Chapter 57: Shadows in the Dark

The moon hung high over Rookhaven, casting silver light over the sleeping city. But while most of its people rested, others schemed.

A hooded figure slipped through the narrow alleys of the noble district, his footsteps silent on the cobblestone. He moved with purpose, weaving through the city's underbelly until he reached a secluded estate.

The heavy iron gate opened for him without a word.

Inside, the estate was lavish—too lavish for a city still recovering from a bloody power struggle. Golden chandeliers illuminated a long mahogany table, where half a dozen nobles sat, their expressions grim.

The hooded man pulled back his cloak, revealing the scarred face of Lord Vincent Greaves, one of the wealthiest merchants in Rookhaven.

He took a seat. "Tell me."

A man with sharp features and graying hair, Lord Cedric Lorne, cleared his throat. "The Black Wolves failed. Harland failed. Now, Callahan seeks to control the brute through marriage."

Vincent scoffed. "A dangerous game."

Lady Eleanor Whitmore, a woman with ice in her veins, leaned forward. "We need to strike before Thorn consolidates his power."

A younger noble, Lord Edwin Marsh, hesitated. "And what if we fail? Every attempt so far has only strengthened him."

Vincent smirked. "Then we don't strike directly."

Cedric raised a brow. "You have something in mind?"

Vincent nodded. "A warlord rules through strength. But what happens when that strength is questioned?"

Eleanor's lips curled into a smile. "You mean to turn his own people against him."

Vincent's eyes gleamed. "Exactly. A few whispers. A few accidents. Make the people believe Thorn cannot protect them. That his rule brings only chaos."

Cedric steepled his fingers. "And when the city turns on him?"

Vincent leaned back. "We won't have to kill him. The people will do it for us."

A City on Edge

Jarek woke to the sound of raised voices outside Vale Manor. He pulled on a shirt, strapped his sword to his waist, and stepped onto the balcony.

Down below, a crowd had gathered at the gates. Merchants, dockworkers, and common folk—all shouting.

Tobias was already there, standing beside Sylva. "Word spread fast."

Jarek frowned. "What's going on?"

Sylva glanced at him. "Trouble."

He made his way down, pushing past the guards to face the crowd. "Speak."

An older merchant stepped forward, his face lined with worry. "Duke Thorn, three of our warehouses burned last night. We lost half our shipments."

A dockworker followed. "A gang hit the harbor district. Beat three of my men to death and took the cargo."

A woman clutched her child. "My husband was found in the streets—dead. No one knows who did it."

Jarek's expression darkened. "And you think this is my fault?"

The merchant hesitated. "We don't know. But since you took the city, the blood hasn't stopped."

Jarek clenched his fists. He had crushed the Black Wolves, torn apart those who defied him. But now? Someone was turning the people against him.

He turned to Sylva. "Find out who's behind this."

She nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

Tobias exhaled. "This is bad."

Jarek scowled. "Then let's fix it."

The Enemy's Move

Sylva moved through Rookhaven's underworld like a shadow.

She bribed informants, threatened lowlifes, and broke fingers where needed.

By nightfall, she had her answer.

She returned to Vale Manor, slipping through the side entrance, and found Jarek in his study.

"It's them."

He didn't look up from the map of the city. "Who?"

"The noble faction. Greaves, Lorne, Whitmore, Marsh. They're behind this. Paying gangs, setting fires, stirring fear."

Jarek's grip tightened on the edge of the table. "So they want the people to turn on me."

Sylva nodded. "They want chaos. They want you distracted while they build support."

Jarek exhaled through his nose. "Then let's send a message."

Sylva smirked. "How loud?"

Jarek's eyes burned.

"Make it deafening."

Retribution

The first strike came at Lord Marsh's estate.

A fire in the middle of the night—his granaries burned to ash, his stores looted.

By morning, Marsh fled the city.

The second came for Lord Lorne.

His private guards turned up dead in an alleyway, their throats slit. The message was clear: You are not safe.

Lady Whitmore was next.

Her most trusted advisor vanished, only to be found days later hanging from the city walls—his tongue cut out.

By the time Jarek turned his gaze to Vincent Greaves, the merchant was already making plans to leave Rookhaven.

Jarek found him before he could.

A Warning in Blood

Greaves' mansion was heavily guarded. Jarek didn't care.

His men cut through the defenses like a knife through flesh.

Jarek found Greaves in his study, trembling behind his desk.

"Duke Thorn," Greaves stammered, hands shaking. "This is a misunderstanding—"

Jarek slammed a dagger into the desk, inches from Greaves' fingers. "You spread fear in my city."

Greaves swallowed. "It wasn't personal. Just business."

Jarek leaned closer. "I make it personal."

Greaves shuddered. "Please—"

Jarek smiled coldly. "I'll give you one chance."

Greaves nodded rapidly. "Anything. Anything!"

Jarek pulled back. "Tell the others. This is my city. The next person who moves against me?"

His blade flicked—Greaves screamed as a deep cut traced his palm.

"I take their hand."

The New Order

By dawn, the rumors spread.

Lord Marsh had fled. Lord Lorne was in hiding. Lady Whitmore locked her doors.

Vincent Greaves?

He stood in the market square, his bandaged hand visible for all to see.

The message was clear.

Rookhaven belonged to Jarek Thorn.

And no one—not nobles, not merchants, not shadows in the dark—would take it from him.