Part IX – The Shadow Guild
The rain had not stopped for three days.
It fell in sheets across the rooftops, ran down gutters and into the veins of the city — sewers, tunnels, and the hidden corridors no patrols dared enter. Westernlight's underbelly breathed when the rest of the city slept.
And in those depths, the Lostgrace Guild gathered.
They met in silence beneath the catacombs, where the walls still bore the carvings of the old gods. Candles burned blue, smoke curling like ink. No one spoke above a whisper. To speak loudly in that place was to invite ghosts.
At the head of the long stone table sat a woman cloaked in gray. Her hair was cut short; her face unreadable. Her name was Shandy, though in the guild's tongue she was called The Quiet One.
Her eyes were fixed on a bloodstained dagger laid before her.
"This," she said softly, "was found in the palace garden. The blade that killed the king."
A murmur rippled through the shadows.
"It was one of ours," said a man near the end of the table. "The handle bears our mark."
"Which is why we're still breathing," Shandy replied. "Because Delun hasn't decided yet whether he wants to kill us or use us."
Her voice was calm, but the air in the room grew heavier.
Nile, from the Rasclaw Guild, leaned against the archway, tail flicking. "He won't wait long. Lionroar's law doesn't leave debts unpaid."
Shandy didn't look at her. "Then perhaps it's time to remind the Lion that shadows move faster than light."
–––
Above, in the streets of the lower quarter, Luk huddled with Anna beneath an overturned cart. Rain ran down the wood in thin rivulets, dripping into his hair.
He'd spent the morning searching for food and found only a bruised apple and a coin too tarnished for trade. Around them, the city seethed quietly — soldiers patrolling, merchants closing shutters, whispers traveling faster than footsteps.
Anna slept curled against him. Every few minutes, she flinched, as if hearing something in her dreams.
Luk's stomach growled. He pressed his hand against it, more habit than comfort.
Then a sound — a muffled scream — cut through the rain.
He froze. It came from the alley beside them. Another sound followed: steel against stone, short, clean.
He should have run. But curiosity was a cruel thing.
He crept to the edge of the cart and peered around the corner.
A man lay face-down in the mud, throat cut. Another figure knelt beside him, wiping a blade on the corpse's cloak. The assassin was small, hooded — silent.
Then she looked up.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met. Hers were pale gray, like stormlight trapped behind glass.
"Come out," she said softly.
Luk didn't move. His heart pounded.
She stood, sheath clicking softly at her belt. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
Slowly, he crawled from behind the cart, hands raised.
"Name," she said.
"Luk."
"Guild?"
He blinked. "None."
Her gaze lingered on his arm — where the skin, still raw from days of grime, seemed to shimmer faintly in the rainlight. She frowned.
"You're not from the city."
He shook his head. "The goblins burned our village."
She nodded once, expression unreadable. "Then you know what fire does to those who survive it."
Before he could answer, she stepped past him. "Forget what you saw, Luk from nowhere. Forget me."
But he didn't. Because as she vanished into the alley's mist, something glimmered where she'd stood — a droplet of silver on the cobblestone, glowing faintly before the rain washed it away.
–––
That night, Valen found Delun in the war chamber. The maps had changed again. Half the southern districts were now marked with black ink — "contested."
"They're killing each other in the streets," Valen said. "Rasclaw and Lostgrace both."
Delun didn't look up. "Then they save us the work."
"You call that order?"
"I call it cleansing."
Valen's hand twitched toward his sword. He stopped himself. "You're turning the city into a pyre."
Delun finally met his eyes. "Better a pyre than a grave. Better they burn on my command than rot on someone else's."
He turned away, ending the conversation.
But Valen couldn't shake the thought — or the faint echo of the seer's words: A lion eating its own tail.
–––
Two nights later, Luk saw the woman again.
The lower quarter had gone feral — fires smoldering in the rain, guild banners torn and trampled. He'd gone out searching for clean water when he saw her standing atop a collapsed wall, hood drawn low, watching the chaos like it was a sermon.
She turned before he could hide.
"Still alive," she said.
"I didn't tell anyone," he said quickly.
"I know."
He hesitated. "That man you killed — who was he?"
"A messenger," she said simply. "Carrying a letter that shouldn't reach the palace."
"What letter?"
Her lips curved faintly. "You ask too much for someone who doesn't exist."
He almost turned away. Then she said, "But if you want to stay alive, boy, stay away from the bridges after sundown. The river's going to eat tonight."
She started to leave.
"Wait," he said. "What's your name?"
She paused. "Names are dangerous."
Then she was gone again, melting into the rain.
–––
That same night, in the palace tower, Delun stood with his captains as thunder rolled over the plains.
"Burn the bridge," he said. "Both guilds plan to meet there. End them together."
Valen stiffened. "There are civilians in those wards."
Delun's gaze didn't waver. "Casualties end wars faster than treaties."
Outside, the rain began again — harder this time, red with the light of torches flaring along the riverbanks.
–––
Down in the alleys, Luk heard the first explosion before he saw the fire.
It bloomed like dawn — sudden, beautiful, terrible. The bridge collapsed in a single roar. The air turned to smoke and screaming.
He grabbed Anna, dragging her through the chaos. Burning oil rained down from the rooftops.
"Luk!" she cried. "It's everywhere!"
He pulled her close. "Don't look."
Through the haze, he thought he saw the shadow of the hooded woman again — standing on a parapet, eyes glowing faintly silver as the flames rose behind her.
Then the world became fire.