The chamber was quiet in the way only carefully constructed rooms could be.
No drafts. No echo. No accidental sound.
Nux stood before the long table, hands resting lightly against polished stone. His palm was wrapped — clean linen, precise binding. The wound beneath it no longer bled.
Across from him, three officers waited.
"The river incidents continue," one began. "Minor structural sabotage along the eastern bend. No casualties. Patrol disruption lasting—"
"Seven minutes," Nux said.
The officer blinked. "Yes."
Nux did not look at him.
Seven minutes to strike. Seven minutes to withdraw. Seven minutes to vanish.
Not chaos.
Discipline.
He turned slightly, gaze drifting toward the tall window overlooking Dillaclor's upper tiers. Marble towers caught the afternoon light perfectly. Order restored. Clean. Elevated.
Yet something moved beneath it.
Not visibly.
But deliberately.
"They are testing response times," Nux said quietly.
No one answered.
He flexed his bandaged hand once, slow.
"They believe proximity to the river shields them."
He finally faced the officers.
"Remove that assumption."
A pause.
"Reduce visible patrols along the eastern quay."
One of the men frowned slightly. "Reduce, sir?"
"Visibly," Nux corrected.
Understanding dawned.
"And the remainder?"
"Reposition them outside lantern range."
The officer hesitated. "If they take the opening—"
"They will," Nux replied.
Calm certainty.
"And when they do?"
Nux's eyes settled on him fully now.
"Identify who moves to stabilize."
The room stilled.
He wasn't hunting the loudest.
He was hunting the necessary.
After a measured silence, he added:
"No arrests."
That shifted the air.
"Observation only?"
Nux adjusted the cuff over his palm.
"If an opportunity presents itself," he said evenly, "you will act."
The officer's throat moved. "Act, sir?"
A beat.
"Decisively."
Silence.
The order was understood.
Not public. Not declared.
But real.
Nux turned away first.
"Dismissed."
As they exited, he remained at the window.
The city gleamed beneath him.
He did not smile.
He did not rage.
He simply watched the river.
Waiting to see who surfaced.
Behind stone and mortar, unseen beyond a service corridor long forgotten by most of the palace, Mallious stood motionless.
He had not meant to listen.
But he had heard enough.
Reduce patrols.
No arrests.
Act decisively.
His eyes closed once.
So.
The constrictor had shifted tactics.
Now came the strike.
He moved at once.
A servant was summoned — young, loyal, still bowing too deeply when addressing him.
"My king," the servant whispered.
Mallious did not correct the title.
He wrote quickly at a narrow desk, ink scratching across parchment with efficient precision.
No flourishes.
No wasted breath.
When he finished, he folded the letter and pressed his old signet into wax. The seal bore the faint impression of a craftsman's mark — subtle, but unmistakable to the right eyes.
"You will deliver this," Mallious said, placing it into the servant's hands. "To the cave near the northern bend. If not there, ask nothing. Leave it secured in stone. Do not speak of it."
The servant nodded fervently.
"For the safety of the realm?" he asked.
"For what remains of it," Mallious replied.
The servant departed.
Mallious remained standing long after the footsteps faded.
"You move too quickly," he murmured toward the distant river.
Emberwake drifted low along the current, its hull dark against the water, smoke venting thin and disciplined.
On deck, Roald leaned against a crate, watching the skyline.
"They've thinned out," he said.
Wilkinson adjusted a brass fitting near the engine housing. "Visible presence, yes."
Roald frowned. "That's good, isn't it?"
Wilkinson did not look up. "No."
Isobel stood near the bow, scanning rooftops rather than docks.
"Too open," she muttered.
Liora emerged from below deck, pale but smiling faintly. "You all look like someone stole your tools."
Roald huffed. "They pulled patrols."
"That's either a mistake," Wilkinson said quietly, "or bait."
Isobel's jaw tightened.
Liora shifted her weight. "I'll be back in a moment."
No one questioned it.
Routine.
She stepped off the narrow gangplank toward a thicket of river reeds not far from the hull. The boat's low engine pulse masked the faint sound of her boots against damp soil.
The river seemed calm.
Too calm.
A shadow detached from the tree line behind her.
The hunter moved with professional patience.
He had already dealt with the courier an hour prior — a nervous servant asking the wrong questions near the northern bend. The letter had been interesting enough to keep.
Loose threads.
He adjusted his gloves slowly, savoring the quiet before impact.
From beneath his coat, he removed a compact detonation device — shaped iron casing, short fuse already hissing faintly.
He stepped once into clearer view.
Liora turned.
Recognition flickered — too late.
"For Dillaclor," he said, and there was unmistakable pleasure in it.
He threw.
The explosion tore the quiet in half.
Emberwake rocked violently as the blast split soil and reeds into fire and mud.
Roald hit the deck hard.
Wilkinson swore once — sharply — already moving.
"Liora!" Roald shouted.
Isobel did not shout.
She was already gone.
She cleared the gangplank before the smoke settled.
The hunter was retreating into the treeline, composed despite the ringing in his ears.
He did not expect pursuit that fast.
Isobel hit him from the side like a released bowstring.
Steel flashed.
He blocked once — twice — surprise giving way to exhilaration.
"There you are," he breathed.
Her answer was the crack of his knee bending the wrong direction.
He dropped.
She followed through without pause, blade carving across his shoulder joint. Something tore.
His weapon fell.
He tried to roll, to reach for a secondary blade.
She pinned his wrist into mud.
The sword's edge rested against his throat.
Behind her, smoke curled above shattered reeds.
"You were warned," he said, smiling through blood.
Her expression did not change.
From inside his coat — slow, deliberate — he withdrew a folded parchment.
Sealed.
Unopened.
He held it between two shaking fingers, watching her reaction with open fascination.
"I removed the courier," he said softly. "You're isolated now."
Isobel took the letter without lifting the blade.
The seal caught what little light filtered through smoke.
Her grip tightened almost imperceptibly.
The hunter's smile widened despite the blood in his teeth.
"Run," he whispered. "Let's see if you're fast enough."
For half a second — a razor-thin sliver of time — the blade pressed harder.
Then she withdrew it.
Not mercy.
Prioritization.
She rose and ran.
Behind her, the hunter lay in mud, knee shattered, shoulder ruined, staring up through drifting ash — still smiling.
Liora lay amid torn earth and splintered reed stems.
Shrapnel had torn through her side.
Wilkinson's hands were already inside the damage, precise, steady, red.
"Stay with me," he said, voice level.
Roald hovered, shaking.
"She's breathing — right? She's breathing?"
"Boil water," Wilkinson ordered. "Now."
Roald ran.
Isobel arrived, dropping beside them. Blood streaked her sleeve — not her own.
"He's alive," she said.
Wilkinson didn't respond.
Isobel placed the letter on the deck beside him.
The seal faced upward.
Wilkinson saw it.
Stopped.
Just for a fraction.
Then he tore it open with blood-slick fingers.
His eyes moved quickly across the lines.
They darkened.
He handed it to Isobel.
Three sentences.
He abandons containment.
Movement will be answered with eradication.
Change your patterns immediately.
The river lapped softly against Emberwake's hull.
Smoke thinned into nothing.
Liora's breathing hitched.
Once.
Twice.
Held.
Wilkinson pressed harder.
"Not yet," he murmured.