Brandt stood in the shadow of a timber overhang, his eyes fixed on the man standing atop the crate.
The man was a spectacle of rags and theatrics, shouting about Deviants and miracles, but Brandt's attention had drifted lower.
A small figure stood in the slush, enveloped in a massive, dark grey cloak.
Brandt frowned. The garment triggered a sharp, specific memory. It was coarse wool, dyed a slate grey that turned black when wet. The hem was frayed, dragged through the mud by a wearer far too small for its cut.
'Garrison standard,' he noted, his mind dissecting the visual data. 'A patrol cloak. Why is a child wearing it?'
It could have been a guard's son playing soldier, stealing his father's gear for a day in the market. It was a plausible theory.
But the body language was wrong.
The child wasn't playing. They were hesitant, their posture rigid. And the man on the crate wasn't treating them like a customer. He was treating them like an opportunity.
The barker stepped down from his crate. He leaned close to the hooded figure, his smile too wide, too eager. He gestured toward the mouth of the alley behind him.
The child followed.
Brandt felt a cold prickle at the base of his neck. It wasn't a moral alarm; it was the instinctive twitch of a profiler recognising a predator's pattern.
Magic for coin in a back alley. A secluded location. A vulnerable target.
'It's a trap.'
He didn't hesitate. He adjusted his own hood, stepped away from the flow of the market, and followed.
The transition was abrupt.
One moment, he was submerged in the chaotic roar of Rimehaven—the ringing of iron, the bleating of livestock, the shouting of hagglers. Next, he crossed the threshold of the alley, and the world went dead.
Brandt moved silently, placing his boots with deliberate care to avoid splashing the black puddles that pooled in the broken cobbles.
He reached a corner where the alley jagged sharply to the left. He pressed his back against the slime-slicked brick, controlling his breathing.
A voice drifted back to him. It was no longer the booming, theatrical baritone of the showman. It was low, gravelly, and dripping with greed.
"Feisty... that's good. Fetches a better price."
The words hung in the cold air, unambiguous and brutal.
Brandt's eyes narrowed.
'Trafficking.'
The diagnosis was instant. Slavers.
In Rimescar, the servants were property in all but name. They were bound to the land and the Lord. But this was different. This wasn't a feudal obligation; this was theft.
He peeled himself off the wall and peered around the corner.
The alley ended in a blind cul-de-sac blocked by a high wall.
The man stood with his back to Brandt. He was a wire-thin collection of nervous energy and filth, dressed in layers of mismatched wool that hung off him like rotting bandages.
He was hoisting a burlap sack onto his shoulder.
The sack kicked. A small, muffled cry escaped the rough fabric—high-pitched and terrified.
'A girl.'
Brandt pulled back. He scanned his immediate surroundings. He was unarmed, his body broken and weak. He couldn't fight a grown man with his bare hands.
His gaze landed on a pile of refuse behind the back door of a butcher shop. A mound of offal, sawdust, and discarded bones lay freezing in the mud.
He dug through the gore. His fingers brushed against something hard and jagged.
He pulled it free.
It was a femur, likely from a cow or a large deer. It had been snapped mid-shaft, leaving a long, splintered point that was sharp as a shiv. The bone was coated in frozen grease and marrow, heavy and cold.
Brandt gripped the bone shank, testing the weight. It would do.
Brandt stepped out.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't shout a challenge. He moved with the silent, lethal intent of an executioner.
He closed the distance. The man was five paces away. Three.
Brandt lunged.
He aimed low. He targeted the Achilles tendon of the man's right leg. A severed tendon would immobilise the target instantly, dropping him to the ground in screaming agony, ending the fight before it began.
He drove his body forward, putting his weight behind the bone shard.
Physics intervened.
As Brandt pushed off his back leg—the left one, the one Vorin had knit but not healed—the muscle rebelled. A spike of blinding, white-hot agony tore through his quadriceps. His knee buckled.
Brandt stumbled mid-strike. The bone shank didn't bite deep into the tendon. It grazed the man's calf, tearing through the rotten wool trousers and scoring a long, bloody line across the skin.
The man spun around, his eyes wide with shock and pain.
"Little shit!"
The reaction was instantaneous and violent. He didn't assess; he lashed out.
He threw the burlap sack.
He hurled it with panicked force against the brick wall to free his hands for the fight.
Thud.
The sound was sickening—a wet, heavy impact of a small body hitting solid stone. A pained, high-pitched whimper escaped the sack, then silence.
Brandt winced, the sound triggering a cold anger in his gut, but he couldn't focus on the victim. The threat was moving.
The man kicked.
The heavy, mud-caked boot slammed into Brandt's chest. The impact rattled his ribs like a cage of dry twigs. Air exploded from his lungs.
Brandt was knocked backward, his boots skidding through the black slush. He wheezed, tasting copper, but he kept his footing. He didn't fall.
He stood, gasping, the bone shank held in a reverse grip, dripping with slush.
The slaver stared at him. The man blinked, confused. He expected a child to cry. He expected a child to run.
He didn't expect a child to stand there with dead, analytical eyes, holding a piece of a cow's leg like a dagger.
"You want to die, runt?" the man snarled, reaching into the folds of his rags.
He pulled a knife. It was a long, rusted skinning blade, the edge jagged and cruel.
"Apologise, or I gut you right here."
Brandt stared at the knife. He stared at the man.
He was done playing.
He reached inward, past the pain in his leg, past the cold in his bones, and grabbed the low, electric hum of mana in his veins.
He pulled.
He didn't sip it this time. He flooded the channels.
The sensation hit him like a fever breaking. It wasn't heroic. It wasn't a glow of holy light. It was a burning, electric tension that tightened every muscle fibre in his body. He had to end this.
The man took a step forward, waving the knife.
"I said apologise!"
Brandt didn't speak. He exhaled, a cloud of white vapour vanishing instantly.
He moved.
It wasn't a run; it was an explosion of kinetic energy. Brandt kicked off the cobblestones, his augmented muscles firing with a violence that sent a spray of black slush and ice erupting behind him.
The distance between them vanished.
The man swung the knife. It was a clumsy, horizontal slash, a panic reflex aimed at keeping the monster at bay.
Brandt didn't stop. He dropped his centre of gravity, sliding under the arc of the rusted steel. He felt the wind of the blade pass inches above his head, carrying the scent of old blood.
He came up inside the man's guard.
He thrust the bone shank.
It collided with the man's forearm as he tried to bring the knife back around.
Crack.
The sound was wet and dull, the sound of dense bone hitting living radius. The man grunted, his arm jerking back, but he didn't drop the weapon. He was stronger than he looked, fueled by the desperate, rat-like adrenaline of the cornered.
He lashed out with his free hand, grabbing a handful of Brandt's tunic. He hauled the boy close, spit flying from his rotting teeth.
"Gotcha!"
He brought the knife down in a vertical stab, aiming for the neck.
Brandt didn't panic.
'Too wide. Too slow.'
He twisted his body, the electric hum of the mana allowing him to move faster than his small frame should allow. The knife tore through the shoulder of his tunic, scratching a line of fire across his skin, but missed the artery.
Brandt slammed his forehead into the man's nose.
The impact was a jarring thud that rattled Brandt's own teeth. Cartilage gave way with a sickening crunch. Blood exploded from the man's face, hot and blinding.
The slaver roared, stumbling back, releasing his grip. He waved the knife blindly, trying to create space.
Brandt landed in a crouch, his breath misting in the freezing air. He watched the man wipe blood from his eyes, his movements frantic.
'He is sloppy,' Brandt noted, his internal voice clinical. 'He fights like a brawler. All rage, no discipline. He is weaker than Balg.'
The man blinked, clearing his vision. He looked at Brandt—at the boy who moved like a demon, who hit like a man. The confusion in his eyes hardened into a dawning, greedy realisation.
"You..." the man wheezed, spitting a glob of blood into the slush. "You ain't normal."
He stared at the way Brandt stood—legs braced, weapon ready, eyes devoid of fear. He felt the lingering vibration in his arm from the boy's strike.
"You're one of them," he whispered, a avaricious light igniting in his gaze. "Awakened. A brat with the gift."
The man's fear evaporated, replaced by a hunger that was far more terrifying.
"Forget the girl," he laughed, a wet, bubbling sound. He shifted his grip on the knife and lowered his stance. "You... you'll buy me a castle. A live Awakened cub? Nobles down south will pay a king's ransom for a stud like you."
Brandt felt a flicker of genuine alarm. But beneath it, another sensation was growing.
The drain.
The electric fever in his veins was cooling. He was burning through his mana reserves at a terrifying rate. The dull throb at the base of his skull sharpened into a spike. His vision blurred at the edges, the grey world greying out further.
'Time,' he realised. 'I'm running out.'
He needed to end this. Now.
He couldn't win a war of attrition. He needed a decisive blow.
Brandt feinted.
He dropped his left shoulder, exposing his ribs, inviting the strike. It was a dangerous gamble, relying on the man's greed and lack of discipline.
The man took the bait. He lunged, aiming a kick at the exposed flank to knock the wind out of his prize.
Brandt pivoted.
He used his small size to his advantage, twisting under the leg. He drove his fist—knuckles reinforced with the last dregs of his mana—into the man's solar plexus.
It was a solid, meaty impact. The air left the slaver's lungs in a violent, agonising whoosh. His eyes bulged.
He staggered back, wheezing, clutching his chest. He crashed into the brick wall of the cul-de-sac, his legs wobbling.
He landed right next to the slumped burlap sack.
Panic flared in the man's eyes. He was hurt. He was breathless. He needed a shield.
He reached down.
"Stay back!" he gasped, his voice thin and reedy.
He grabbed the burlap and ripped it open with a violent tear of his free hand.
The fabric parted.
A face was revealed in the gloom of the alley—pale skin. Dark, tangled hair matted with blood at the temple. Eyes closed, lashes stark against the white cheeks.
Alise.
Brandt froze.
The shock was a physical blow, harder than any kick.
'Alise?'
His mind stuttered. The cold calculation shattered. It wasn't a stranger. It wasn't a resource. It was his sister.
The questions flooded in—how, why, when—paralysing him for a microsecond.
The slaver saw the hesitation. He saw the recognition in the boy's eyes.
He grinned, blood staining his teeth.
He pressed the rusted, jagged edge of the skinning knife against Alise's throat.
"You know her," he croaked, regaining his wind. "Good. That's good."
He pressed harder. A thin red line appeared on the white skin of her neck. A drop of blood welled up, bright and horrifying.
"Drop the bone," the man commanded. "Or I open her up."
Brandt's world narrowed to that line of red. There was no plan. There was no leverage.
There was only the instinct to stop the blade.
He didn't think. He acted.
He poured every last, scraping drop of mana into his legs. He ignited the fuel that wasn't there, burning muscle and tendon to bridge the gap.
He lunged.
He aimed for the knife hand. He needed to deflect it. He needed to push it away.
He pushed off his left leg.
It failed.
The muscle spasmed, seizing in a knot of blinding agony.
Brandt fell.
He didn't cross the distance. He stumbled, his momentum dying. He was falling short. He was going to land at the man's feet, helpless, while the knife did its work.
'No.'
He couldn't reach his hand. He couldn't stop the knife.
So he stopped the man.
As he fell, Brandt twisted his body. He changed the trajectory of his strike. He didn't aim for the limb. He aimed for the centre mass.
He drove the splintered, grease-coated bone shank upward with both hands, putting the last of his falling weight behind it.
It slid between the man's lower ribs.
There was a moment of resistance—the tough wool, the skin, the intercostal muscle. It felt rubbery and dense.
Then, it gave way.
The bone punched through. It slid deep into the chest cavity, tearing through the diaphragm and piercing the heart.
Brandt's hands were instantly bathed in warmth.
The man stiffened. His eyes went wide, the malice replaced by a sudden, profound shock. He looked down at the child at his feet, at the bone buried in his chest, as if he couldn't quite understand the physics of it.
His mouth opened. No sound came out—just a bubble of red froth.
The knife slipped from his fingers. It clattered harmlessly onto the cobblestones, inches from Alise's head.
Brandt pulled his hand back.
It came away wet and red.
The smell hit him then. It wasn't the cold iron scent of the keep or the woodsmoke of the town. It was the heavy, copper stench of hot blood.
Brandt stared at his hands. He was breathing in jagged, shallow gasps. The pain in his leg was a roar, but it felt distant, muffled by the ringing in his ears.
Suddenly, the air in front of his face seemed to tear.
Wisps of thin, black smoke—darker than the alley shadows—curled into existence. They twisted and coiled, writing themselves into the air with a silent, sentient purpose.
Simultaneously, the whispers began. It was a dry, sibilant cacophony of a thousand brittle voices speaking in unison inside his skull.
[Congratulations! You have slain a human]
[You have received 10 experience]
[Congratulations! Experience threshold reached]
[Level up Y/N?]
Brandt stared through the smoky letters. He couldn't read them. They blurred into the red wetness on his hands.
He had killed him.
'I had to,' his mind whispered, a desperate rationalisation. 'He was going to kill her. I had to.'
He looked at Alise. She was still unconscious, the red line on her throat a stark accusation. If he hadn't acted...
The smell of blood was overwhelming. It coated his tongue.
And then, it changed.
A new scent cut through the copper and the filth. It was sharp, elegant, and impossibly out of place in this rotting alley.
Sandalwood. And cold metal.
Brandt froze.
He felt a presence behind him—a weight in the air.
He didn't turn. He couldn't.
A voice, melodic and laced with a terrible, purring amusement, drifted into his ear.
"There he is."
She was close. So close he could feel the phantom chill of her breath on his neck.
"I was starting to think I'd made a mistake," she whispered, her voice filled with pride and a dark, hungry satisfaction, "bringing you here. I thought you'd gone even softer."
Brandt closed his eyes, his bloody hands trembling.
"But you..."
She laughed, a soft, bell-like chime that echoed in the silence of the dead alley.
"...you were just warming up, weren't you?"