walked out into the twilight.
Nia was waiting at the alley entrance, nervous, playing with the hem of her cloak. When she saw Kael, she ran to him.
"Are you okay? I heard shouts. I thought..."
"It's done," Kael said, walking fast. "We have him."
Nia looked toward the dark mill.
"Did he accept?"
"He accepted."
They walked in silence away from the Ash District. The "respectable" city began to appear, with its lamps lit and its clean streets.
"Kael," Nia said after a while.
"What?"
"The documents... you said they weren't enough. That they weren't good for justice."
"And they're not," Kael confirmed. "Legally, they're dead paper. Torren has bought judges."
"Then... why did you tell Thorne they would work?"
Kael stopped and looked at the girl. She was learning fast. Too fast.
"Because the documents aren't the weapon, Nia. They're the shield," Kael explained, resuming his walk. "The documents prove financial fraud. But fraud is boring. People don't care about other people's money."
He pointed toward the upper part of the city, where the Kladis mansion shone in the distance.
"But scandal... rape, abuse, cruelty... people understand that. People hate that. Thorne is the weapon. He is the emotion. He is the face of the victim."
Nia frowned, processing the cold logic.
"You're going to use his pain."
"I'm going to use his pain to save your sister," Kael corrected. "It's a fair trade."
"What if they kill him?"
"Then he'll die telling the truth. More than most get."
Kael knew he sounded cruel. He knew he was manipulating a broken man for his own ends. Thorne was a battering ram. He was going to be thrown against the doors of Kladis castle to break them, and he would likely break himself in the process.
But it was necessary.
'Public humiliation,' Kael thought. 'That's the key.'
Nikolas Kladis was a businessman. He could survive a loss of money. But he couldn't survive the loss of "face." He couldn't survive being exposed as a monster in front of his partners, in front of Lord Torren.
And Lord Torren... Torren was a noble. A man of reputation. If Kladis became a radioactive pariah, a walking scandal, Torren would have to cut ties. He would have to abandon him to save himself.
'Separate them and I win.'
The plan was evolving. It was no longer just a robbery. It was a play. A tragedy in three acts.
Elara was the sacrificed maiden.
Thorne was the tragic avenger.
Nikolas and Daemon were the villains.
And Kael... Kael was the director, invisible in the shadows, pulling the strings so that the stage would collapse on all of them.
"Nia," Kael said when they reached the safer streets. "Tomorrow we have to find clothes for Thorne. Something that looks decent but poor. Clothes for an honest man who has fallen into disgrace."
"Understood," Nia said.
"And we have to prepare Elara. She has to know when to cry. When to look at Thorne. When to faint."
"Faint?"
"Drama, Nia. People love it. If Elara faints at the exact moment, no one will see the papers. They'll only see a victim."
They arrived at the Voss residence. The temporary door that Aldric had improvised was closed.
Aldric opened it at the first knock. He held his sword in his hand and seemed relieved to see them.
"You took a while," he growled. "Did you find him?"
"We found him," Kael said, entering the house. "And he's very, very angry."
Aldric closed and bolted the door.
"Good. An angry man is useful. An angry and drunk man is a problem."
"He'll be sober," Kael assured. "Hate is a better stimulant than wine."
He headed to the table where the documents were still scattered, now organized into piles by topic.
Kael picked up the marriage contract. He looked at it with contempt.
'A piece of paper. A signature. And they think they own the world with this.'
"Tomorrow," Kael said to the empty room, although Aldric and Nia were listening. "Tomorrow we rehearse. And the day after tomorrow... the day after tomorrow we teach the Kladis the true price of ambition."
He turned to Nia.
"Go to sleep. You've done a good job today."
Nia smiled, tired but proud.
"Thank you, Kael."
She went up the stairs.
Kael remained with Aldric.
"Are you sure about this?" the knight asked quietly. "Putting an unstable civilian in the middle of a delicate operation..."
"Chaos is a ladder, Aldric," Kael replied, quoting a philosophy he was only beginning to understand but instinctively felt was right. "If we play by their rules, we lose," Kael answered. "They have guards, silver, power. We have to break the rules. Make the wedding a disaster."
Aldric shook his head, resigned.
"You're terrifying when you think like that."
"I'm efficient," Kael said. "And you are going to make sure Thorne arrives at the stage alive. That is your mission. Protect the Avenger until he opens his mouth."
"And after?"
"Afterward... every man for himself."
Kael blew out the oil lamp. Darkness filled the room.
In the Ash District, Thorne was sharpening his knife.
In the Kladis mansion, Daemon was drinking to celebrate his future victory.
In the Torren residence, an ambitious lord dreamed of monopolies.
And in the darkness of the Voss living room, a boy smiled, knowing he held the fire that would burn everything down.