Who… Who're You… ? [2]

The chamber was vast, yet suffocating. Black marble walls loomed high, their polished surfaces reflecting the dim candlelight that flickered from the iron sconces.

The scent of aged parchment and exotic incense mixed with the coppery tang of fresh blood, a stark reminder of the massacre that had just unfolded outside.

Azrael Darkbrone sat behind his grand desk, his fingers tented beneath his chin.

He did not move, did not flinch, as the assassin stepped forward, silent as death itself.

The heavy doors groaned as they shut behind him, sealing the two men inside.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then—

"You certainly know how to make an entrance,"

Azrael murmured, his voice calm, measured, as if discussing the weather.

He leaned back, reclining against the velvet lining of his chair, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable.

The assassin—Henry Blackwood—did not respond immediately. Instead, he took in his surroundings with the patience of a predator.

His gaze flickered over the countless artifacts displayed in glass cases—arcane relics, cursed trinkets, stolen heirlooms from long-dead noble houses.

A kingdom's worth of power, hoarded within these walls.

Finally, Henry exhaled.

"And you,"

He said, voice quiet, almost thoughtful,

"Certainly know how to waste my time."

Azrael's lips twitched—not quite a smirk, but something dangerously close.

"A bold statement,"

He mused.

"Coming from a man who just butchered his way into my office."

Henry tilted his head.

"A necessary inconvenience."

Azrael's fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair.

"Is that what you call it?"

"A cleansing,"

Henry corrected.

"You had too many roaches scuttling about. I was simply doing some housekeeping."

Azrael chuckled, low and rich.

"You mistake me for a man who cares about pawns. Their lives are fleeting, replaceable."

His eyes sharpened, voice dipping into something colder.

"But you already know that, don't you, Henry?"

A pause.

Then, Henry smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"So, you do know my name."

Azrael hummed.

"Of course I do. It would be an insult to my own reputation if I didn't. Henry Blackwood. Ghost of the Underworld. The blade that leaves no trace. A man with no allegiance, no masters. Just a whisper in the dark—until it's too late."

He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting against the desk.

"Tell me, Henry… do you believe in fate?"

Henry's expression didn't change, but his fingers subtly tightened around the hilt of his dagger.

"I believe in results,"

He said.

"Everything else is noise."

Azrael studied him, his gaze sharp as a dagger's edge.

"A practical philosophy. And yet, here you stand, in my domain. A man who kills without hesitation… yet has not struck me down. Why?"

Henry chuckled softly.

"Would you rather I did?"

Azrael smirked.

"I'd rather understand your intentions. Men like you do not act without purpose."

Silence settled between them.

The flames from the sconces flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.

Then—

Henry took a step forward, slow and deliberate.

"You think you know me, Azrael. You think that because you've heard my name whispered in the dark, you can predict my moves. That you can outmaneuver me."

Azrael didn't flinch, but there was a shift in his expression—something unreadable.

Henry's voice was smooth, unhurried.

"Tell me… in all your years of dealing, of scheming, of pulling strings from the shadows—how many assassins have sat across from you and not tried to slit your throat?"

Azrael's lips curled, his amusement never fading.

"Very few."

"Then you should be asking yourself why I haven't,"

Henry continued, his tone almost conversational.

"After all, I had ample opportunity. Your men were… disappointing, to say the least. You sit here, alone, unguarded, knowing full well that I have no reason to let you live."

A pause.

"Unless, of course, I do."

Azrael's eyes flickered, and for the first time, genuine intrigue crossed his features.

Henry took another step forward, close enough now that the flickering candlelight illuminated his face fully—sharp, angular, carved from shadow and steel.

His dagger twirled between his fingers, a lazy, elegant motion, as if to remind Azrael of its presence without needing to threaten him with it.

"I don't kill for free, Azrael,"

Henry murmured.

"And I don't kill without reason."

Azrael exhaled, as if finally understanding the game that was being played.

"You want something."

Henry smiled.

"You owe me something."

Azrael let out a low chuckle.

"Owe you? And what, exactly, makes you think I am in your debt?"

Henry's eyes darkened.

"Because, Azrael Darkbrone… someone within your ranks sold something that did not belong to them."

Azrael's amusement vanished.

His fingers stilled against the desk.

Henry tilted his head slightly, watching, waiting.

Then, he leaned in, his voice dipping into a whisper.

"A certain artifact. One that should never have left its resting place."

Azrael's gaze sharpened, his mind already racing through the possibilities.

There were many relics that passed through his hands—most were stolen, many were cursed, all were valuable.

But there were a few… a rare few… that should never have been touched.

Something cold crept up his spine.

"You speak of the Aetherium Shard."

Henry's smile did not fade.

"So you do know."

Azrael was silent.

He had underestimated him.

He had thought Henry was merely another assassin, another tool that someone had sent to silence him.

But this… this was something else entirely.

This was a negotiation.

Henry leaned back, his dagger twirling one last time before coming to rest at his side.

"You have two choices, Azrael,"

He said.

"Tell me where it is, who took it, and you will walk away from this night unscathed."

Azrael raised an eyebrow.

"And the second?"

Henry's smile vanished.

"I kill you and find it myself."

Silence.

"Pfft—"

Azrael laughed.

A slow, deep chuckle that echoed through the chamber.

"You truly are an interesting man, Henry Blackwood."

Henry didn't respond.

He simply waited.

Azrael's laughter died down, replaced by something colder.

He leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming like a predator's.

"Very well,"

He murmured.

"Shall we make a deal, then?"

A pause.

Then—

Henry smirked.

"Let's."