Vorn’s jaw flexed once, the tiniest twitch of irritation, but he quickly smoothed his expression into something resembling professional compliance.
"As you wish," he said, pivoting sharply on his heel. His boots thudded against the worn stone as he led the way inside.
The manor’s corridors were a study in faded grandeur. Long, dusty rugs muffled their steps, their intricate patterns dulled by years of neglect. Portraits of past lords lined the walls—stern faces gazing down from gilded frames, many of them marred by knife gouges or crude ink scrawls. The air smelled faintly of mildew, like a place that had been cleaned just enough to be tolerable but never enough to be welcoming.
Fenric’s sharp gaze swept over everything, noting the missing wall sconces, the cracks in the plaster, the way servants darted out of sight the moment Vorn’s heavy footsteps echoed near.
They reached the lord’s office—a high-ceilinged chamber that might have once been the seat of a small kingdom. Now, its heavy oak desk was cluttered with stacks of parchment, open ledgers, and a half-empty bottle of amber liquor. One of the side windows had been crudely patched with nailed boards, letting in a sliver of chill air.
Vorn gestured toward the desk. "Everything you requested should be here, though some records are... incomplete. The city’s recent troubles have made keeping accurate logs challenging."
Fenric walked to the desk, resting a gloved hand on the worn wood. "Incomplete because of the troubles... or because someone made them incomplete?"
The corner of Vorn’s mouth twitched. "We’ve had... administrative difficulties."
Fenric’s lips curved faintly—not in amusement, but in acknowledgment of the verbal fencing match they’d just begun. He took a seat and began scanning the nearest ledger, his eyes moving fast enough that Vorn shifted uncomfortably.
The numbers told a story far uglier than Vorn’s polite words.
Tax revenue had dropped by nearly forty percent in the past two months alone—yet patrol expenses had nearly doubled. Trade manifests showed goods "lost" to bandit attacks that just happened to occur along the only safe road out of the city. And the so-called incident logs read like the daily itinerary of a warzone: fights in the markets, smuggling busts gone wrong, and "unidentified assailants" targeting merchants who refused to pay protection fees.
It was a perfect pattern. Too perfect.
The Mortal Fangs weren’t just in control—they’d embedded themselves so deeply into the city’s systems that they could bleed it dry without anyone being able to prove a thing.
Fenric closed the ledger with a soft thump.
"Vorn," he said, leaning back in the chair, "tell me. Who holds the real power here—you, or the Mortal Fangs?"
The scarred man didn’t flinch, but his eyes hardened. "I am the Vice City Lord, Your Highness. My authority comes from the crown."
Fenric tilted his head slightly, his voice quiet but cutting. "The crown is a long way from here. And paper authority doesn’t stop men with knives in alleyways."
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint tapping of Fenric’s gloved fingers on the desk. Then he stood.
"Here’s how this will work," he said. "I’ll be reviewing every record, speaking to every guild, and walking the streets myself. If there’s rot in this city, I will cut it out." His eyes locked on Vorn’s. "And if I find you’re part of that rot, you’ll be gone before you realize you’re falling."
Vorn’s expression didn’t change, but the tension in the room thickened. "Understood... Your Highness."
Aria, who had been silent at the door, finally spoke, her voice deceptively mild. "I’d suggest you make sure those reports stay honest, Vorn. My prince doesn’t take kindly to liars."
Vorn’s gaze flicked to her, then back to Fenric. "I’ll have my staff bring the remaining documents to your quarters."
He turned and left without another word.
When the door shut, Aria stepped closer. "He’s hiding something."
Fenric’s eyes were already back on the ledgers. "Of course he is. The question is whether it’s greed... or ambition." He flipped a page, scanning quickly. "Either way, it ends the same."
Aria folded her arms. "We’re being watched already."
"I know." Fenric’s tone was casual, almost bored. "Let them watch. It’ll make them feel clever—until the moment I close the trap."
He glanced out the patched window toward the city sprawling below. The streets were alive with movement, but in the shadows, he could already feel the city’s true heartbeat—dark, guarded, waiting to see if he’d bleed like the rest.
Fenric smiled faintly, the curve of it sharp as the silver-blue edge of Mooncrest.
"This time," he murmured, "Lyra chooses me."
Aria raised an eyebrow. "That’s ominous."
Fenric didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the city, the smile fading into a measured stillness.
Somewhere in the winding streets below, a bell clanged three sharp notes. The sound was out of place—too short for a time chime, too sharp for a market call. Aria’s head tilted.
"That’s not the usual pattern," she said.
Fenric’s fingers drummed once on the windowsill. "A signal. Low-level, but practiced. Someone just told someone else their ’guest’ has arrived."
Fenric nodded. "They’ll want to see how we respond to pressure." He turned toward the desk, scanning the ledgers again. "So let’s give them an answer they don’t expect."
A brisk knock rattled the door.
Vorn’s voice filtered through, carefully neutral. "Your Highness, a—gift—has arrived from one of the trade guilds. Shall I bring it in?"
Fenric and Aria exchanged a look. She mouthed, Trap.
Fenric smiled—not warmly. "Bring it."
The door opened to reveal two burly servants lugging a heavy chest between them. Its brass fittings gleamed despite the scratches along its sides. The lock was a simple iron clasp—too simple for something meant to be secure.
They set it down in front of the desk and retreated without a word. Vorn remained in the doorway, watching.
Fenric crouched, flicking the clasp open. The lid rose with a creak.
Inside, on a bed of silk, lay a single severed wolf’s head. The fur was matted with blood, the eyes glassy, the jaw frozen mid-snarl. Around its neck hung a strip of parchment scrawled in crude, blocky script:
"The last predator who tried to claim our streets."
Aria’s hand drifted toward her sword. "They’re not subtle."
Fenric studied the head for a long moment, then closed the chest slowly, almost gently. "No. They’re making sure the game starts on their terms."
Vorn cleared his throat. "Shall I have it... disposed of?"
Fenric straightened. "No. Put it in the entry hall."
Vorn blinked. "The—entry hall?"
"Yes," Fenric said, his tone almost bored again. "I want every visitor to see it. Let them wonder if I’m the one who sent it."
Aria’s mouth quirked. "You’re inviting trouble."
Fenric turned back to the window. "Trouble was already here. I’m just sending it a formal invitation."
"Besides," he added, a faint smirk curling his lips, "I’m not afraid of a handful of small-time city mercenaries."
Aria’s eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Then who are you afraid of?"
"Afraid?" Fenric’s smirk deepened, but his voice lowered into something more measured. "Not afraid. Wary. Now that I’m here on royal duty, a certain... pig will surely go out of his way to throw me into my grave—in his own words."
She tilted her head. "You mean Fourth Prince Drake?"
The faintest chuckle escaped him, sharp and humorless. "Yes, that charming man. To him, I’m just an inconvenient thorn. He’s been waiting for an excuse to ’remove’ me for years."
Aria’s gaze sharpened. "I’ve heard the stories—how he sees rivals as prey to be hunted."
Fenric’s eyes glinted, the Sunlight catching on the silver in his irises. "Exactly. These petty crime mercenaries? They’re manageable. But when Ragos’ Dagger and Prince Drake’s web of influence start moving in unison... even I will have to watch my step."
Fenric moved away from the window, his boots whispering over the worn carpet as he circled the desk. He lowered himself into the chair with the casual authority of someone who had no intention of asking permission.
The desk creaked under his weight, its surface littered with ledgers and half-scribbled reports. He swept a few aside with the back of his hand, making space as if clearing a battlefield before laying out his weapons.
Leaning back, he drummed his gloved fingers on the wood in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "The thing about Prince Drake," he said, almost to himself, "is that he doesn’t kill you in the dark. He makes sure the whole court is watching... and applauding."
Aria remained standing, her arms crossed, eyes scanning the corners of the room like she expected blades to emerge from the shadows. "Then we’ll just have to make sure his applause dies in his throat."
Fenric’s lips twitched at that. "Bold words, Aria. Let’s see if you can keep them when the invitations start arriving."
"Invitations?" she asked.
"Well, I’m pretty sure that bastard is going to invite me first," Fenric said. "He may look reckless, but it’s just the front he’s used for years to keep the Golden Empress and the First Prince—the most influential man in court—from targetting him."
Others might fall for Drake’s act, but Fenric, who had read the whole novel about him, already knew his true face.