The summons led Killian through a part of the tunnels he hadn't yet seen — deeper, narrower passages that stank of damp earth and rusting iron. The torchlight here was weak, the shadows thicker.
Harlow was waiting in a long chamber lined with wooden crates and dripping pipes. She stood at the far end, bent over a crude map spread across a barrel. The pale-haired dagger fighter was beside her, tapping a finger on the parchment.
"You're late," Harlow said without looking up.
"I was bleeding," Killian replied.
"That's not a reason in my tunnels," she said flatly. "It's a resource."
She gestured to the map. "You're going out tonight. The Wardens' siege drew attention, and we lost a shipment. You're going to get it back."
"What kind of shipment?" Killian asked.
"Blood. Bottled and ready for transport. Worth more than you are alive. Which means I'm sending you with Carter."
The pale-haired fighter grinned, though his eyes stayed cold. "Try not to slow me down, Vael."
The job was simple on paper: track the caravan that had taken the shipment, kill anyone guarding it, and bring the blood back before dawn.
In practice, it was a trek through the cold, dead outskirts of Vaelor — abandoned warehouses, silent docks, streets where only the wind dared move. The only sound between them was the crunch of boots on frost.
Killian kept his eyes forward, but his mind wasn't on Carter or the job. It was on the figure in the vault — those amber eyes.
"Something on your mind, Vael?" Carter asked without turning.
Killian kept his voice even. "You ever notice a cloaked figure in the tunnels? Watches but doesn't speak?"
Carter's grin didn't falter. "Plenty of people in the guild don't speak. Some because they don't want to… some because Harlow's cut out their tongues. Which do you think you saw?"
Before Killian could answer, Carter stopped abruptly and crouched, touching the frozen ground. "Tracks. Wagon wheels. Heavy load. They're close."
They found the caravan just beyond a ruined aqueduct. Two wagons, four guards, and a driver — all wrapped in thick coats against the cold.
Carter slipped into the shadows without a word. A moment later, one guard fell silently, throat cut.
Killian moved to the other side, letting his magic pool in his hands — shadows curling into blades. He struck fast, cutting one man down before the others could raise alarm.
But when the last guard fell, Killian saw the shipment. Not just bottles of blood. Vials marked with the Vael crest.
His gut twisted. "These came from Varrow."
Carter shrugged. "Blood's blood. The guild will pay for it the same."
Killian's hands tightened. "This isn't a recovery. It's theft."
"Everything down here's theft," Carter said. "You think Harlow cares where it comes from? If you're smart, you won't either."
As they loaded the vials back onto their sled, a soft crunch came from the ridge above.
Killian looked up and froze.
A lone figure stood there, cloak drawn tight, amber eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. Watching.
Before Killian could move, Carter turned — and the figure was gone.
Back in the tunnels, Harlow inspected the recovered shipment with cool approval. "Efficient work," she said. "You might live to be useful after all."
But as she turned away, she added, "Oh… and the blood you brought? It stays here. In my vault. For now."
Killian's instincts screamed. Something about this run had been staged — not for the blood, but to test him.
And somewhere, that cloaked figure knew it too.
That night, a folded scrap of paper was pushed under Killian's door.
They lied about your parents. Meet me. Midnight. North well.
No signature. Only a faint smear where the ink had run — in the shape of a thumbprint.
Amber, not black.