Who… Who're you… ? [3]

The air between them grew heavier, thick with something unspoken yet undeniable.

Azrael did not rush his next words, nor did he shift beneath the oppressive weight of Henry's gaze.

Instead, he allowed the silence to stretch, weaving tension into the very fabric of the room.

Henry remained motionless, his fingers still lightly grazing the handle of his dagger.

There was no bravado in his stance, no arrogance in his eyes—only the quiet, immutable certainty of a man who did not need to prove himself.

He had already won the moment he stepped into the room.

Azrael exhaled slowly, a smile flickering at the edges of his lips, though it never quite reached his eyes.

"You know, Henry, you fascinate me. Men like us—we are not strangers to the underworld. We have seen its filth, its rot. We have walked through its corridors of whispered deals and silent executions, and yet, we do not flinch. We do not turn away."

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling beneath his chin.

"But you… You are something different. I have seen assassins who revel in bloodshed, who delight in the artistry of death. I have seen mercenaries who kill for gold, for power, for the illusion of control. But you?"

Azrael tilted his head slightly, studying Henry as though trying to unearth something buried deep within him.

"You kill with neither joy nor remorse. There is no pleasure in your blade, no hatred in your strikes. Only purpose. A clarity that is almost… unnerving."

Henry remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Azrael chuckled.

"And that is why I do not insult you with empty threats or meaningless posturing. Because I know men like you, Henry Blackwood. I know that you are not moved by fear, nor swayed by greed. You do not play the same games as the rest of us."

He lifted the small, ornate box from his desk, turning it over slowly in his hands.

"Which is why this deal is worth your time. Because it is not just about power. Not just about wealth."

He paused, his voice lowering into something almost conspiratorial.

"It is about knowledge."

Henry's fingers twitched ever so slightly, his interest piqued despite himself.

Azrael did not miss the shift. His smile widened.

"You have heard of the Aetherium Shard, of course,"

Azrael continued, his tone measured, deliberate.

"A relic that is said to be older than recorded history, a fragment of something far greater. Some call it a conduit. Others, a catalyst. But the truth is far more… elusive."

He traced a finger along the box's surface.

"You see, most believe that the Aetherium Shard is merely a source of raw power. Something to be wielded, controlled. But those with true wisdom, those who have delved deeper into the forgotten annals of history, know better."

Azrael's gaze locked onto Henry's, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

"The Shard does not give power. It reveals it."

Henry did not react, but something in his stance shifted, something almost imperceptible.

Azrael smirked.

"Ah. Now that caught your attention."

Henry's voice, when it came, was calm, steady.

"Explain."

Azrael chuckled.

"Straight to the point. Very well."

He set the box down gently.

"The Shard is not some crude artifact to be wielded like a sword or a staff. It is… a lens. A mirror. It does not create power—it allows one to see what has always been there, hidden beneath the surface."

He leaned forward, his gaze sharp.

"And for a man like you, Henry, for someone who has spent his life mastering the art of the unseen… imagine what you could become if you finally saw everything."

Silence.

Then—

Henry spoke, his voice quiet yet firm.

"And what is it you want in return?"

Azrael exhaled, pleased.

"A simple task. A retrieval."

He let the words linger before continuing.

"There is a man named Valentine Graves. A man who possesses something I require—a key. Not just any key, but the key to a vault that holds knowledge lost to time, secrets buried even beyond the reach of kings and emperors."

Henry's jaw tensed ever so slightly, a flicker of recognition passing through his eyes.

Azrael's smile grew sharper.

"Ah. I see you know him."

Henry said nothing.

Azrael tapped his fingers against the box.

"I won't insult your intelligence by pretending this is a simple job. Graves is… formidable. Not just in strength, but in mind. He is careful. Cunning. The kind of man who does not keep something valuable unless he knows precisely why it is valuable."

He leaned back once more, watching Henry carefully.

"You bring me that key, and the Aetherium Shard is yours. No tricks. No deceptions."

A pause, then a slow smirk.

"You have my word."

Henry remained silent for a long moment, his mind calculating, weighing every possibility.

Azrael allowed him the space to think, to process, to come to the conclusion that he already knew was inevitable.

Then, finally—

Henry exhaled slowly, his voice quiet, final.

"Deal."

*****

The city slumbered beneath a heavy blanket of darkness, its streets winding through the underbelly of civilization like veins pulsing with quiet malice.

LED lights flickered in their iron casings, casting long shadows that danced upon the damp cobblestone roads.

Here, in the forgotten alleyways where even whispers dared not linger, Henry Blackwood moved like a phantom.

His breath was steady, his steps soundless.

Beneath the folds of his dark coat, his fingers ghosted over the hilt of his dagger—a weapon that had tasted the throats of men who had never seen their deaths coming.

His target, Valentine Graves, was no ordinary man.

He was not just a keeper of secrets but their guardian, a man whose existence was a lock upon the door of forgotten knowledge.

The key Henry sought was more than mere metal and craft—it was access, a passage to something buried beneath time itself.

And Henry would have it before the night was over.

*****

The manor stood at the edge of the city, a fortress hidden in plain sight.

Its walls, though elegant in their design, were not merely for show.

Graves was a man of caution, of paranoia sharpened by years of being hunted.

The guards patrolled in calculated shifts, their routes disciplined, their weapons polished and primed.

Henry watched from the rooftop opposite, his eyes tracing every movement, mapping every blind spot.

This was a game he had played a thousand times, a puzzle whose pieces he rearranged in the shadows.

Three men at the front.

Two by the balcony.

Four circling the rear.

His lips curled ever so slightly.

They were expecting an intruder, but they were not expecting him.

The dagger whispered as he drew it free, the blade glinting once beneath the moon before vanishing into the night.

*****

Swoosh—!

The first man never even saw the attack.

A shadow descended upon him, the press of a palm against his mouth swallowing his scream before it could be born.

The dagger found his throat, swift and precise, and he crumpled without a sound.

Henry caught his body and lowered it gently to the ground before slipping into the manor's side entrance.

Inside, the air was thick with candle smoke and the faint scent of aged parchment.

Shelves lined the walls, stacked with books whose spines had not seen the light of day in years.

He moved swiftly, his presence a ghost between the flickering candlelight.

He knew where Graves would be—the study.

The sound of boots against marble reached his ears.

A guard turned the corner.

Henry did not hesitate.

The dagger flew from his hand, spinning through the air in a silent arc before burying itself deep into the man's throat.

He staggered, gurgling, eyes wide with disbelief before collapsing in a heap.

Henry retrieved the blade, wiped it clean against the dead man's uniform, and pressed forward.

*****

The door to the study was locked. Of course, it was.

But locks were merely obstacles, and Henry was a man who did not believe in obstacles.

He reached into his coat, retrieving a slender tool. The pins inside the lock trembled under his touch, yielding one by one.

Click—!

The door creaked open.

And there, standing amidst a sea of books and LED lamp, was Valentine Graves.

A man who had expected Henry all along.

Graves did not reach for a weapon.

He did not lunge or cry out in alarm.

Instead, he turned slowly, a knowing smile playing at the edges of his lips.

His silver hair gleamed in the candlelight, his eyes sharp beneath the weight of understanding.

"So,"

He murmured,

"Azrael finally sent his hound."

Henry stepped inside, his dagger held loosely at his side.

"You knew this was coming."

Graves chuckled, a sound that carried no fear, only amusement.

"Of course I did. Azrael is not a patient man. He plays his games with precision, but even the best of players reveal their hands eventually."

Henry said nothing.

Graves gestured toward the desk, where a small, unassuming key lay atop a stack of old parchment.

"If it is the key you came for, take it. I have no use for it anymore."

Henry narrowed his eyes.

"You're giving it up that easily?"

A pause.

A flicker of something unreadable in Graves' expression.

"I said I have no use for it. I never said I did not care who it ended up with."

Henry stepped forward, his presence an unspoken warning.

"Explain."

Graves exhaled, his fingers tapping idly against the wooden desk.

"The vault that this key unlocks… it does not hold gold, nor artifacts of simple power. It holds knowledge, Henry. Knowledge that reshapes reality, that bends the laws we thought immutable."

His gaze lifted, pinning Henry in place.

"And you, of all people, should know—knowledge is the deadliest weapon of them all."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with meaning.

Then, slowly, Graves reached for something beneath his coat.

Henry tensed, his grip tightening around his dagger.

But Graves did not draw a weapon.

Instead, he withdrew a letter, sealed with wax, and slid it across the desk.

"If you take this key,"

Graves said quietly,

"Take this as well. Read it. And when you do, ask yourself whether you are ready for what comes next."

Henry did not move for a long moment.

Then, with measured ease, he reached forward, taking both the key and the letter.

Graves smiled.

"Good luck, Henry Blackwood."