Steel rang like bells in a madhouse. Shouts, screams, the roar of fire—they blended into one endless cacophony as the Hollow Coin tore itself apart. Charles moved like a shadow through the chaos, his crew close behind. Blood marked the ground where turncloaks had struck clean and silent. Every corner burned with panic.
The syndicate's fortress was collapsing.
"Push forward," Charles snapped, voice cutting through the din. His eyes scanned every alley, every doorway. Freya's map of the compound blazed in his memory—the secret corridors, the weak points in the walls, the hidden escape route. That was where Durgan would run. Rats never stayed to fight when the fire reached their nest.
A guard lunged at Gerart. The dwarf caught the blade on his axe shaft, twisted, and smashed the man's skull into the stone wall. Farren bellowed as he kicked another foe into a burning cart, the flames devouring him in seconds. Syrien loosed arrows into fleeing figures—calm, merciless, her face unreadable. Lira darted ahead, ears twitching, dagger flashing silver in the firelight.
Charles advanced, calm at the center of the storm. He let his companions carve the path; his eyes were fixed on the escape.
---
For Freya, every corner was memory.
She knew these walls. The training yard, the crooked stairwell, the scent of cheap wine spilling from the barracks—each struck her like a knife to the ribs. She had been an orphan when the Hollow Coin took her in. When no one else wanted me.
Old Man Marlo's face rose in her mind. Scarred, grizzled, but always patient. He had taught her how to fight, how to read a man's eyes, how to survive. He had been the closest thing she'd ever had to a father.
Now he was gone—cut down in the chaos of betrayal—and she was here, carving through men she had once called brothers.
Her dagger sank into a guard's ribs. He gasped, eyes wide with recognition. For a moment she froze, her chest tightening. She had shared bread with him once, laughed with him after a job. His hand slipped from hers as he fell.
Her stomach twisted.
What am I doing?
But then she saw another farmer cut down by syndicate steel. She heard the terrified cries of villagers who had been extorted, broken, ruined. And she pushed forward.
"I didn't agree with this," she whispered under her breath, too low for anyone to hear. "I never agreed with what we became."
The fortress burned, and with every step she took, another piece of her past turned to ash.
---
Deep beneath the fortress, Durgan stumbled through a narrow passage. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his fine tunic. His hands shook as he fumbled with the lock to the concealed gate. The air stank of damp earth and old stone, and still the sounds of chaos echoed down the tunnels—too close. Far too close.
"This isn't how it was supposed to end," he muttered, voice breaking. His hands scraped at the latch, desperate, frantic.
The lock gave way with a crack. Fresh night air seeped through the narrow slit. Freedom lay just ahead. If he could just slip into the alleys, if he could just vanish into the veins of the city…
"Going somewhere?"
The voice was calm. Cold.
Durgan froze. His eyes widened as he turned. Charles stepped from the shadows, blade in hand, his panther-like eyes catching the dim torchlight. No fury showed on his face—only a quiet certainty, as if this moment had been inevitable from the start.
Durgan's knees buckled. He dropped to the floor with a thud, hands raised.
"Please," he croaked. "You don't understand. I can pay you. Gold, safe houses, contracts—everything. The Hollow Coin has stashes all over the city. Let me live, and it's yours. Just don't kill me!"
Charles said nothing, blade steady at the man's throat.
"You don't need to kill me!" Durgan went on, words tumbling over each other. "We're just a corner gang, that's all! Kill me and it won't change the city—it won't change anything!"
Charles's eyes narrowed. He thought of the farmers bled dry, the burned fields, the families broken. For them, the Hollow Coin had been everything.
"You're right," Charles said softly. "It won't change the city."
The blade slid across his throat in one smooth, practiced motion. His plea ended in a gurgle. Durgan collapsed, clutching at the wound as crimson spread beneath him. His eyes, wide with disbelief, dimmed to nothing.
Charles let the corpse fall. No triumph stirred in him, only the quiet certainty of a task finished. He wiped his blade clean on Durgan's fine tunic and turned back.
---
At the tunnel's mouth, Freya stood, watching. Her expression was unreadable, but there was no surprise in her eyes. She had known Charles would not hesitate.
And yet, as she looked down at Durgan's lifeless body, she felt nothing but hollowness. He had been just one of many. A small boss in a much larger machine. Cutting him down didn't end the dirty business—it only ended its one branch.
Her chest tightened. She remembered Old Man Marlo. Remembered every lesson, every shared meal, every laugh. And she felt the weight of everything she had done tonight. Her hands were bloodied, her dagger slick, and every strike had felt like betrayal—like killing the only family she had ever known.
Charles met her gaze. "It's done," he said.
But for Freya, it wasn't.
---
Above them, the Hollow Coin fortress collapsed into fire and ruin. Shouts thinned into silence. The survivors of the crew regrouped in the courtyard, bloodied but alive. Farmers leaned on their spears, trembling but victorious.
Gerart spat on the ground. "It's over," he said.
Charles studied the flames. The Hollow Coin was gone. Their stranglehold on this corner of the city had been broken.
But his eyes swept the streets beyond the fortress. Bigger, older, hungrier syndicates already stirred. Word of tonight's fire would spread fast. Power vacuums always attract attention.
The Hollow Coin was finished.
But the real trouble—the war for the city—had only just begun.