| Blades in the Dark

༺ The Fractured City III ༻

The door creaked open slowly, its ancient hinges groaning under the strain, as if it, too, hesitated to reveal what lay beyond. Standing in the doorway were five men, their faces shrouded in shadow, each one wielding a weapon that bore the marks of years of brutal use. The alleyway was thick with the scent of decay, the cobblestones slick with the lingering dampness of forgotten years. The world felt still—too still—until the air began to hum with a distant tension.

The man in the front, his eyes cold and unwavering, held a machete, the blade gleaming dully in the fading light. "You and I wouldn't want this to get messy, old man," he said, his voice low, but carrying a sharp edge.

The old man did not flinch. He stood motionless, his shoulders set with a quiet resolve. "Just a few more days…" he replied, his voice betraying nothing of the worry that stirred beneath the calm exterior.

Rowan stood in the shadows behind the old man, his eyes scanning the group with the precision of a predator. His mind raced as he pieced together the situation. There was something about this that didn't add up. These men weren't here for rent. They were here for something more.

The machete-wielder motioned to his men. "Take him," he ordered, his tone flat.

In the blink of an eye, Rowan's instincts kicked in. The moment the first thug lunged toward the old man, Rowan acted. He gripped the man's arm, twisting it with a brutal fluidity that forced him off-balance. The thug's face twisted in pain, but before Rowan could press the advantage, the others closed in.

As the bolo-wielder lunged forward with ropes whipping through the air, Rowan ducked instinctively, the ropes grazing past his ear. The alley felt smaller now, the walls closing in as the men surrounded him.

The falcata-wielder slashed at him with a vicious arc. Rowan parried the blow with his keris, the curved blade meeting his weapon with a resonant clang, sending a shudder of force through his arm. His footwork was light and quick as he spun to the side, narrowly avoiding a second slash, the steel humming through the air just inches from his skin.

The storm clouds above, which had been gathering in ominous silence, now unleashed their fury. The first crack of thunder tore through the sky, shaking the ground beneath their feet. A flash of lightning illuminated the alley, casting eerie shadows that danced across the wet cobblestones. The air, heavy with the promise of rain, crackled with energy.

The pesh-kabz-wielder closed in next, moving with an unsettling fluidity. The blade came at him in a precise thrust, but Rowan sidestepped just in time, narrowly avoiding the deadly point. His mind raced—every movement calculated, every step a measured decision. But his body was growing tired. The thunder seemed to echo in his chest, the rumble matching the pounding of his heart.

Just as he prepared to strike back, the katzbalger-wielder was upon him, the massive two-handed sword swinging in a wide arc. Rowan barely managed to dodge, the blade grazing his sleeve and cutting into the fabric with a sickening sound. The pain was sharp, but he ignored it, focusing on the enemy.

But then—CRACK!—another lightning bolt split the sky, momentarily blinding him with its intensity. Rowan staggered back, his senses rattled, but his resolve was stronger than ever. The alley was now a battleground, the air thick with the electric tension of the storm. Every movement felt amplified, every breath heavier as the rain began to fall in sheets.

As the storm raged above them, the old man made his move. He lunged forward, grabbing the nearest thug by the wrist and twisting with an ease that spoke of years of hidden strength. The thug gasped, off-balance, and the old man forced him to the ground with a swift, calculated motion.

But Rowan knew their time was short. The machete-wielder barked a command, and in a flash, the men retracted, pulling back toward the door.

"We've done what we came for," the leader said coldly, his eyes flicking to Rowan. "We have what we need." He nodded to his men, and in an instant, they surged forward, seizing the old man with brutal efficiency.

Rowan took a step forward, but his strength was fading, his body sore from the relentless blows. The rain continued to fall, now a torrent that soaked through his clothes, plastering his hair to his forehead.

With the old man in tow, the group of thugs retreated into the night, disappearing into the downpour. Rowan stood still, the weight of the storm pressing down on him, his body trembling with exhaustion.

The alleyway was silent again, save for the distant rumble of thunder. Rowan's mind was racing. They weren't here for rent. He knew it now. They had come for something far more important. Something that the old man had been protecting.

And Rowan, despite the pain, knew that he could not let them get away with it.