Black Hollow was a city of predators.

The weak did not last here. They were either devoured, bought, or forgotten.

Achem pulled his hood lower, following Lysara as they weaved through the narrow streets. The city was alive even at this hour, the glow of lanterns flickering against stone walls, casting long shadows over the figures moving through the filth-choked alleys.

It was the kind of place where men disappeared without a trace, where bodies surfaced in the canals weeks after a deal gone wrong.

Achem glanced at Lysara as she led him deeper into the labyrinth of twisting pathways.

"You never told me why your grandmother lives in a place like this," he said, voice low.

Lysara didn’t stop walking.

"Because she belongs here," she answered simply.

Achem frowned. "She didn’t seem like—"

"Like a criminal?" Lysara cut in, smirking. "She isn’t. But Black Hollow isn’t just for cutthroats and mercenaries. It’s also for those who have nowhere else to go."

Achem stayed silent, letting her continue.

"My grandmother—Ilvera—was once one of the most powerful mages in Eldoria," Lysara said, her voice lighter than usual, but edged with something bitter. "A royal scholar. A seer. She had the favor of the court."

Achem exhaled. "Until she didn’t."

Lysara chuckled. "Until she didn’t."

Achem didn’t need to ask what happened.

He knew exactly how Eldoria’s noble courts worked.

The moment someone was no longer useful, they were discarded.

"She saw something she wasn’t supposed to," Lysara continued, kicking a loose stone from her path. "Made a prophecy about the wrong person. And just like that, she went from trusted advisor to exile."

Achem nodded. "And Black Hollow took her in."

Lysara’s smirk returned. "Black Hollow doesn’t ‘take people in.’ You survive here because you make yourself too dangerous to kill."

Achem glanced at her. "And your grandmother?"

Lysara’s eyes gleamed in the darkness.

"She’s still alive, isn’t she?"

Achem let out a short, quiet laugh.

Fair enough.

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The Crow’s Nest tavern was exactly what Achem expected—dimly lit, thick with smoke and the scent of spilled ale, filled with men who measured each other in gold and blood.

Lysara led him to a corner table, where a man sat alone, his hood drawn low.

Achem sat across from him, his instincts already screaming.

This man was dangerous.

Tavian slowly looked up, just enough for the candlelight to catch the sharp angles of his face, the steel-gray glint of his eyes.

"Rogar."

Achem’s jaw tightened.

Tavian smirked. "Or do you go by something else these days?"

Achem kept his expression neutral. "Depends who’s asking."

Tavian chuckled, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the table.

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Lysara leaned back, unimpressed. "Enough games, Tavian. We came for information."

Tavian didn’t look at her. His eyes never left Achem.

"You fight like a man who has lived two lifetimes," Tavian murmured. "But your eyes say otherwise." His smirk deepened. "Tell me, does it bother you?"

Achem narrowed his gaze. "Does what bother me?"

Tavian leaned forward. "That you are wearing the face of a dead king."

The words landed like a dagger in his chest.

Tavian knew.

Achem’s grip on his sword tightened under the table.

"You used to work for the Crown," Achem said, voice cold. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Tavian gave a slow, almost lazy smile. "I was a Spymaster."

Achem’s fingers twitched.

Lysara sighed dramatically. "He means he was the bastard who gathered dirt on every noble, warlord, and council member in Eldoria."

Tavian chuckled. "I prefer ‘intelligence broker.’"

Achem exhaled sharply. "So you sold secrets."

"I still do," Tavian admitted.

Achem’s voice darkened. "Then why haven’t you sold mine yet?"

Tavian’s smirk didn’t fade. "Because I sell valuable information." He leaned back. "And right now, your existence is worth more as a secret."

Achem studied him. "For how long?"

Tavian shrugged. "That depends."

Achem hated the answer, but he understood the game.

Right now, Tavian saw an opportunity.

And as long as Achem remained more useful alive than dead, Tavian would keep his secret.

For now.

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They didn’t leave the tavern immediately.

Lysara had ordered a bottle of dark ale, and after everything that had happened, Achem wasn’t about to refuse a drink.

They sat in a shadowed booth, away from prying eyes, the tavern’s noise a comforting hum around them.

Lysara poured two glasses, sliding one toward him. "You don’t talk much."

Achem raised an eyebrow. "Neither do you."

Lysara smirked, clinking her glass against his before taking a sip.

Achem followed suit. The ale was strong, smoky, burning its way down his throat in a way that made his muscles finally relax.

For the first time in hours, neither of them were running, fighting, or planning their next move.

Lysara rested her elbow on the table, tilting her head at him. "You didn’t hesitate back there."

Achem exhaled. "You sound surprised."

"I am." She studied him. "You’re changing."

Achem rolled the glass between his fingers. "I don’t know if that’s a good thing."

Lysara’s smile faded slightly. "Depends on what you change into."

Achem met her gaze.

For a moment, it was just them, surrounded by the dim candlelight and the murmurs of the tavern.

Then Lysara smirked, lifting her glass. "Well. If you’re turning into something terrible, at least have one last drink before it happens."

Achem chuckled softly, shaking his head as he took another sip.

For a brief moment, he let himself enjoy it.

Because he knew it wouldn’t last.

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The alley was waiting for them.

The moment Achem and Lysara stepped outside, the mercenaries were already there, their blades glinting in the torchlight.

Lysara sighed. "Tavian warned us too late."

Achem drew his sword. "No. He warned us just in time."

The first mercenary lunged.

Achem’s body moved before his mind did—his sword flashing in a sharp arc, cutting clean through the man’s chest.

Blood splattered against the stone walls.

Lysara’s magic crackled beside him—fire searing through the air, consuming another enemy before they could react.

Another attacker rushed Achem from behind.

He turned just in time, parrying a blow meant for his neck, then slammed the hilt of his sword into the mercenary’s jaw, sending him staggering.

Lysara vanished in a flicker of blue light, reappearing behind another foe, her dagger already sliding between his ribs before he even realized she was there.

Within moments, only one man remained.

He was young. Maybe younger than Achem.

His hands shook as he raised his sword.

He was afraid.

Achem held his gaze for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he lowered his blade.

"Run," he said. "And tell them who I am."

The young mercenary hesitated—then turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Lysara smirked. "Merciful now, are we?"

Achem wiped the blood from his blade.

"Not mercy," he murmured.

"War needs witnesses."

Lysara’s grin widened. "Now you’re thinking like a king."

Achem exhaled.

Because it was true.

This was the beginning.

And soon, the world would know that the fallen king had returned.