The Price of Arrogance

"We told you we'd remember you, little human scum," one of them snarled, the words drawn out like venom. "Now we're going to teach you how to behave properly."

Charles stiffened. The narrow alley had seemed a quiet shortcut between two bustling market streets, but now it felt like a trap closing in. He glanced around. Six beastkin—two of them unmistakably the bear brothers from before, still carrying that smug, brutish air. The rest were a mixed bag: a tall tiger-striped man with heavy muscles beneath his sleeveless vest, a hyena-faced bastard with a twitchy gaze, and two lean wolfkin who flanked the group like practiced enforcers.

Shit.

His heart pounded behind his ribs. He hadn't told a soul where he was going. He'd taken extra care, even switched routes just in case. And still, they'd found him. This city had more than a million people. How?

He took a step back, hand casually sliding toward the inside of his coat, fingers brushing the hilts of his knives. His face wore a thin, amused smile, but his mind was racing.

"The city guards don't treat troublemakers kindly in this part of town," he said lightly, trying to buy time. "Maybe you should've waited for me somewhere a little less... civilized. Just saying—I'd rather not get blood on my boots again after I've kicked your ass."

The bear leader tilted his head and chuckled. He looked at his companions—and then they all burst into raucous laughter. Deep, mocking, and too confident.

"Don't worry about the city guards," the bear said, stepping closer. His shadow loomed over Charles. "By the time they show up, you'll be a lovely heap of bruises and regret. We won't kill you—just break a few bones. Maybe rearrange that smug face of yours. Make you easier on the eyes. Consider it a public service."

Charles's jaw clenched.

They were right—no one else was here. It was midday, the sun hanging high, but the alley was deserted. Too clean, too quiet. Not even a beggar to scream or intervene.

You can't kill. You can't vanish. Not here. Not in daylight. Fuck.

Charles was a killer, not a brawler. He worked in the dark, with surprise, with silence. This? This was a street ambush. And they had him cornered.

But he'd be damned if he begged.

So instead, he smiled wider, a mocking gleam in his eye.

"So what are we waiting for? I've always wanted a bear head to hang in my lavatory."

He moved before the last word left his lips—an explosive dive to the right as his arms whipped forward. Twin knives gleamed in the light, cutting through the air toward the closest two beastkin.

They dodged, damn them. The wolves were fast, clearly warned ahead of time. Only one knife landed, slicing into the bicep of a wolfkin who let out a sharp snarl.

Charles rolled to his feet, scanning for an opening—but they were already on him.

The tiger was first, charging with a roar. Charles tried to meet him head-on, hoping to drag him to the ground and use his bulk as a shield. But the tiger's weight was too much. Charles slammed into him, but the bigger man barely budged. Instead, Charles was thrown back like a ragdoll, crashing to the cobblestones.

Before he could recover, a boot found his ribs with brutal precision. Pain exploded through his side. He gasped—then choked as the tiger straddled him and began hammering fists into his face and chest.

Move. MOVE!

Charles twisted, kicked, caught the tiger in the thigh and pushed him off. He scrambled upright, barely upright—but a thick, clawed hand grabbed his shoulder and hurled him back again. The bear.

He landed hard. Dazed. Ribs screaming.

Then they were all around him—kicks from all directions, fists pounding his body. He tried to curl up, tried to shield his face, but there were too many.

"Hold him down! I want his hands!"

Two of them pinned his arms, forcing him down like a sacrificial animal. Charles thrashed, kicked, even bit at one of them, drawing a sharp yelp—but it wasn't enough.

"You're a wild little monkey, aren't you?" the bear sneered, looming over him. "Let's see if you're still so arrogant without your hands."

"Listen here, you son of a—"

The boot came down hard on his face. Bright light exploded behind his eyes.

Everything blurred.

This is it. This is how I die. Like a dog. No. No, no, no...

"What's going on over there? Stop! You there—halt!"

The voice was firm, authoritative. Guard.

"Shit. Guards!"

"Move, scatter—go!"

Just like that, they were gone—vanishing down alleys, vaulting fences, dissolving into the maze of city streets.

Charles lay there, a bloody heap of bone and torn flesh. He groaned.

A shadow fell over him, and then a lazy nudge came to his leg.

"Still breathing."

Another voice. "Get him out of the street. If he causes any more trouble, arrest him for loitering."

Loitering? You lazy shits.

The guards didn't even offer a hand. One grabbed him under the arm and dragged him to a nearby well. A splash of cold water hit his face, stinging the open wounds.

"Clean yourself up. Go home."

That was it. That was the grand rescue.

His journey to the inn was a nightmare of pain. Every step sent daggers through his side. His shirt stuck to him, soaked with blood and sweat. His vision swam.

By the time he pushed open the door, the din of conversation inside the inn fell silent. Heads turned. Gasps. Even a curse or two.

He looked like a walking corpse.

Still holding the wrapped package from earlier, he staggered to the bar and leaned heavily on the wood.

"Matilda... any chance I could trouble you for some bandages? Maybe some hot water too?"

She stared at him, horrified.

"Gods above—what happened to you? Miranda! Help him to his room. I'll bring supplies."

He muttered something like thanks, but it came out more like a groan. If Miranda hadn't taken his arm, he'd have collapsed. She helped him up the stairs, guiding him like a sleepwalker.

His room. A chair. He dropped into it with a sigh that sounded like death.

Matilda arrived minutes later with a bowl of hot water, clean cloth, and a roll of handmade bandages.

"Take care of him properly. I've got the dinner crowd to deal with."

She left, and Miranda rolled up her sleeves.

"Alright, tough guy. Let's see the damage. Off with the shirt."

It was a struggle. He hissed, winced, cursed, and eventually she helped peel it off.

Her eyes swept over the bruises. "They really did a number on you. You're lucky they didn't leave you in a ditch."

"You should see the other guys," he croaked with a weak grin.

"If you say so."

She cleaned his ribs with careful hands, the heat easing some of the worst pain. Then she wrapped them tight, expertly firm without being cruel.

Next came his face. The alcohol burned like fire. He clenched his teeth so hard it made his jaw ache.

"Grrh... Thank you. I'm... grateful. I'll repay you someday."

She rolled her eyes, but there was warmth there. "Just buy me something shiny, fool. No need to get all dramatic. Rest. Come down for dinner when you can."

Then she was gone.

He sat there for a while, breathing through the pain. Every twitch of his face stung like hell. His body ached. But beneath the pain, beneath the exhaustion, something burned.

A low, simmering fury.

They'll pay for this.

Eventually, hunger won over agony. He changed shirts—wincing every time he moved—and made his way downstairs. Slowly. One step at a time.

The inn smelled like roasted meat and buttered bread. His stomach rumbled.

The food was heavenly, even if he had to eat like a baby bird. Every bite was slow, deliberate. He chewed with one eye half-shut and his lips barely moving.

Then he ordered a mug of strong liquor. Then another. By the second, the pain dulled into something manageable.

He leaned back, eyes closed.

When he opened them again, they were different. Colder. Focused.

He raised a hand, calling Matilda over.

"What do you know about those bear fuckers from earlier?"