Deal [1]

The morning air was thick with the scent of damp stone and cold steel, a reminder that the underworld never truly slept.

The sun had barely begun its ascent, its feeble light struggling to reach the depths of the city where men like Henry and Azrael thrived.

Henry walked with measured steps, the weight of the key tucked inside the folds of his coat pressing against his ribs like an unspoken promise.

Each step echoed against the cobblestone streets, the sound swallowed by the ever-present murmur of unseen watchers in the alleyways.

The underworld had its own pulse, its own rhythm—a silent language understood only by those who had bled enough to earn their place within it.

Today was a day of decisions.

The entrance to Azrael's domain was exactly as he remembered it—discreet, tucked between the remnants of forgotten architecture, a place where shadows seemed to linger longer than they should.

Two guards flanked the doorway, their expressions impassive, hands resting lightly on the hilts of their weapons.

They recognized him instantly.

One of them, a man with a scar running down his jaw, gave a slow nod before stepping aside.

"He's expecting you."

Henry didn't acknowledge the words.

He simply stepped forward, through the threshold, into the lion's den.

The interior was lavish but cold—ornate, yet absent of warmth.

Tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes of knowledge both forbidden and mundane.

The faint scent of parchment, ink, and something more metallic—blood, perhaps—clung to the air. At the far end of the room, seated behind an elaborate desk of dark mahogany, was Azrael Darkbrone.

He was a man carved from patience and precision.

Every movement was deliberate, every word spoken with intent.

His presence was not loud, not forceful, but it carried weight—a silent gravity that made it clear he was a man who saw ten steps ahead while others were still taking their first.

Azrael lifted his gaze from the parchment before him, his golden eyes assessing, calculating.

Then, with a slow, knowing smile, he gestured to the chair opposite him.

"Henry Blackwood. Punctual, as always."

Henry didn't sit immediately.

He let the silence stretch, observing Azrael the way a hunter watches another predator.

Finally, he moved, lowering himself into the chair with the same careful deliberation.

"Let's not waste time."

Azrael chuckled, a quiet, knowing sound.

"Ah, but time is such a precious thing, Henry. Men like us—we have so little of it to spare, and yet, we always find ourselves at the mercy of its weight."

He leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepling together.

"You have something for me."

Henry reached into his coat, drawing out the small, unassuming key. It was old, worn by time, its edges smoothed by countless hands that had once held it before him.

But despite its simplicity, it was a thing of immense value.

A thing men had died for.

Azrael's gaze flickered to it, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

"So, it is real."

Henry's grip remained firm.

"Before I hand it over, we finalize the terms."

Azrael's smile didn't falter, but there was something sharper in the way he leaned back, as if he had expected nothing less.

"Of course. I would expect nothing less from you, Henry."

Silence stretched between them, an unspoken game unfolding beneath the surface.

Finally, Azrael gestured subtly with one hand, and a moment later, a small ornate box was placed on the table between them.

Henry didn't move immediately.

He let his gaze linger on the box, taking in the craftsmanship—the etchings of celestial patterns, the faint hum of energy that seemed to radiate from within.

This was no ordinary artifact.

The Aetherium Shard.

A thing of legends.

A source of power so potent that wars had been waged in its name.

Azrael watched him carefully, his voice smooth, deliberate.

"As promised. The Aetherium Shard, in exchange for the key. You understand, of course, that once this exchange is made, there is no turning back."

Henry exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the key.

He did understand.

This was not a simple trade.

It was a tethering of fates, a binding of agreements that could not be undone.

The moment he handed over the key, he would be shifting the balance of power in ways he could not yet predict.

Azrael's voice was softer now, almost amused.

"Hesitation does not suit you, Henry. You have already made your choice."

Henry met his gaze, unflinching.

"I don't hesitate, Azrael. I calculate."

Azrael chuckled again, his golden eyes gleaming with a feline amusement.

"A distinction most men fail to grasp. But not you."

Henry placed the key on the table.

Azrael's smile widened, his fingers closing over it with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment.

"Then our business is concluded."

Henry reached for the box, his fingers brushing against the cool metal as he pulled it toward him.

Even through the thin layer of silk that lined the inside, he could feel it—the hum of something ancient, something that pulsed like a heartbeat, like a living thing waiting to be awakened.

A lesser man would have lost himself in its allure.

Henry Blackwood was not a lesser man.

He closed the lid with a soft click.

And then, just as slowly, he lifted the key from the table, holding it between his fingers as if weighing its worth one last time.

Azrael watched him, his gaze never wavering, his expression unreadable.

Henry exhaled, his grip tightening slightly.

"One last thing, Azrael."

The crime lord arched a brow, waiting.

Henry's lips curled into something almost resembling a smirk.

"You never asked if the key was real."

For the first time in their conversation, Azrael's expression shifted—not much, but enough.

A flicker of something in his golden eyes, a subtle shift in the set of his shoulders.

It lasted only a second.

And then, he smiled.

A slow, dangerous smile.

Henry placed the key on the table.

And then, without another word, he stood.