The smallest sound of a pin jiggling in the lock on his door, and then with aclick,the handle turned.
The door opened and two men burst inside. They wore thick furs and dark padded coats, stitched through with patches. Their movements were lumbering, clumsy, and a quick look at their faces, necks, and hands yielded no markings to reveal an underground gang association.
They were likely low-ranking brutes scavenging for prizes in the Dams. And they’d hit gold with him.
Ramson cleared his throat. “Looking for me?” he said, and as they spun to face him, he lashed out.
He flicked the silverleaf he’d been playing with and it shot out like a projectile, hitting one of the men square in the eye. As the man stumbled back, hand to his face, howling in pain, the second leapt forward.
Ramson dodged easily, the arc of his opponent’s sword cutting a hairsbreadth from his nose. He pivoted and let out a breath. “My nose is my most handsome feature,” he said. “I mislike your attempts to sever it.”
The man gave him a growl and lunged, but Ramson had him all figured out. These brutes fought street-style: dirty, with no technique. Ramson fought dirty, too, but he was highly trained.
He easily undercut the brute’s swipe. By the time the man regained his sense of balance, it was too late.
Ramson’s blade pierced his throat. “Now you see why it’s called a misericord,” he muttered as he kicked the man’s body aside.
A shuffle of footsteps behind him. Ramson ducked just as the other brute struck out. His sword thumped to the floor, biting into the wood with the force of his swing.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Ramson clucked his tongue. “Clumsy. I could hear you coming from a mile away.”
In a flash, his sword was at his opponent’s neck, digging into the softness of the man’s flesh. “Tell me who you work for,” Ramson growled. “Tell me how you found me.”
The man resisted—they all did, at first—but Ramson tightened his grip into a choke hold, cutting off the man’s air. Drops of blood warmed Ramson’s fingers.
“Each time you make me ask, I slice a little more of your throat,” Ramson crooned. “Now, let me ask again—”
“We’re…for hire,” the brute gasped. “Saw…Kerlan’s…kill order…”
Ramson hummed. Olyusha would need to do better if she wanted to protect his—and therefore her precious, stupid husband’s—life.
At the same time, these brutes were so amateur, Ramson could imagine her rolling her eyes at him.I leave the small fries to you,she’d say.I take the big fish.
At least her information had been accurate.
“P-please,” the mercenary was choking out. “Hard…times…”
“I understand,” Ramson said, and then slit the man’s throat anyway.
The second body thumped to the ground. Ordinarily, he might have given more thought to letting these men live, but his mind was focused on one thing.
Ana.
Their meeting place was clearly compromised, and Ramson didn’t even want to think about what would happen if any mercenaries or gang members lingering around the Dams got to her first. Hells, he cursed to himself, he should’ve considered that first, before he picked an inn in the middle of what used to be the most dangerous district in Novo Mynsk. He’d thought that, with the fall of Kerlan, the entire Cyrilian criminal underground had collapsed, too.
It turned out that wasn’t the case.
His heart beat in a drumroll, and he wiped his misericord on one of the dead men’s shirts, then sheathed it. He needed to find her…he needed to get to her first.
Because he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her.
Ramson threw on his cloak and stepped neatly over the two bodies, making for the stairs. He didn’t bother shutting the door behind him.
In the time it took her to cross the city, Novo Mynsk lit up like a rack of coals. The glow of torches colored the winding streets red, and the cloud-heavy sky was afire with shades of corals and crimsons. People had gathered in the streets, some groggy with sleep and some terrified. They shuffled forward together, papers in hand.
Whitecloaks were present on almost every street. They pounded on doors, barking orders at civilians, directing them to the town square. Most of them wore the blackstone-infused mail, rendering their bodies well out of Ana’s Affinity’s reach.
Yet some were outfitted in the newer armor, Morganya’s insignia blaring out from the plates on their chests. Ana focused on them, observing as one melted a door with nothing but a flick of their hands while another broke down an entire stone wall of a dacha with the touch of a finger. The number of Inquisitors was few, peppered among the vast majority of non-Affinite Whitecloaks, but the effect of their presence, coupled with unbridled power and violence, was chilling.
