The council had dispersed, but the atmosphere in the chamber still felt heavy, as though the weight of the decisions made lingered in the air. Aran stood alone, his mind already racing ahead to the next steps, but something gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. The council had voted in his favor, the trade laws were set to change, and the Puppeteer's influence was being severed, but victory never came without consequences.
He walked out of the council chamber, nodding briefly to a few passing councilmen, maintaining the facade of a polite diplomat. Beneath the surface, his mind was already playing out multiple scenarios. The Puppeteer would strike back—he had to. A man like him, a man who thrived in the shadows, wouldn't take this attack lightly.
As Aran stepped outside into the cool evening air, he felt a presence. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but enough for someone as keenly aware as Aran to detect it. He paused, adjusting his jacket as if to look casual while his eyes darted discreetly toward the rooftops, the alleyways, the hidden corners. Someone was watching.
A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It had been expected, but the timing suggested something deeper. He kept walking, making his way through the winding streets toward his safe house. He could feel the presence following him, not too close, but not too far either. It was like a hunter trailing its prey.
As he turned a corner, he casually slipped into a narrow alley, disappearing from view. His pace quickened as he moved through the shadows, weaving in and out of backstreets he had memorized long ago. The footsteps behind him became more urgent, more insistent.
Aran turned another corner and disappeared into a small, hidden alcove between two buildings. The figure that had been following him rounded the corner a moment later, their silhouette tall and imposing against the dim streetlights.
"Looking for someone?" Aran's voice cut through the silence.
The figure spun around, startled, but composed enough to keep their guard up. The hooded figure's face was obscured, but the air of professionalism and danger clung to them like a second skin.
"You've been following me for a while now," Aran continued, stepping forward from the shadows. "I assume the Puppeteer sent you."
The figure said nothing, but Aran could sense the tension building. His smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. He had been followed before, but this was different. The Puppeteer wouldn't send just any lackey for a task like this. Whoever this was, they were skilled.
"I don't know why he bothers," Aran said, casually checking the dagger hidden beneath his sleeve. "I thought he'd know by now that his little games don't work on me."
Without warning, the figure lunged, a blade gleaming in the low light as it arced toward Aran's chest. But Aran was already moving. He sidestepped the attack with practiced ease, grabbing the assassin's wrist and twisting, forcing them to drop the knife.
In one fluid motion, Aran disarmed the assassin, spinning them around and pinning them against the wall. The hood fell back, revealing a woman's face—her sharp, angular features betraying her assassin's stoicism for a brief moment. Her dark eyes locked with Aran's, filled with a cold, deadly intent.
"You're good," Aran remarked, his voice calm despite the tension in the air. "But not good enough."
The woman struggled, but Aran's grip was firm. She glared at him, her expression hardening.
"Kill me," she spat through gritted teeth. "It doesn't matter. The Puppeteer will—"
"The Puppeteer won't do anything," Aran interrupted, tightening his grip. "He's losing control. His network is crumbling, and he's desperate. That's why he sent you."
The woman's eyes flashed with anger, but she said nothing. Aran leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Tell me something. How much did he pay you? Was it enough to die for?"
Her gaze wavered for just a moment, the briefest flicker of uncertainty. Aran smiled. He had seen it a thousand times before—loyalty bought with gold was never true loyalty. The Puppeteer's grip on his people was slipping, and this assassin knew it.
"You have a choice," Aran continued. "You can either keep working for a man whose days are numbered, or you can walk away. I'll even let you live."
She hesitated, her breathing uneven as she weighed her options. Aran could almost hear the gears turning in her head. He didn't need her dead—he needed her to spread a message, to let the Puppeteer know that his power was eroding. And there was no better way to deliver that message than through one of his own people.
After a long moment, she stopped struggling. Aran slowly released his grip, stepping back and watching her carefully.
"Go," he said quietly. "Tell the Puppeteer what happened here. Let him know that his days of ruling from the shadows are over."
The assassin glared at him one last time before disappearing into the night, her footsteps fading into the distance.
Aran exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He didn't like letting enemies walk away, but sometimes a well-placed seed of doubt could do more damage than a blade ever could. The Puppeteer would hear about this, and he would grow more paranoid, more desperate. And that was exactly what Aran needed.
As Aran turned to leave, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. The Puppeteer was dangerous, perhaps more than he realized, but Aran had come too far to back down now. He had dismantled the council's corruption, cut off the flow of trade that fed the Puppeteer's influence, and positioned himself as the puppet master behind the scenes.
But now, the game was changing. And Aran was ready for whatever came next.