The blood wouldn't wash out.
Ren stood over a wooden basin in the corner of the room, scrubbing his palm with a piece of soap that smelled of animal fat . The water was a murky, rusted brown. The wind attributed Aur from Jace's blade had left deep, jagged furrows in his skin, not clean cuts, but shredded gashes where the air had literally tried to tear the flesh from the bone.
He didn't flinch as the soap stung the raw meat of his hand. Pain was just data to him. It told him his limits. It told him that even with the Ironheart, a forged artifact was still a forged artifact.
"You're a dead man walking," Thorne said.
The old man was sitting by the hearth, stoking a fire that refused to grow. He didn't look at Ren. He was looking at the shadows dancing on the wall. "Kael Vane won't let that humiliation stand. He can't kill you in the arena without the Arbiters stepping in, but the streets of Oakhaven are long and dark. And Helios Sola? He's not going to let a 'glitch' like you ruin his son's coronation tomorrow."
"Let them come," Ren said. He dried his hand on a tattered cloth and began to wrap it in fresh linen. He pulled the knot tight with his teeth. "Assassins are cheaper than armies. It means they're afraid of the cost."
"They should be," Thorne grunted. He reached into his coat and tossed a small, heavy object onto the bed.
It was a ring. Dull iron, cold to the touch, with a single, unpolished stone set into the band.
"A Shroud stone," Ren noted, picking it up.
"A gift from a friend who doesn't exist," Thorne said. "Put it on. It'll dampen your Aur signature. To anyone looking, you'll just be a boy with a broken hand and a bit of luck. If you're going to survive the night, you need to be a ghost again."
Ren slipped the ring onto his finger. He felt a strange, heavy pressure settle over his chest, like a thick blanket being thrown over a fire. The hum of the Ironheart grew muffled, distant.
He walked to the window. The city was a jagged silhouette against a bruised purple sky. Below, in the alleyways, he saw the flicker of torches. The Vane guards weren't even trying to be subtle. They were closing off the block.
"They're here," Ren said.
"How many?"
Ren closed his eyes. He didn't use his sight. He used the Verity twitch in his skull. With the Shroud stone dampening his own noise, the intentions of others became louder. He felt the cold, sharp points of killing intent, like needles pressing against the back of his neck.
"Six. No... seven. One is different. Faster. No armor."
"A Nyx shadow," Thorne whispered, standing up. His one hand drifted to the hilt of the broken blade he kept hidden in his sleeve. "Selene is hedging her bets. She wants to see if you're worth the trouble of protecting."
"I don't need protection," Ren said.
He didn't grab a weapon. He didn't put on his boots. He stayed in his thin, sweat stained shirt.
"Uncle, stay here. If they see you fight, the game is over. They'll know exactly who I am."
"And what are you going to do? Punch seven men with a hole in your hand?"
Ren looked at the door. It was a flimsy thing of rotting oak. He could hear the floorboards in the hallway groaning under a weight that didn't want to be heard.
"I'm going to show them that a Morn doesn't need an eye to see a traitor in the dark," Ren said.
He stepped into the center of the room and waited.
The door didn't burst open. It simply ceased to exist.
A blast of silver Aur vicious and sharp shattered the wood into a thousand splinters. Three men in grey duster coats stepped through the dust. They didn't wear the Vane crest, but their silver hair gave them away. Hired blades or more like clan bastards.
The first one didn't even get a word out.
Ren moved.
He didn't use the Void step. He used the Ironheart's explosive acceleration. He was a blur of pale skin and white bandages. He drove his uninjured hand, the left one,directly into the lead man's throat.
The sound was a wet, muffled thwack. The man's windpipe collapsed instantly. He hit the floor before the splinters of the door had finished falling.
The other two reacted, their hands glowing with the green light of vassal tier techniques.
"Kill him!" one hissed.
Ren didn't wait for the technique to form. He grabbed the dying man by the collar and swung the corpse like a flail. The sheer physical power of the Morn physique, even undeveloped, was monstrous. The two assassins were swept off their feet, crashing into the stone wall.
Ren didn't stop. He followed them down.
He used his knees. He used his elbows. He didn't strike for points or honor. He struck for the soft parts. The eyes. The temples. The kidneys.
In ten seconds, the room was silent again. The only sound was the crackle of the dying fire and the ragged breathing of the one man Ren had left conscious.
Ren knelt over him. He pressed his bandaged, blood soaked hand against the man's face.
"Who sent the shadow?" Ren whispered.
The man looked up at Ren. He didn't see a boy. He saw the violet flecks in Ren's eyes, spinning in the dark like the gears of a closing gate.
"The... the High... Council..." the man stuttered. "They... they know. The Arbiters... they want you... before the sun rises."
Ren stood up. He looked at Thorne.
The old man's face was grim. "The Arbiters. If they're moving now, it means they aren't waiting for the final match. They're going to seal you tonight."
Ren looked at his hand. The blood was seeping through the bandages again.
"Then the tournament is over," Ren said. "We're leaving."
"Leaving? To where? The whole city is a cage."
Ren looked toward the window. Beyond the city walls, the dark bulk of the mountains loomed.
"To the forest," Ren said. "If they want a Morn, they can find one where the trees don't have ears. And Thorne?"
"Yeah?"
"Bring the silver marks. We're going to need to buy a lot of Ghost lily. If they want to use poison on us again, I want to make sure they know what it tastes like."
Ren stepped over the bodies and walked out into the night.
Everything was changing and the hunt had begun.