The letter reached the Lesser Goetia Houses before dawn.
Not because Rafe ran fast
but because he knew exactly which couriers nobles trusted most when they didn't want their hands dirty.
The envelope vanished into velvet-lined channels, passing through fear, curiosity, and confusion until it landed on the polished table of a private council chamber deep within the upper Lust Ring.
And there, six masks gathered.
House Seralinn.
House Veylthar.
House Croswin.
House Arclen.
House Praviss.
House Marrowcrest.
Their sigils shimmered in the dim, purple firelight.
None sat.
Nobles did not sit when their pride was bleeding.
The first to speak was Lady Seralinn
her mask shaped like a serpent's skull, voice trembling despite her attempt at poise.
"He knew," she said. "He knew it was us."
Lord Croswin slammed a hand on the table.
"Of course he knew we left three bodies behind! Seralinn, your men failed spectacularly!"
"They were trained killers," she snapped. "They have eliminated new Overlords before!"
Arclen, the tallest, drew a slow breath.
"And now he's written back. Calmly. As if we are equals."
Veylthar whispered:
"He is not afraid."
Silence pressed on all of them.
Not because Malerion scared them.
He didn't.
Not yet.
It was the implication that terrified them.
The possibility that the slums weren't just a playground for a bored young prince
but something Vaethelion Corvius was quietly cultivating.
Marrowcrest leaned in.
"We cannot strike again," he said flatly.
Croswin scoffed. "We cannot let him live, either!"
Arclen shook his head sharply.
"Do you want Corvius coming down here? Do you? Do you want a prince demanding why his 'friend' was murdered?"
Even Croswin shut up.
Seralinn pressed her fingers to her temple.
"No. We can't attack directly. Not with blades. Not with soldiers."
Praviss nodded.
"Then we starve him."
Veylthar added:
"We press him. Slowly. Quietly. The way nobles always crush vermin."
Marrowcrest concluded:
"We suffocate him in silence.
Raise taxes.
Restrict shipments.
Cut off trade routes.
Pay gangs to swarm his territory.
Pressure the Lust Ring officials to investigate him.
Sabotage his name."
"And if he dies by 'coincidence'…?"
"Then the prince cannot blame us," Arclen said smoothly. "Accidents happen in the slums."
The council fell into agreement with a single, synchronized nod.
No more assassins.
No more blades.
No risks of Corvius noticing their hand.
This was now a political kill, not a physical one.
A quiet execution.
Sing roughe two days layter
Malerion felt the shift long before anyone told him.
A soft tightening in the background noise of the Lust Ring.
A pressure.
A distortion in how people moved.
Subtle.
Small.
Intentional.
"Taxes went up again," Donnie announced, dropping the latest stamped notice onto the table. "Thirty percent increase on businesses within 'sub-sector 24-P,' which shockingly is only our sub-sector."
Quill peered at the paper.
"That's… that's illegal, isn't it?"
"It's Hell," Donnie deadpanned. "Nothing is illegal."
Skit burst through the door next.
"Boss! A group of Redhook gangers tried to shake down one of our vendors."
Bit added, trembling:
"And they said someone paid them to 'apply territorial stress.' What does that mean?"
Dreg cracked his neck.
"It means they want us annoyed enough to slip up."
Malerion listened.
All of it matched the memories he pulled from the assassin.
"They're not attacking," he said. "They're pressing."
Rafe arrived last, throwing down a stack of poorly concealed documents.
"Local magistrates just announced random inspections on establishments serving alcohol," he said. "Guess which establishment is first on the list?"
Quill groaned.
"Come on! My wiring isn't that illegal!"
"It is absolutely that illegal," Donnie corrected.
Malerion exhaled.
Quiet war.
No blades.
No masks.
Just pressure.
The kind of war nobles fight when they're too terrified to use their own hands.
Alastor's voice slid into his thoughts.
"They're choking the district around you," the radio-voice whispered. "Trying to sink your lungs while smiling politely."
"I noticed," Malerion replied silently.
"And what will you do?"
Malerion's eyes sharpened.
"Adapt."
He didn't roar.
He didn't retaliate with violence.
He called his inner circle into the war room.
Dreg, Liza, Donnie, Quill, Rafe, Skit, Bit.
They gathered around the map again.
"We are not fighting their fight," Malerion said. "We do not give them blood that leads back to us. We do not show teeth first."
Liza asked,
"So what do we do?"
Malerion pointed to the map.
"Three things."
"Skit. Bit."
Both imps straightened instantly.
"You two will locate the Redhook gang leader," Malerion said. "Find out how much they were paid and by whom."
Skit blinked.
"…and then what?"
Malerion smiled slightly.
"You convince them that we pay better."
Bit nodded.
"Oh! Bribery!"
"Motivation," Malerion corrected.
"Rafe. Donnie."
Both leaned in.
"You will find which official signed the tax orders. We don't bribe him. We don't threaten him. We talk to the people around him. The ones who benefit from the raise."
Rafe smirked.
"Apply pressure from below."
"Exactly."
Donnie adjusted her glasses.
"And if they resist?"
"Then we find someone else in their circle who dislikes them," Malerion said calmly. "Everyone has an enemy."
"Dreg. Liza."
The two killers straightened.
"You strengthen our borders," he said. "No open conflict. No bodies. But if anyone tries to sneak through thieves, spies, fake inspectors"
Liza finished with a smile:
"They stop existing quietly?"
"Quietly," Malerion confirmed.
Quill tapped his goggles.
"And me?"
"You keep upgrading the runic weapons," Malerion said. "If the nobles escalate, we need to escalate faster."
Quill grinned.
"Oh, boss. You don't even know the things I've been building."
When the others left, Malerion remained alone in the dim room.
The pressure from the nobles was constant.
Annoying.
Disruptive.
But strangely…
Useful.
The Fourth Ring inside him thrummed more actively than ever.
Pushing.
Resonating.
Refining his awareness.
Alastor hummed inside him.
"This tension is good for you," the voice said. "Pressure sharpens the blade. Fear hones instinct. Threats feed growth."
Malerion closed his eyes.
He wasn't afraid.
But he was aware.
The nobles wanted to suffocate him.
He would grow lungs stronger than their grip.
Three days later, Skit and Bit returned, out of breath and glowing with pride.
"We found the Redhook leader!" Skit said.
"Her name is Brakka the Split-Fang," Bit added. "Scary woman. Very stabby."
"And?" Malerion asked.
Skit grinned.
"She works for us now!"
Bit nodded vigorously.
"We paid her double! And she hates the nobles more than she hates us!"
Donnie laughed.
"Well done."
Liza dropped from the ceiling.
"I dealt with two 'inspectors.' They changed career plans."
Dreg rumbled:
"And the northern border is quiet. Too quiet. Which means they're planning something. But not tonight."
Rafe returned last, tossing a handful of papers onto the table.
"Found the tax scheme. Found the nobles benefiting from it. Found their debt collectors, their secret lovers, their gambling debts, their unpaid guards, and three people they owe money to."
Donnie stared.
"How did you get all that in two days?"
Rafe shrugged.
"Talent."
Malerion read the documents slowly.
Then he said:
"We're done reacting."
The room stilled.
"We respond now," he said quietly.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
Precisely.
One step at a time.
A counterbalance to every noble move.
A shadow to every political strike.
A whisper against every attempt to suffocate them.
Their enemies wanted subtle war.
They would get it.
And Malerion would win.
Not because he was the strongest.
Not because he was the fastest.
But because he saw clearly:
The nobles weren't fighting him.
They were fighting their fear of Vael.
And fear made them predictable.
Malerion placed his hand over the map, resonance humming through his veins.
"Let them push," he said.
"Let them squeeze."
"Let them try to starve us."
His eyes glowed faintly.
"Because we will grow in the spaces they leave untouched."