The arrow ca with a promise of death.
A silver blur, silent and precise, aid directly at Velrosa's temple.
But Ian's hand moved faster.
With a sharp crack, his fingers closed around the shaft inches from her face. The force split the wood slightly, the head trembling.
He turned it slowly, then snapped it in half with an absent flick of his wrist.
Splinters danced to the ground like dead leaves.
Above them, a figure shifted on a rooftop—just long enough for Ian to narrow his eyes.
A breath later, the air shimred behind the would-be assassin, and Fang materialized like a stain of shadow.
A purple mist replacing the air behind the assassin.
A snap echoed from the assassin's neck, too soft for the crowd to notice, and the corpse tumbled silently from the ledge.
Fang was gone before it hit the street.
Velrosa exhaled lightly. "Who could these be?"
"I wonder," Ian muttered, eyes cold and unfazed.
But they didn't dwell.
It was difficult to care. Assassins were like weeds.
They sprang from rot and jealousy and desperation—but very few had the talent to see a plan through.
The two continued walking, past rchant stalls and old prayer shrines, their pace unhurried, their path winding through the western quarter.
By the ti they reached the old shopfront nestled between an herbalist and a rune-scribe, the tension had already faded like morning mist.
Three simple tables and mismatched chairs sat outside, catching the sun. The paint on the shutters had faded, and the stone steps wore the grooves of years.
Velrosa stopped with a nostalgic smile.
"This was my favorite spot," she said quietly. "When I first ca to Esgard."
She stepped forward and sat, her movents slow, deliberate. Then, with a hand as graceful as any queen, she gestured to the seat across from her.
Ian paused for a heartbeat—then took it.
They sat in a silence that didn't need to be filled.
Monts later, a man in his late forties pushed the door open. His graying hair was combed neatly, his apron smudged with flour and spices.
He squinted toward the sun, then broke into a grin when he saw her.
"Ah, Princess. It's been too long."
"Well, things have been... hectic, Kaner," Velrosa replied with a faint smirk.
"I heard," Kaner said, eyes creasing with sympathy. Then he turned to Ian, eyes widening a touch.
"Oh, this is…"
"Ian," she began.
"The Demonblade," Kaner finished, extending his hand. "I know. Who in Esgard or beyond hasn't heard the tales? It's an honor, Mister Demonblade, sir."
Ian shook the man's hand with quiet strength. "Just Ian."
"Of course, of course." The man chuckled. "Then what can I get you both?"
"Two of the usual," Velrosa answered without hesitation.
"Coming right up."
As Kaner vanished into the shop, Ian glanced sideways. "He seems interesting."
"He is," Velrosa said softly, her eyes on the empty chair he once occupied. "He was one of my few friends when i ca here."
Kaner returned monts later with practiced ease, setting down two plates with warm slices of pie.
Steam curled upward, golden and fragrant. The crust glistened with a brush of honeyed egg wash, the filling a thick mixture of roasted rootfruit, ambered sage, and cinnamon-simred at—an Esgardian blend, savory and sweet.
They both thanked him, and he vanished again with a nod.
Ian took a bite.
His expression didn't change, but his eyes widened ever so slightly. "That's good."
"Isn't it?" Velrosa replied, almost excited. She took a bite as well, sighing as the flavors hit her palate.
But they didn't make it to the next forkful.
Figures erged from the nearby alley.
Cloaked, silent, purposeful. Weapons glead. The street stilled. Civilians scattered like dry leaves, so screaming, others ducking behind barrels and carts.
Ian and Velrosa both exhaled.
"You think they'll let us finish first?" she asked.
"Let's see," Ian muttered.
But he barely got the words out before one was charging toward Velrosa, blade drawn, a shout caught in his throat.
The steel never reached her.
It halted mid-air, clutched in a firm, pale hand. Fang stood between them, his cold expression unreadable. With a squeeze, the assassin's blade shattered like glass.
"Fang," Ian sighed.
"My liege," Fang intoned.
"Do it slow. Leave one alive."
"Understood."
Then ca the screams.
Fang was like rot through silk—quiet, inevitable, and rciless. His staff split skulls. Bones cracked like dry branches. The assassins threw spells, knives, and curses, but they may as well have been prayers against a storm.
Velrosa sipped from her glass of water as blood began pooling near the third table.
"No one in Esgard would be this stupid," she said calmly.
Ian cut into his pie. "A distraction, maybe?"
"Possibly. But from what?"
He chewed in silence, then glanced toward the rooftops. "If they wanted to draw us out, they wouldn't use expendables."
"Unless it was to get soone else alone."
"Eli?" he guessed.
They both looked at each other.
Then laughed.
"No one in their right mind would try to ambush Eli," Velrosa smirked.
"He'd make a al of them."
By the ti their plates were nearly empty, the street was a graveyard.
Fang returned, dragging the last survivor by the throat. A woman—scarred, lips split, eyes bruised. Her cloak was torn, her blade lost.
Behind Fang, the rest were corpses—limbs bent in unnatural ways, faces twisted in pain. They had died badly.
"I left this one alive," Fang said, voice like ash.
He held her aloft, her legs dangling.
"Who sent you?" he asked, calm, deadly.
The woman coughed blood. Then, blinking, she turned her head slightly toward the sound of his voice.
"That voice…" she rasped. "It's really you… Master Fang?"
A single tear rolled from her bloody cheek.
Ian's brows twitched. Velrosa straightened slightly.
Fang tilted his head, studying her for only a mont.
"Hm. I understand." He muttered.
Then, without hesitation, he snapped her neck.
The body dropped like at.
And the air turned cold.
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