The Weight of Tomorrow

[Rowan's POV]

"Faster!"

Talia's voice cut through the crisp day's air, sharp as a whip.

My lungs burned, every muscle in my body screaming in protest, but I shoved the pain aside and forced more mana into my legs.

The surge of power sent me flying forward, feet barely touching the ground before I pushed off again.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't smooth like before. After my awakening, I had felt untouchable—effortless. Now, every movement felt sluggish, forced. I gritted my teeth.

Tomorrow, there would be no room for hesitation. No room for failure.

I lunged, feinting a left hook before twisting into a right cross, but Talia saw through it, slipping just out of reach.

I didn't let her breathe. I pressed in—fast, relentless—throwing a sharp jab, but she was already gone, a blur of movement just beyond my fist.

Annoying.

This was just a spar, but even so, my pride bristled. If I went all out, I could put her down. I knew it.

But now wasn't the time to get reckless. An injury before tomorrow? That would be the real loss.

I shifted my weight, circling, searching for an opening. Talia grinned.

"Come on, Rowan," she taunted. "Is that really all you've got?" I exhaled slowly, steadying my stance.

Talia struck first. Her leg whipped toward my neck, a blur of motion. I barely had time to react, jerking back just as it sliced through the air. But I was ready. The instant it passed, I surged forward, mana flooding my arm as I caught her leg mid-swing.

The impact rattled through my bones, but I held firm, grinning as her balance wavered. She moved to retreat—too slow. I swept her grounded leg out from under her, and in an instant, she was airborne.

Then—down.

She hit the ground hard, dust kicking up around her. I exhaled, finally feeling the rush of satisfaction I had been chasing. Ten to sixteen. I was closing the gap.

I extended a hand, meeting her sharp gaze as she took it.

"Not bad… for a rookie," she muttered, brushing herself off.

I shook my head, unimpressed. "Right." 

Just as I steadied my stance, ready to launch back into the fight, a voice cut through the air.

"Come on, fuckers! Get ready to meet the widow."

Handy. His usual charming way of calling us to action. I turned, breathing hard, time slipping through my fingers. Had minutes really passed that fast?

"Five minutes," I said, already moving toward the basin. "I'll wash up."

Cold water hit my skin, jolting me back into focus. The sweat, the exhaustion—it all drained away, leaving only the sharp edge of anticipation.

I dressed quickly, pulling on the best thing I owned: a robe with deep purple needlework. Stylish? Maybe. But I wasn't a noble. It just had to do.

Then we moved. Our group, stepping out into the slum, no longer lurking in the shadows like rats. The three-week truce still held—surprisingly.

But I wasn't fool enough to trust it. My fingers brushed the daggers at my hip. Just in case

The guards at the hideout entrance gave us curt nods as we passed. I'd gotten close to a few of the Spiders—close enough for them to whisper stories about my bastard of a father.

But that was all part of the game. And with what I was about to do, I couldn't afford to let emotions slip through the cracks.

We moved up the stairs, the air thick, heavy. As if the walls themselves knew what was coming tomorrow. Nothing can go wrong. I repeated it in my head like a prayer.

Before we even reached the office, the door swung open. Inside, the room was packed—twelve of the most important Spiders crammed together, their murmurs filling the space.

I gave a nod, my crew slipping into easy greetings, blending in too well. I only hoped they remembered—this won't last.

At the center of it all was the table. A map stretched across it, its inked lines carving out the slums. But my eyes locked onto the real target—the Risen camp.

The place we clawed our way out of.

The place that became a graveyard overnight.

And the place where history was about to repeat itself.

Then Valerie's voice cut through the murmurs, sharp yet laced with something she couldn't quite hide. "Hey, Vipers, y'all ready for the big day?" She tried for confidence, but the weight pressing down on this room was too heavy for that.

I caught the flicker of doubt in her eyes. It was there in the way her fingers tapped against the map, in the way her shoulders held just a little too much tension.

I let a small, unreadable smile slip through. "Sure, Widow." My tone was light, but I made sure there was steel beneath it. "So… how many did you manage to gather?"

She tilted her head toward one of her lieutenants—a middle-aged guy with crooked teeth and a sunburnt scalp. He looked competent enough, though the way he shifted on his feet made me second-guess that. Gary? That was his name, right?

"Our forces, without yours, are sitting at about seventy-eight," he said. There was hesitation in his voice, like he already knew the odds. Like he could feel the noose tightening.

And he wasn't wrong.

Even with the thirty we'd already taken out and the ten, maybe fifteen, the Hounds had chipped away, they still outnumbered us by fifty. Fifty men too many.

And those numbers? Those were a problem.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all. Word on the streets was that a lot of Angels were already packing their bags, getting out while they still could.

If enough of them ran, maybe—just maybe—we stood a chance.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. "Well, I made a few calls. Dug up some old debts. Convinced a couple of my pals to take a gamble."

I smirked, though the effort it took to round them up still left a bitter taste in my mouth. "So add another twenty to that."

That still left them with a thirty, maybe forty-man advantage. But numbers weren't everything.

Valerie leaned forward, her voice dropping just enough to make the room tense. "And the mole? Still on?"

At her words, a few shoulders stiffened. We all knew the truth—without that lifeline, we were walking into a slaughter.

Handy stepped up, the dim light catching the scar across his jaw, his single hand resting easy on his hip.

He gave a sharp nod, his confidence unwavering. "Yer can be sure of that." His voice carried no hesitation. "I sent a couple of mine to contact him yesterday. He's in."

I pushed forward, letting my thoughts spill into words.

"If he's not lying—and I'm betting he's not—then we're looking at ten, maybe twenty fighters jumping ship.

"That throws a wrench into their ranks. Leaves them with what? Fifteen more than us, at best?"

"And once the betrayal hits, once their own start turning against them, the chaos alone evens the playing field."

I met Valerie's gaze, my voice measured but firm. "Our chances aren't impossible. Not anymore."

She was quiet for a moment, weighing my words. Then her head snapped up, eyes locking onto mine with the sharpness of a blade.

"But the biggest question is," she said, voice cold, cutting, "can you kill Victor? Because if he's still breathing by the end of this, we lose. No matter the numbers."

Silence followed, thick and suffocating. The weight of that name settled over the room like a storm cloud. Victor.

I let my gaze drift across the faces around me—some etched with fear, others hardened with resolve. A funny bunch.

None of them would have to face him. That was my job. And one way or another, I'd see it through.

"Leave Victor to me," I said, my voice cutting through the heavy air. "I have my own way. But if I lose…" I let the words hang, the weight of them sinking in. "Good luck. Because you'll most likely die."

A few forced chuckles echoed around the room—nervous, unsure. No one wanted to dwell on the truth buried in my words. I didn't blame them. But I wouldn't sugarcoat it either.

We spent the next two hours hunched over maps, tossing around strategies, weighing risks against certainties.

Every plan had cracks, but it was too late for perfection.

When the meeting finally wrapped up, my skull felt like it was splitting in two, but I swallowed the exhaustion. No point in letting it show.

The walk back to the hideout was silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. No jokes, no mindless chatter—just the sound of boots against dirt, the occasional rustle of the wind.

It felt like the slum itself was holding its breath, waiting for what came next.

Our hideout wasn't much—a cramped, battered house with too few rooms and too many people. But tonight, it smelled like something rare. Meat. A real meal.

We sat around the table, shoulders brushing, exhaustion pressing down on us. The candlelight flickered against hollowed cheeks and shadowed eyes.

Plates were passed, hands reaching, but before anyone could take a bite, I leaned forward.

"Before we eat," I said, my voice steady but low, "I just want to say… thank you. For everything. I know it hasn't been easy."

The firelight cast flickering shadows across their faces, worn and hardened by the life we lived. My gaze drifted to Elias—just for a second—before I pushed forward.

"I know I haven't always been fair to you. I've made mistakes. And for that, I'm sorry." A breath. A pause. "So let's survive. Together. Like before."

Silence settled over the table, thick and suffocating. No one spoke, no one even reached for their food. They just stared, mouths slightly parted, eyes searching. Maybe they never expected to hear those words from me. Maybe I hadn't expected to say them. But I needed to. Because this might be the last time we sit together like this.

Then—clap.

A slow, mocking applause broke the silence. Tobias, grinning—an expression so rare these days, I almost forgot how it looked on him.

"Don't worry, bro." His voice was light, effortless. "We'll pull through. Together. Like we always did."

And then he smiled, bright and unshaken. A smile too pure for a man who had been through hell with me. A smile I wasn't sure I could return anymore.