Chapter Twenty-Seven: Blood in the Corridor

Liora barely heard the step behind her before steel hissed from a sheath.

She turned—too late—and the assassin was already moving.

A shadow surged from the hallway's bend, fast and silent. No cry, no challenge—only the flicker of torchlight on a blade arcing straight for her spine.

Kellen reached her first.

He slammed into her from the side, dragging her down and twisting just enough to shield her body with his own. The blade meant for her heart plunged into his back instead—deep and sickening.

He didn't scream.

Just grunted—a sharp, human sound of pain held in the teeth—and collapsed to the ground beside her.

The world tilted.

Blood soaked the stone under her palms, warm and fast.

"Kellen—!"

She caught his weight as he dropped, but his legs had already buckled. His breathing came shallow, sharp. Her fingers slid under his arm, pulling, but he was too heavy, too limp.

Behind them, boots scraped.

She looked up.

The assassin advanced in silence. No insignia. No crest. Just a hooded figure cloaked in midnight and violence, gloved hand tightening around the hilt of a curved blade slick with blood.

Liora didn't hesitate.

Her hand dropped to the hidden slit beneath her borrowed tunic, fingers closing around the slim handle of her knife—the same one she'd carried from caravan to caravan, through trade roads and thieving towns, through nights when firelight was the only shield between her and a stranger's hunger.

The blade whispered free.

She rose fast and low, pivoting with the grace of someone who'd learned to fight not in a ring, but in back alleys and forest camps. Her first strike missed—but not by much. The second cut upward with brutal precision, aiming for the soft place just below his ribs.

Steel met cloth, then flesh.

The assassin hissed—a clipped breath of pain—but he didn't slow. He spun, catching her wrist and slamming her into the corridor wall.

Stone met shoulder.

Pain shot down her side.

Her vision blurred, but she gritted her teeth, shoved off the wall, and ducked under his next strike. His knife scraped the stone where her head had been a breath before.

She twisted behind him, low and tight, and sliced behind his knee.

A shout tore from his throat—choked, feral. He stumbled, staggered—and Liora struck again, driving her knee into the small of his back to send him crashing forward.

He caught himself on one hand. Just barely.

She didn't give him time to recover.

She moved with quiet fury now—each breath sharp, each strike trained from years of having no one else to save her. This wasn't elegance. It was survival.

She grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and slammed the hilt of her dagger against his temple.

He collapsed with a grunt—face-first onto the cold stone, blood pooling beneath him.

Still breathing. Unmoving.

Liora staggered back, panting, her hands shaking.

Then—"Kellen!"

She dropped to her knees beside him, knife still clutched tight, fingers slick with blood. His eyes were open but unfocused, blinking slow, like he was trying to find the ceiling and failing.

"You stupid, heroic—!"

She pressed both hands to the wound in his side, trying to stop the bleeding. It just kept coming—too much, too fast. The blood soaked her palms, her sleeves, even the front of Veyra's tunic as she bent low over him.

"I need pressure," she muttered aloud. "I need a wrap—I need—"

"You're… good with a blade," Kellen rasped.

"Not now," she snapped. "Save your breath."

"Not using it for anything important," Kellen mumbled, blinking slowly. "Just… hurts like hell."

Liora fought the urge to roll her eyes at his comment.

"Yeah, I can tell," Liora said, pressing down harder. His shirt was soaked. Her hands were red, sticky, shaking.

Kellen hissed through his teeth, but didn't push her off. "You're strong for someone that small."

"Don't—don't talk like that. Not now." Her voice cracked. "You're bleeding too fast."

"I've had worse," he muttered.

"Don't lie." Her breath hitched. "Gods, you're pale—just—just stay awake, alright?"

He blinked again. "Trying. You're loud enough."

"Shut up." Her hands were trembling harder now, cloth pressed tight over the wound. "Why did you do that? Why did you jump in like that?"

He made a quiet sound—half laugh, half groan. "Wasn't exactly thinking."

"You took the blade for me." Her voice was small now. "You shouldn't have."

"You didn't see him coming."

"I would've moved—"

"You wouldn't have," he murmured. "He was too close."

"Kellen…"

He shifted, winced, let out a shaky breath. "Didn't want you to die in a hallway."

She let out a laugh. It came out wrong. Wet. Almost a sob.

"Don't," he said, slurring a little. "Don't cry. Makes it harder."

"I'm not—" she stopped, swallowed. "I'm not crying. Just—just stop talking."

"You're still shaking."

"Yeah, well—you're bleeding to death."

"M'not."

"Don't say it like that. Like it's nothing."

He was quiet for a beat. Then softly, "Did I get him?"

She nodded. "No, I got him. After you went down."

"Good girl."

"You shouldn't be the one on the ground like this…"

"And yet." His lips twitched faintly.

Another silence.

Liora looked down at the blood. It had soaked up her sleeves; the knees of her trousers.

"I didn't even hear him coming," she whispered. "I should've seen it. I should've done something."

"You did. You killed him."

She looked back at him. "He's not dead. But he's going to be, if you die."

His fingers twitched against her arm. "You're alright. That's what matters."

Her chest hurt.

"I don't want it to be like this," she said quietly. "People getting hurt because of me."

"You're not the reason."

"I am. They're coming after me."

"Then next time," Kellen murmured, "let me get stabbed somewhere less important."

That pulled a shaky breath from her—almost a laugh.

"Stop talking. Just—stay awake."

"I'm trying."

"You're not allowed to die here. I mean it."

Kellen blinked again, slower now. "Yeah. Okay."

"No, not okay—I mean it. I'll find you wherever you go and drag you back."

He didn't answer.

"Kellen. Hey. No. Look at me."

His eyes cracked open again. Barely.

"I'm right here," she said. "Stay with me."

She pressed harder on the cloth. He groaned. Her throat tightened.

Then she screamed. Loud. Raw. Her voice tore through the corridor.

"HELP! SOMEONE! GUARDS!"

No more waiting.

Kellen's head tipped toward her hand.

She stayed kneeling in blood beside him, one hand pressed to the wound, the other wrapped around the hilt of her blade—her breath ragged, her jaw locked.

And then came the footsteps.

Finally.

Steel. Shouts. Boots.

She didn't turn. Didn't get up.

"Don't fall asleep." She whispered.

The healer arrived first—robes flying, satchel open before his knees hit the floor. The guards followed a breath later, blades drawn, eyes wide as they took in the blood, the body, the girl crouched between both like a sentinel.

"She's stable," one barked.

"She's armed," another added, though not with fear—more confusion.

Liora made no move to turn or get up.

"He is the one that needs you, not me." she said, without looking up. Her voice was hoarse. Flat.

The healer dropped to Kellen's side, already barking orders to the guards. They moved fast, practiced—lifting Kellen's limp form onto a stretcher board, binding him tight without jostling the wound. She didn't watch them go.

Only when the guards brushed past her, carrying him down the hall, did her fingers loosen on the bloodied fabric.

Her whole body was shaking now. Not from weakness.

From rage.

Liora turned.

The assassin was still there. Crumpled near the wall where she'd left him. The side of his head was dark with blood, his breathing shallow. But his eyes were open now—watching her. Tracking her.

Waiting.

She stood slowly.

Pain lanced through her side where the old wound had split open again during the fight. She could feel the heat of blood soaking back through the bindings, the dull throb in her thighs from a night not meant for combat.

Too bad.

She crossed the corridor in three stiff steps, every muscle aching—but her grip never faltered as she crouched beside him, knife still red in her hand.

"Who sent you?" she asked.

The man said nothing. His eyes gleamed through the mess of blood and hair—sharp, calculating. Silent.

Liora adjusted her grip on the blade. Her side flared, but she didn't so much as flinch.

He shifted slightly, enough for her to see the dried blood at the corner of his mouth—and the faintest grin beneath it.

"You're loud for a trembling little girl," he rasped.

"Don't you dare play right now," Liora said, crouching beside the downed man, her blade still gripped tight, edge glinting in the torchlight. "You were fast. You were quiet. Someone sent you. You will tell me who."

"Mm." He tilted his head, as if studying her. His voice came slower now, rough and low, like gravel dragged through old coals. "You really don't remember me, do you?"

She frowned—just for a second.

His grin widened.

"Bit disappointing, really. Thought I left more of an impression." He moved just enough to roll his shoulder, revealing a jagged seam in the fabric of his trousers—torn, roughly stitched back together, and soaked again now with fresh blood.

Right thigh.

Liora's stomach dropped.

Her knife—that night. The ambush near Fort Dalen. The first blade she ever drove into someone to protect Veyra.

Her breath caught.

"You."

His grin twisted. "Took you long enough."

"You were at the tree line—outside Fort Dalen. You tried to kill her then."

"Tried," he said flatly. "Needed to finish the job."

She stiffened.

"That second one?" he went on, voice low. "Should've worked. I had the shot. Had the timing. But you—" He coughed, winced, spit blood. "You got in the way. Again."

Liora said nothing. Her grip on the dagger didn't ease.

"You don't know what it cost me," he muttered, venom now under his breath. "Time. Coin. Recovery. That stab you gave me nearly got infected. Slowed me down for days. I was supposed to be gone by then. Wasn't even paid to come back this time."

She stared at him.

"You came for me."

"That was the contract." His eyes met hers, full of something cruel. "No more heir. Just the Omega. Quiet kill. No spectacle."

"Why?"

His teeth bared in something that wasn't quite a smile. "You don't see it yet? You're the soft underbelly. You're the weakness. And she—your precious Alpha—she doesn't guard anything the way she guards you."

He let that hang.

Liora's pulse hammered.

"So that's it? You came back for revenge?"

"I don't like failing." His voice was flat now. "And I don't like bleeding for free."

A long silence stretched between them.

She didn't move. Neither did he.

Then—quieter—he added, "You want names? You want proof?" He coughed again, then looked up at her, one brow arched. "You'll get nothing from a corpse. And I'm not above talking. If I get something for it."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Like what?"

"Time. A horse. A head start. Doesn't have to be clean."

"You want me to let you go."

"I want to live. That makes two of us."

"You came here to kill me."

"And now I'm bleeding out in your hallway," he muttered. "Let's not pretend the gods are on my side. But if I die, so does the thread. You want the next name in line? You want to know who issued the contract? Then maybe stop pressing that blade like you've already made up your mind."

Liora's dagger didn't lower.

Her whole body ached—her side burning, her breath tight—but she held her crouch, eyes locked on his.

She thought about Kellen. About the blood still on her hands. About the way Veyra had looked that night in the cart, just before this man came out of the trees and tried to end her.

"You think I'm going to trade a second chance at your throat," she said slowly, "for a name I don't even know you'll lie about?"

"I have it."

"Then give it to me first."

He chuckled. "You know how this works. No deal without a price."

Liora leaned in, her voice just above a whisper.

"I don't make deals with men who try to bleed my friends dry."

His eyes flashed. "And yet here I am."

Her jaw tensed.

He grinned through the blood. "They won't stop. Not after this. You know that, don't you?"

Liora stared at him.

No fear now—just the weight of decision anchoring behind her ribs.

Slowly, she pulled back.

But not all the way.

She crouched beside him again, this time with purpose.

Her free hand moved to his belt, patting roughly for anything concealed. Then under the hem of his tunic. His boots. Ankles. She moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd had to do this before—checking for hidden blades, glass vials, wire. She found one—small, flat, tucked into the sole of his boot. She took it without a word and tossed it behind her.

He didn't flinch.

Once satisfied, she leaned in and yanked a strip of linen free of his cloak. She wrapped the torn fabric higher over the head wound she'd caused, inspecting it as she did.

It was bleeding, but not dangerously. The kind that would leave him dazed, but not dead.

She muttered something under her breath—low, unkind—and then pulled a length of torn cloth from her own sleeve, biting the inside of her cheek as she worked.

The wrap wasn't pretty. But it held.

He watched her, breathing shallow. "Didn't think you were the mercy type."

She tied the knot tighter than necessary.

"I'm not."

The knife stayed in her right hand, the edge just barely brushing his throat as she leaned in again.

"You try to run, or breathe wrong, I'll open you up. No head start. No horse. No name."

He gave a half-laugh, half-cough. "Fair."

"Get up."

He didn't move at first.

So she grabbed his collar and hauled.

He stumbled. Swore. But he rose.

Liora shifted behind him, blade pressed to his side now, blood-slick fingers tightening on the hilt.

"You're walking to the heir's chamber. You'll speak to her. And if you lie—"

"She'll know."

"Yes," Liora said. "She will."

He limped forward.

She kept pace.

Every ache in her body burned now—her side wound had opened further, warm blood sliding beneath the waistband of her trousers. Her thighs ached from crouching, and every breath reminded her of the way Veyra's weight had pressed against her only hours before.

But she didn't slow.

Not for pain. Not for fear. Not for him.

They passed the stunned guards without explanation. One moved to intervene—she shut him down with a single look.

"Open the way," she said. "Now."

And they did.

She guided the would-be killer down the hall, one steady step at a time.

Not to the dungeon.

Not to the council.

To Veyra.

Because this was her fight too.

And the next move didn't belong to the assassin, or to the Circle.

It belonged to them.