The next morning brought a strange calm over the city, but Aran could feel the undercurrents of unease swirling beneath the surface. The assassin's death hadn't yet spread through the streets, but soon it would. The Puppeteer would be watching closely, waiting for signs of movement.
Aran stood in front of the large map in his study, a web of markers and notes covering the surface. Every piece on the board had a role, and now was the time to start maneuvering them into place. The assassins, though skilled, were pawns, tools of the Puppeteer's desperation. Aran's real target lay deeper, hidden beneath layers of influence and power.
The game was in its final stages. All Aran needed to do now was pull the strings.
"Master," came a quiet voice from the doorway. It was Lyssa, dressed in her usual dark leathers, her eyes sharp as ever.
Aran turned to her, noting the subtle tension in her stance. "The others?" he asked.
"Two are on the move," Lyssa said. "They've split up again—one toward the docks, the other heading into the old district near the edge of the city."
Aran's brow furrowed. The old district was a warren of crumbling buildings and forgotten alleyways, perfect for someone who wanted to disappear. But the docks—those were another matter entirely. They were crawling with informants, workers, and guards. A dangerous place for an assassin to be wandering.
"Do we have people in position?" Aran asked.
Lyssa nodded. "Our contacts at the docks are already keeping an eye on things. As for the old district, we have a few locals we can rely on, but it's trickier. That area's been off-limits to most for a while now."
Aran's mind worked quickly. The docks presented an opportunity. The assassin moving through there would be vulnerable, surrounded by too many eyes. He could be taken down cleanly, without much notice. But the old district—there was something off about that move. It felt too deliberate.
"I'll take care of the one in the docks," Aran said after a moment. "But I want more eyes on the old district. Whoever's heading there might not be working alone. They could be laying a trap."
Lyssa nodded in agreement. "I'll double the watchers there. Quietly."
Aran gave her a curt nod. "Good. I want to be informed the moment anything happens."
As Lyssa slipped out of the room, Aran took a deep breath and returned his gaze to the map. The Puppeteer was running out of moves, but that didn't mean he wouldn't make a desperate play. Aran knew all too well that the most dangerous moment in any game was when your opponent had nothing left to lose.
He poured over the details of the docks—the layout, the patrol routes, the escape routes. If the assassin was moving through there, he had to have a reason. Either he was trying to meet someone, or he was looking for a way out. Either way, Aran intended to cut off every possible avenue of escape.
---
The docks were bustling with activity when Aran arrived, the scent of saltwater and fish heavy in the air. Workers moved in and out of warehouses, crates being loaded onto ships bound for distant lands. To anyone else, it would look like just another day in the city's lifeblood.
But Aran knew better.
He moved silently through the crowd, his cloak pulled close around him, blending in with the workers and travelers. His contacts had already passed along the assassin's last known position—a small tavern at the edge of the docks, frequented by sailors and merchants alike.
Aran slipped inside, his eyes quickly scanning the dimly lit room. The tavern was noisy, filled with the sounds of clinking glasses and raucous laughter. But there, in the far corner, sat his target. The assassin was hunched over a table, pretending to nurse a drink, but Aran could see the sharpness in his eyes, the way his hand rested close to his concealed weapon.
The assassin was waiting for something—or someone.
Aran took a seat at the bar, keeping his back to the assassin while his mind worked through the possibilities. Was this a meeting? A handoff? Or was the assassin simply biding his time before making his next move? Aran knew he couldn't strike here, not with so many witnesses. But he could watch, and more importantly, he could listen.
"Been busy these days, eh?" came a gruff voice from behind the bar. The bartender, a burly man with a weathered face, set a drink down in front of Aran.
Aran slid a coin across the counter, nodding slightly. "Always busy in these parts."
The bartender chuckled, wiping a glass with a rag. "Aye, especially with all the strange folks coming through lately. Not just the usual sailors and traders. Saw a few shady types not long ago, hangin' around the warehouses. Makes a man wonder what's really goin' on."
Aran's interest piqued. "Shady types, you say? What kind of shady?"
The bartender leaned in a little, lowering his voice. "Quiet ones. The kind that don't want to be noticed, if you catch my drift. Dressed like travelers, but somethin' about 'em didn't sit right. Like they were waitin' for someone."
Aran nodded thoughtfully. "And these folks—are they still around?"
"Maybe," the bartender said with a sly grin. "But information's worth its weight in gold, friend."
Aran tossed another coin onto the counter, this one a bit heavier.
The bartender pocketed it quickly. "They've been layin' low around the east warehouse. Big place, but hardly anyone uses it. Not since the last fire a few months back. They're either there now or waitin' to head out."
Aran glanced toward the corner, where the assassin still sat, looking more restless by the minute. If there were others in the warehouse, it made sense why he was waiting—perhaps for the right moment to join them. Or perhaps he was simply ensuring the area was clear before making his move.
Aran finished his drink and stood, slipping out of the tavern with a subtle nod to the bartender. As he made his way toward the east warehouse, his mind raced with the possibilities. If the Puppeteer's men were gathering there, it could be the break he needed. But it could also be a trap.
He would find out soon enough.
---
The warehouse loomed in the distance, a dark and foreboding structure against the backdrop of the docks. Aran kept to the shadows as he approached, his senses on high alert. There were no guards outside, no obvious signs of activity, but that only made him more cautious.
He slipped around to the back, finding a small entrance that had been left slightly ajar. A deliberate oversight, perhaps? Or a sign of carelessness?
Aran pressed his back against the wall, listening carefully. There were voices inside—low, hushed, and tense. He couldn't make out the words, but there was no mistaking the tone. This wasn't just a casual meeting.
He pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. Inside, he could see several figures gathered around a makeshift table, their faces obscured by hoods. Weapons lay within easy reach, and a map was spread out before them.
Aran's heart quickened. This wasn't just a meeting. This was a war council.
And he had just walked into the lion's den.
---
Aran's mind raced as he assessed the situation. If these men were planning something, it meant the Puppeteer was preparing for his final play. But what was their target? What was their endgame?
He needed answers—and fast.
But first, he had to get out of there alive.