Aran moved through the city like a ghost, slipping between alleyways and hidden passages that even the most seasoned criminals had long forgotten. The information Davos had given him was enough to paint a clearer picture of the threat he faced, but it wasn't enough to dismantle the Black Hand. He needed more, and that meant getting closer to their operations—closer to the Warden.
For days, Aran kept a low profile, observing the comings and goings of known Black Hand operatives. He had learned early in his career that patience was one of the most valuable tools in his arsenal. Rushing into situations without fully understanding them had gotten plenty of other would-be masterminds killed. Aran, however, had no intention of joining them.
It was on the fifth night of his surveillance that he spotted her. Kira, moving with her usual grace and confidence, was heading toward the eastern docks—a part of the city known for its smuggling operations and illicit trade. Aran followed her at a distance, keeping to the shadows as he watched her approach a large, heavily guarded warehouse.
From his vantage point on a nearby rooftop, Aran observed as Kira exchanged brief words with a tall, broad-shouldered man standing at the entrance. The man, clearly a guard of some importance, nodded and allowed her inside.
So this is where they're operating from, Aran thought, his mind already working through the possibilities. A warehouse at the docks made sense—plenty of places to hide contraband, lots of room for discreet meetings, and easy access to the sea if things went south.
He waited for over an hour, watching for any signs of movement or changes in the guard's routine. Nothing. The Black Hand was nothing if not cautious. They knew how to protect their interests.
As the night wore on, Aran finally slipped down from his perch and moved closer to the warehouse. He kept to the shadows, circling the building to get a better understanding of its layout. The guards were well-armed, and from what he could see, there were no obvious weaknesses in their patrol patterns. Breaking in without being detected would be nearly impossible.
Nearly.
Aran smirked to himself as an idea began to form. He couldn't force his way in, not without alerting the entire city. But he could create a distraction—something that would draw the guards away from their posts long enough for him to slip inside.
The docks were always full of unsavory types looking to make a quick buck, and Aran knew just the group to cause a little chaos. He made his way to a nearby tavern frequented by the city's more aggressive mercenaries. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the smell of cheap ale. The patrons, a rough mix of smugglers, thugs, and pirates, barely looked up as Aran entered.
He found his target sitting in the corner, nursing a drink. Bronn, a well-known troublemaker and leader of a small but fierce gang of mercenaries, looked up as Aran approached.
"Well, well, if it isn't the shadow that walks," Bronn said with a toothy grin. "What brings you to my neck of the woods, Aran?"
"I need your help," Aran replied, cutting straight to the point. He didn't have time for small talk. "A little distraction at the docks."
Bronn's grin widened. "A distraction, eh? And what's in it for me?"
Aran slid a small pouch of coins across the table. Bronn picked it up, weighing it in his hand before pocketing it with a nod.
"Consider it done," Bronn said. "What exactly do you need?"
Aran quickly explained his plan, detailing the specific warehouse and the guards' routines. Bronn's mercenaries were to cause enough of a ruckus to draw the attention of the guards without escalating things to the point of a full-blown confrontation. It was a delicate balance, but Aran trusted Bronn to handle it.
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The following night, everything was in place. Aran watched from his hiding spot as Bronn's gang made their move, slipping through the shadows just like he had instructed. They set a small fire in one of the nearby storage sheds, and as soon as the flames began to spread, the guards at the warehouse took notice.
Shouts filled the air as the guards scrambled to deal with the fire, abandoning their posts to help extinguish the flames. Aran used the opportunity to move, slipping past the distracted guards and into the warehouse.
Inside, the air was cool and thick with the scent of old wood and sea salt. Crates and barrels were stacked high, and in the distance, Aran could hear the faint murmur of voices. He moved carefully, keeping to the shadows as he made his way deeper into the warehouse.
As he approached the center of the building, he found what he had been looking for. A small room, barely visible behind a stack of crates, was lit by a single lantern. Through the partially open door, Aran could see Kira sitting at a table, deep in conversation with another figure—a man dressed in the dark, simple clothes of the Black Hand.
Aran crept closer, listening intently.
"We've been careful, Kira," the man was saying, his voice low and urgent. "But there are whispers. Someone's been asking too many questions about the Hand. The Warden is concerned."
Kira's expression remained unreadable, her sharp eyes fixed on the man. "I told you, I'll handle it. Whoever it is, they won't be a problem for long."
The man shifted uncomfortably. "You're sure? The Warden doesn't like loose ends."
Kira leaned forward slightly, her tone icy. "I said I'll handle it."
The man nodded, clearly not willing to press the issue further. "Very well. Just be careful. The Warden's patience isn't infinite."
As the man stood and left the room, Aran's mind raced. Kira was more involved with the Black Hand than he had thought—and whatever plan she had, it was only a matter of time before she made her move.
Aran slipped back into the shadows, retreating from the warehouse before the guards could return. His mind was already working through the next steps. Kira was playing a dangerous game, and now more than ever, Aran needed to stay one step ahead.
The Black Hand was closing in, but Aran wasn't about to let them tighten the noose. If they wanted a game of shadows, they would get one. And Aran intended to be the last one standing.