The slums sprawled before Malric like a rotting carcass, the air thick with the stench of waste and despair. Narrow, twisting alleys crisscrossed the district, lined with crooked buildings that leaned together as if conspiring in their decay. Dirty children darted between beggars, merchants, and shadowy figures, their faces hollow from hunger and fear. This was no place of opportunity—only a hunting ground for predators of another kind.

Malric moved silently through the filth-strewn streets, his cloak pulled tight to obscure his unnatural frame. He had no need to breathe, but the cloying smell clung to him like a second skin. Beneath his hood, his hollow sockets scanned the faces of the slum's denizens, seeking anything that might point him toward the tannery.

"The Basilisk's Fang thrives in rot," he mused, his bony fingers brushing against the hilt of his blade. "And this place reeks of it."

Eventually, he spotted his mark—a squat, decrepit building nestled at the slum's edge, its blackened walls belching acrid smoke into the night. The tannery loomed like a festering wound, its presence an assault on the senses. Guards loitered near the entrance, their weapons glinting in the dim light of oil lanterns.

Malric crouched in the shadows, blending into the darkness as he observed the tannery's defenses. The guards moved with a lazy confidence, their patrols uneven and their focus dulled by familiarity. Yet their numbers were concerning—more than a dozen by his count.

He shifted his attention to the building itself. Large vats filled with unidentifiable liquids lined the interior, visible through the open windows. Workers moved mechanically between them, their faces drawn and weary. Above, a dim light shone from a second-floor window, suggesting a private office.

"The lieutenant will be there," Malric surmised. "If anyone knows how to find the Fang, it will be him."

He studied the side of the tannery, where a smaller, less-guarded entrance beckoned. It was still a risk, but the main door was a death trap.

Malric slipped around the tannery’s perimeter, his skeletal frame moving with inhuman precision. The side entrance was unlocked, its rusted hinges creaking faintly as he pushed it open and slipped inside.

The interior was worse than he had imagined. The air was thick with the acrid stench of chemicals and rotting flesh, the floor slick with unidentifiable filth. He moved silently among the vats, careful to stay out of sight.

Voices echoed from a nearby corridor. Two workers, their faces obscured by grime and exhaustion, shuffled past, speaking in hushed tones.

"They say the shipment’s coming in tomorrow," one said.

"The lieutenant’s been on edge," replied the other. "Guess the higher-ups aren’t happy with how things are running here."

Malric filed the information away, continuing toward the staircase at the back of the room. His skeletal hands clenched into fists as he ascended, the creak of each step like a drumbeat in the silence.

The second floor was quieter, the air heavy with the faint scent of tobacco and damp wood. At the end of a narrow hallway, a door stood ajar, faint light spilling out into the gloom.

Malric approached cautiously, his movements a study in silence. Inside, a man sat behind a cluttered desk, his greasy hair plastered to his forehead. Ledgers and maps were strewn about, along with small pouches of dried herbs and powders—drugs, Malric assumed, likely the Fang's lifeblood.

The man looked up just as Malric stepped inside, his eyes narrowing. "Who the hell are—"

Malric moved with blinding speed, his clawed hand closing around the man's throat and slamming him against the wall.

"You’re going to tell me everything," Malric hissed, his voice low and menacing.

The lieutenant struggled, his hands clawing uselessly at Malric’s arm. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!"

Malric tightened his grip, the bones in his hand creaking ominously. "Don’t waste my time."

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The man’s eyes darted to the desk, where a dagger lay within reach. He lunged for it, only for Malric to slam him back against the wall with enough force to crack the plaster.

"Let’s try this again," Malric growled. "The Basilisk’s Fang. Where are they?"

The man coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "I—I don’t know! I just run this place! Please, I don’t know where the main hideout is!"

Malric’s grip loosened slightly. "Then tell me who does."

The lieutenant hesitated, his eyes wide with fear. "There’s a meeting tomorrow... A shipment. One of the higher-ups might show."

"Where?"

"The docks! Warehouse 17!" the man blurted, his voice shaking.

Malric released him, letting the man slump to the floor. "Good. You’ve been helpful."

The man looked up, hope flickering in his eyes—just as Malric’s clawed hand lashed out, snapping his neck with a sickening crack.

Malric slipped back into the shadows, leaving chaos in his wake. The tannery was on high alert, shouts echoing through the building as guards searched for the intruder. But Malric was already gone, blending into the night like a wraith.

As he moved through the slums, his mind turned over what he had learned. The Basilisk’s Fang was a hydra, its many heads hidden behind layers of deceit and misdirection. Each piece of the organization served as a shield for the ones above, a labyrinth of pawns and scapegoats designed to protect the true masterminds.

"But even a hydra can be slain," Malric thought, his skeletal grin widening beneath his hood. "You just have to know where to strike."

Malric moved with purpose through the winding streets of the city, the stench of the tannery still clinging to him. The lieutenant's words echoed in his hollow skull: Warehouse 17, the docks. It wasn’t much, but it was the first tangible lead he’d had since he began his search for the Basilisk’s Fang.

The city was quieter now, the chaotic bustle of the day replaced by the eerie stillness of night. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, broken only by the occasional flicker of torchlight. Malric avoided the watchful eyes of the city guards, sticking to the back alleys and keeping his hood low.

As he approached the docks, the salty tang of the sea mingled with the smell of rotting fish and damp wood. The sound of waves lapping against the pier was punctuated by the occasional creak of ships swaying in their moorings. Ahead, the warehouses loomed like silent sentinels, their darkened windows staring out over the water.

Malric paused in the shadows of a crumbling building, his sockets scanning the scene before him. Warehouse 17 stood near the edge of the docks, its massive wooden doors reinforced with iron bands. Lanterns cast pools of dim light around the perimeter, revealing a handful of guards pacing the area.

They weren’t city watchmen. Their mismatched armor and relaxed stances betrayed them as mercenaries—hired muscle, likely in the employ of the Fang. Two stood by the main entrance, while another pair patrolled the alley behind the warehouse.

Malric’s bony fingers tapped against the hilt of his blade as he considered his options. The guards were spread thin, but an outright assault would draw too much attention. He needed to find a way inside without alerting them.

He crept closer, his movements soundless on the damp ground. As he circled the warehouse, he noticed a stack of crates piled against the side wall. Above them, a small window sat ajar, just wide enough for someone of Malric’s wiry frame to slip through.

Malric scaled the crates with ease, his skeletal fingers finding purchase on the rough wood. He reached the window and peered inside. The interior of the warehouse was dimly lit, its vast space filled with barrels, crates, and sacks of goods. At the far end, a group of men huddled around a table, their low voices muffled by the distance.

He slipped through the window and dropped silently to the floor, his cloak billowing around him. The smell of salt and mildew filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of oil from the lanterns. He stayed low, moving from shadow to shadow as he made his way toward the group.

The men were deep in conversation, their tones hushed but intense. Malric stopped just out of sight, crouching behind a stack of crates as he listened.

"...shipment’s coming in tomorrow night," one of them said, a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek. "Biggest one yet."

"Think the higher-ups will finally show their faces?" another asked, his voice rough and gravelly.

"Don’t count on it," the scarred man replied. "They’re too smart for that. But word is, they’re sending someone important to oversee things."

"Great," a third voice muttered. "More work for us."

Malric’s sockets narrowed as he processed the information. The shipment was important enough to warrant direct attention from the Fang’s leadership—or at least someone close to it. If he could intercept this shipment, he might finally uncover the organization’s inner workings.

But there was still the matter of getting out of the warehouse undetected.

As Malric prepared to retreat, a faint creak echoed through the warehouse. He froze, his hollow sockets snapping toward the sound. A guard had entered through a side door, his lantern casting long shadows across the room.

The light passed over Malric’s position, and the guard’s eyes widened in alarm. "Intruder!" he shouted, drawing his blade.

The men at the table shot to their feet, their hands reaching for weapons as they turned toward the noise.

Malric cursed silently and sprang into action. He darted from the shadows, his claws glinting in the dim light as he slashed at the nearest guard. The man fell with a gurgled cry, his blood pooling on the floor.

The others charged toward him, their shouts echoing through the warehouse.

Malric’s movements were a blur of speed and precision, his skeletal frame weaving between his attackers. He lashed out with his claws, raking deep gashes across flesh and bone. A blade slashed toward him, catching his ribcage and sending a shard of bone skittering across the floor.

The pain was distant, a dull ache that barely registered in his undead body. But the damage was real, and he couldn’t afford to take more hits.

Drawing on the dark magic of the shaman’s spine, Malric summoned a writhing tendril of shadow from the ground. It lashed out like a living whip, ensnaring one of his attackers and dragging him to the floor.

The others hesitated, their eyes wide with fear as they watched the shadow writhe and pulse.

"Fools," Malric thought, a grim satisfaction coursing through him. "You’re already dead."

He pressed his advantage, his claws cutting through the remaining men with brutal efficiency. Within moments, the warehouse was silent once more, the air heavy with the coppery scent of blood.

Malric stepped over the bodies, his sockets scanning the room for any surviving witnesses. Satisfied that none remained, he turned his attention to the table where the men had been sitting. Among the scattered papers and maps, he found a ledger detailing the shipment—its contents, its destination, and the name of the overseer who would be present.

A cruel grin spread across his skeletal visage. The Basilisk’s Fang had been careful to shield itself, but they had made a mistake.

"You’ve given me the key," he murmured, tucking the ledger into his cloak. "Now it’s only a matter of time."

He sllipped out of the warehouse and into the night.