News traveled fast through the underworld, but inside the Veylor estate it traveled even faster.
Elaria Feizen's teacup shattered against the wall before the servant had even finished speaking.
"What do you mean," Elaria said, her voice trembling with anger, "they all failed?"
The maid kneeling before her flinched. "M–Madam, we… we received word this morning. The last squad we sent to Swandani disappeared. A–and the ones before them too. N–no bodies, no messages, nothing…"
Elaria stood up slowly.
Her hands were shaking.
"And the boy?" she asked.
The maid hesitated. "He's still alive. The… the butler too."
Elaria laughed.
It wasn't a nice sound.
"Still alive," she repeated. "After all that money, all those resources, all those vermin I sent to crush him, he's still alive?"
The maid didn't answer. She stared at the floor.
Elaria's eye twitched.
"You," she whispered. "Come here."
The maid looked up, confused. "M–Madam?"
"Come. Here." Elaria pointed to the spot in front of her.
The maid shuffled closer on her knees.
Elaria took one slow step forward. Then another. Her eyes were empty in the way of someone who had pushed sanity aside to make room for hatred.
"You know whose fault this is?" she asked softly.
The maid shook her head frantically. "N–No, Madam—"
Yours, Elaria almost said.
Instead, she reached for the knife on the fruit tray.
The maid's eyes widened. "Wait, Madam, I—"
It was quick.
Elaria didn't scream, didn't shout, didn't even look angry. She just slit the girl's throat with a smooth, practiced gesture, as if she were trimming a silk thread. The maid collapsed, clutching at the wound, blood spilling across the previously immaculate white carpet.
The other maids froze, horrified.
Elaria watched the maid die, then exhaled like she had just released some tension in her shoulders.
"That," she said, tossing the bloody knife onto the table, "is what failure looks like."
No one dared to move.
Silence pressed down on the room like a heavy blanket.
Then, from the side, a younger maid gathered the courage to speak. Her voice shook. "M–Madam… if… if normal assassins aren't enough… perhaps we should… consider something else."
Elaria's head turned slowly. "Something… else?"
"There is…" The maid swallowed. "There is a family. The Zoldycks. They say they never fail an assassination."
The room seemed to shrink.
Even some of the other servants visibly tensed at the name.
Elaria said nothing for a few seconds. Her eyes were unfocused, her fingers tapping lightly against her own arm. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face. Wide. Unsettling.
"…Perfect."
The maid blinked. "Madam?"
"Perfect," Elaria repeated, stepping over the fresh corpse without looking down. "Hire them."
The maid panicked. "B–But, Madam, I heard they charge incredible sums. At least a billion for a difficult target and—"
"I do not care," Elaria hissed. "That bastard has to die. I don't care how much it costs. Sell land, sell influence, sell my jewelry, I don't care. Hire them."
The maid's hands shook. "Y–Yes, Madam…"
Elaria turned toward the window, looking out at the distant hills beyond Yorknew. Her reflection smiled back at her in the glass—eyes bright and wild.
"Serik Veylor," she whispered. "Let's see you survive this."
Serik's world, meanwhile, was a lot smaller. And quieter.
After his victory over Rudren, Jons gave him a week off.
"A warrior must rest as well as fight," Jons had said, in that same calm voice. "Use this week however you see fit, young master."
The first two days, Serik slept more than he wanted to admit. Every muscle ached, and there was a strange emptiness inside him where adrenaline had been. He had thought that winning would make him feel invincible.
Instead, it made him feel… fragile. Like he'd stepped onto a new path and couldn't see where it led.
He spent mornings stretching slowly, replaying the final fight in his mind. Rolling out his shoulders, pivoting on the balls of his feet, practicing the combinations that had finally broken Rudren's guard.
Afternoons, he walked through Swandani.
He watched kids chase each other with sticks, merchants yelling over prices, old men complaining at street corners. Normal people being normal. It felt like another world. One where no one was trying to kill him.
In the evenings, he sat on the roof of Jons' house, notebook in hand, writing down little observations.
"Don't rush when you see an opening. Confirm it first."
"Shoulders and hips, not the weapon."
"Breathing matters more than I thought."
Sometimes his thoughts wandered to Rudren.
Was sparing him really the right choice?
Did he go back to killing people?
Will I see him again?
On the seventh morning, Jons woke him earlier than usual.
"The week is over, young master."
Serik sat up, hair a mess, mind already shifting back into training mode.
"What's next?" he asked. "More running? More sparring?"
Jons' gaze held something heavier than usual.
"Next," he said, "you will face another opponent."
Serik's stomach dropped and tightened at the same time. "Like Rudren?"
"No," Jons said. "Very unlike Rudren."
They went to the backyard.
The cellar door opened with a creak.
The man Jons brought up was taller than Rudren, broader in the shoulders, with arms like slabs of concrete. His head was shaved, his nose crooked from being broken too many times, and his skin was marked with old burns and scars, especially around the forearms. His eyes were dull and unfocused, like he was looking at something far behind Serik instead of at him.
He smelled like smoke and iron and something faintly rotten.
Chains rattled as Jons removed the bindings from his arms.
"This," Jons said, "is Garron Thale."
Garron rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers, joints popping.
He looked at Serik for a long moment.
Then grinned.
"Ah," he said, voice rough and lazy. "So you're the kid everyone wants dead."
Serik swallowed, straightening his back. "And you're one of the people they sent."
"Not just sent," Garron chuckled. "They begged. Paid well too."
He laughed at his own words, like he'd just heard a good joke.
""Listen, kid, I've killed for revenge. I've killed for money. I've killed because I was bored. Sometimes I don't even ask why." He tilted his head. "You ever hear the sound a man makes when his fingers burn off, kid?"
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I want to see your innocent face distorted into one of horror."
"Hahahhaahahahaha"
Serik's jaw tightened. "I don't want to."
"You will," Garron said with a small smile and his eerie hollow eyes.
Serik took his stance, heart pounding.
Jons stepped back, watching. His face was calm, but his posture was different now—coiled, ready.
"Begin," he said softly.
Garron didn't use any stance. He just walked forward like a drunk bull, then suddenly lunged with a speed that didn't match his size.
Serik dodged to the side, but Garron's fist still clipped his shoulder. It was like getting hit with a brick. Pain shot through his arm and into his chest.
Too strong.
Serik gritted his teeth and countered with a punch to the ribs. His fist sank into muscle, but Garron barely flinched.
"Heh."
Garron grabbed Serik by the shirt with one hand and headbutted him.
Stars exploded behind Serik's eyes.
He staggered back, blood rushing from his nose.
Too close, too close—
He tried to create distance, but Garron didn't let him. He pressed forward, swinging heavy, ugly punches. Serik dodged what he could, blocked what he couldn't, each impact rattling his bones.
He tried footwork, tried angles, tried to remember everything Jons taught him—
—but Garron didn't move like Rudren. He didn't feint or dance. He just crushed.
A fist slammed into Serik's ribs.
Something cracked.
The world narrowed to a hot, shrieking point of pain.
Serik gasped, dropping to one knee, arm wrapped around his side.
Garron laughed loudly, breath hot and sour.
"There it is," he said. "That sound. The sound of something breaking."
He kicked Serik in the stomach, sending him skidding in the dirt. Serik couldn't even scream properly—his breath came out in short, broken sounds.
"Get up," Garron said. "Or I'll break something else."
Serik tried.
His palms dug into the dirt. His arms shook. His ribs screamed every time he drew breath.
His vision blurred.
He forced himself onto his feet anyway.
Garron watched him with an almost delighted expression. "Oh, you're fun."
Serik raised his hands again, barely.
He managed two steps forward before Garron grabbed his wrist and twisted. Serik yelped as the joint screamed, and Garron slammed his knee into Serik's chest.
The boy flew backward and crashed into the ground with a thud that made Jons' eyes narrow.
For a heartbeat, Jons stayed still.
Garron stalked after Serik, bending down slightly. "You know how many people begged me to spare them?" he asked conversationally. "You know how many I did?"
Serik's lips moved.
Garron leaned closer. "What was that?"
"None," Serik croaked.
"Exactly," Garron said, smiling.
He raised his fist for another blow.
Jons moved.
One moment he stood still, the next his hand was wrapped around Garron's wrist.
"That is enough," Jons said.
Garron tried to yank his arm free, but nothing moved. His smile faltered. "Tch. Babysitter stepping in?"
Jons' eyes were flat. "This training is meant to push the young master. Not kill him."
Garron sneered. "Feels the same from here."
Jons pressed a thumb into a nerve along Garron's forearm. The man's eyes rolled back, and he dropped like a sack of meat.
Silence.
Serik lay there panting, every breath a stab of fire in his ribs. His face was pale, sweat cold on his skin.
Jons knelt beside him, hands gentle as he checked each injury.
"Cracks, not shatters," he murmured, more to himself than to Serik. "We can work with that."
Serik tried to speak. "I… lost… bad…"
"You survived," Jons said. "For now, that is enough."
The week that followed hurt more than any training session Serik had endured.
He spent the first two days barely moving, chest wrapped in tight bandages. Every cough, every laugh, even a deep breath sent sharp pain through his side. Jons made him drink more of the bitter concoction, applied salves to his bruises, and forced him to rest.
Serik hated resting.
His mind replayed the fight over and over.
I couldn't stop him.I couldn't move him.He hit me like I was nothing.
One night, staring at the ceiling, Serik whispered, "Jons… that man… Garron… why is he like that?"
Jons, sitting quietly in a chair nearby, answered after a long pause. "Some men are broken slowly. Some break themselves. Some are born with pieces missing. It does not matter where he came from. What matters is what you will do when you stand before him again."
Serik swallowed. His ribs ached with the motion.
"…Do I have to fight him again?"
"Yes."
"Will I die?"
"No, you will not die for now," Jons said.
Serik closed his eyes.
He thought of Rudren, walking away alive.
He thought of Garron, laughing while talking about pain like it was a game.
He thought of the feeling when his ribs cracked.
And for the first time, Serik started showing a hint of killing intent.
By the end of the week, he could stand without shaking. He could move without gasping. Not perfectly. Not comfortably. But enough.
Enough to fight again.
On the eighth day, Jons opened the cellar door.
Garron stepped out with chains still around his ankles, grinning wide.
"You didn't die," he said. "Good. I was worried I would not be able to play with you anymore."
Serik walked to the center of the yard, heart steady in a way that surprised him.
He took his stance.
He looked Garron in the eye and, for the first time, didn't feel small.
Jons watched them both, hands folded, expression unreadable.
The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the ground.
This time, when Serik thought about the fight ahead, he didn't think about surviving.
He thought about finishing it.
For ever!