The guard kneels but does not lower his head fully.
"Reports confirm it," he says. "The boy. Roald. He's been seen entering the lower districts. More than once."
Silence.
The chamber is too large for the number of men in it.
At the far end, Nux stands at the window, hands clasped behind his back. The city stretches beneath him — smoke, stone, movement.
"Alone?" Nux asks.
"Sometimes. Sometimes not. He moves carefully."
A pause.
The old pattern would follow now.
Surveillance. Tail him. Track his routes. Identify contacts. Pull threads.
The guard waits for those instructions.
They do not come.
Nux turns slightly.
Not interested.
"Hire a hunter," he says.
The guard blinks once.
"My lord?"
"Eliminate him."
No heat. No irritation.
Just subtraction.
"He's a courier at best. A symbol at worst." Nux adjusts the cuff at his wrist. "Remove the variable."
"No observation?" the guard asks carefully.
"No."
A beat.
"Make it public if convenient. If not, make it quiet."
The guard bows lower this time.
"It will be done."
Nux has already turned back to the window.
The matter is finished.
The crates are lighter than they look.
That's the first thing Roald learned.
Grain packed tight. Salt wrapped in waxed cloth. Dried fish layered in oilskin to keep the smell down. Stolen clean from a tax convoy that won't dare admit it was robbed.
Liora keeps the ledger in her head.
"Two per household," she says quietly, passing a bundle to an older woman who refuses to meet her eyes. "Stretch it."
The woman nods once. Vanishes inside.
The alley smells like brine and soot. Doors open only a crack. Hands reach. Hands retreat.
No cheering. No speeches.
Just redistribution.
Roald shifts another crate off his shoulder. Sweat crawls down his spine despite the cold. He scans without looking like he's scanning. Rooflines. Windows. Corners.
Routine.
Almost boring.
Liora nudges him with her elbow as they move to the next door.
"You're staring too hard."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He forces his shoulders to loosen.
A child darts out too early. Roald hands over a wrapped bundle and ruffles the boy's hair before Liora can scold either of them.
Normal.
Measured.
Controlled.
A shutter closes somewhere above.
Too fast.
Roald's head tilts slightly.
Probably nothing.
They split without discussing it — Liora takes the far side of the lane to finish the last two houses. Roald loops around to check the side cut that feeds into the main road.
Still routine.
Still quiet.
The alley narrows.
Less brine. More damp stone.
His boot splashes through a thin ribbon of runoff.
He doesn't hear the first step.
He feels it.
A shift in air. A weight behind him that wasn't there before.
He turns—
Impact.
Roald's back hits stone.
The hunter follows through.
Knee planted. Blade rising. Quick work.
Roald grabs for the wrist. Too slow. Too weak.
The strike never lands.
Steel catches steel.
Close. Intimate.
Another presence at the hunter's shoulder.
"Killing a kid," a low voice says. A breath. "Poor selection."
"Move," the hunter growls.
The pressure changes.
Subtle.
Wrong.
He twists.
A slice opens his wrist.
His blade rings against stone.
The world flips.
Elbow to throat.
Ground.
Pinned.
The second blade settles beneath his jaw.
"You were offered options," the voice says quietly.
The hunter glares.
"You chose this."
The blade presses just enough to still him.
A sharp, efficient strike.
Darkness.
Silence rushes back in.
Roald tries to lift his head.
Sees boots.
Gloved hands already at his wound.
Pressure.
Tight.
Clinical.
"You're not the interesting one," the voice mutters.
Not insult.
Fact.
He lifts Roald in one clean motion.
Pauses only once beside the unconscious hunter.
A faint exhale through the nose.
"Next time," he says softly, "aim higher."
Then he's gone.
Shadow carrying weight.
The alley empty again.