The gargoyle's leer was almost companionable in its stony misery, a sentiment Artem could appreciate. He watched from his perch, tucked behind its eroded wing, two storeys above the slick, cobbled throat of this particular alley. The city of Oldgate unfolded like a stained, unraveling tapestry. Rain, a persistent, grudging drizzle that had plagued the capital for a week, plastered his dark hair to his temples and slicked the slate roofs, their chipped tiles the color of old bruises. It did little to wash away the city's pervasive stench: a miasma of wet wool, stale beer, offal from the butcher's row three streets over, and the ever-present, underlying tang of human desperation.
His gaze, sharp and unblinking as a hawk's, was fixed on the mouth of the alley where it spilled into the slightly wider, marginally cleaner thoroughfare of Chandler's Way. The target: one Paulus Thorne, no relation to the King, thankfully for the royal lineage. Paulus was a functionary in the Guild, a man of no importance, whose ambition had clearly outstripped his sense, his purse, and, most importantly, his discretion. The lads, bless their thick skulls – had marked him as carrying a bit more coin than usual, likely from some under-the-table dealings in tallow or beeswax. Their initial assessment had been crude, all bluster and hopeful glances at Paulus's slightly-too-new belt pouch. Artem, however, believed in verification. He'd spent the better part of two days shadowing the man, learning his rhythms, his vices.
Now, he deepened his observation, committing the terrain to memory not as a map, but as a series of interconnected opportunities and threats. The loose shutter on the weaver's shop opposite – a potential distraction if slammed at the right moment, or a noisy betrayal if the wind caught it. The overflowing refuse bin further down, its contents a sodden mess of vegetable scraps and unidentifiable muck, offering both cover and a stench potent enough to deter casual pursuit. He noted the slick patch of moss growing on the cobblestones just inside the alley's gloomiest stretch – a potential trip hazard for the unwary, or a point of leverage for a quick takedown.
Guard patrols, as usual, were a joke in this part of the city. Two Crown's Guard, their once-proud blue cloaks faded and mud-spattered, had ambled past Chandler's Way ten minutes ago, their boredom a palpable force, their eyes lingering more on the tavern door at the far end than on the shadowed alleyways. They wouldn't be back for at least another hour, their route as predictable and worn as the ruts in the main roads. The King's peace, it seemed, frayed considerably the further one strayed from the polished marble of the Royal District. Here, in the city's guts, it was a threadbare suggestion.
This capital, Eldoria's heart, was a swollen, festering organ. Grand pronouncements and gilded facades in the High Quarter couldn't mask the rot that seeped through the cracks into places like Weaver's Alley. Buildings leaned against each other like drunken old men, their timber frames warped, plaster crumbling to reveal sweat-stained wattle and daub. Windows were often patched with oiled parchment or simply boarded up, dark eyes in gaunt faces. The air, thick enough to chew, carried the cacophony of a city trying to forget its troubles – the distant clang of a smithy, the shrill cry of a street vendor hawking dubious meat pies, a child's wail abruptly cut short. Ugliness wasn't just a feature here; it was the foundation.
A flicker of movement at the alley's entrance. Paulus. Right on schedule, the fool. He clutched a small, oilskin-wrapped package to his chest, his gaze darting about with the self-important nervousness of a man convinced of his own cunning. He cast a cursory glance down Chandler's Way, saw no one of immediate note, and then, with a visible squaring of his narrow shoulders, turned into the alley's shadowed maw. The deeper gloom swallowed him instantly.
The moment Paulus was swallowed by the alley's deepest shadows, Artem moved. He didn't so much climb down as flow, pushing off the gargoyle with a controlled burst of inner energy – his Life Spark flaring briefly, lending his muscles a surge beyond the ordinary. The five-meter drop to the narrow rooftop opposite was nothing; he landed light as a cat, the impact absorbed by legs momentarily imbued with unnatural resilience. Another silent leap, and he was on the narrow, grime-slick ledge above the alley, directly over Paulus's anticipated path.
He waited, a predator coiled. Below, Paulus fumbled, his footsteps uneven on the treacherous cobbles. As Paulus passed directly beneath, Artem dropped.
It was a plummet guided by will. He felt the familiar thrum of Essence, a whisper drawn from the ambient air and ignited by his own core, sharpening his senses, quickening his limbs. He aimed to land just behind Paulus, snatch the belt pouch, and vanish.
He landed, silent as shadow. His hand shot out, fingers brushing the worn leather—
Paulus yelped, a surprisingly high-pitched sound, and twisted. Not with the clumsy terror of an ordinary mark, but with a speed that spoke of his own essence. A faint shimmer, like heat haze, flickered around the man's forearms as he instinctively threw them up. The pouch string snapped, but Paulus clutched the bag itself, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and dawning surprise at his own reflex.
Artem's eyes narrowed. An Enhancer. Roric's worthless intel strikes again. This complicated things, but only slightly.
"Thief!" Paulus stammered, emboldened. He took a clumsy step back, raising his shimmering hands defensively. "Stay back, or I'll—"
Artem didn't wait for the threat. Paulus's shimmer was weak, flickering – the mark of an untrained amateur relying on raw instinct. Artem's own enhancement was a familiar tool, honed by years of navigating Oldgate's shadows. He pressed forward, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. He'd noted the slick patch of moss deeper in the alley; now he used it.
With two quick, deliberate steps, he forced Paulus to backpedal. The functionary's heel caught the treacherous moss. He flailed, arms windmilling, his defensive shimmer sputtering as his concentration broke.
That was all the opening Artem needed. He flowed into the void created by Paulus's imbalance. A focused surge of his Life Spark, channeled into his hand, not as a diffuse shimmer, but as a needle-sharp point of force. He didn't aim to maim, merely incapacitate. His enhanced fingers, moving with viper-strike speed, clamped onto Paulus's wrist – the one gripping the pouch – and squeezed.
A sharp cry of pain from Paulus. His fingers spasmed open involuntarily as jolting agony shot up his arm. The pouch dropped.
Artem scooped it from the grimy cobblestones, the slight weight reassuring. He was already turning, melting back towards the deeper shadows of the alley, leaving Paulus clutching his wrist and whimpering. The entire exchange had taken less than ten seconds. The score was made. Now, to disappear before the fool's cries attracted any unwanted attention.
Paulus's whimpers echoed briefly, quickly swallowed by the alley's oppressive silence. Artem didn't spare him a backward glance. Every second spent lingering increased the risk. His Life Spark still hummed, a low thrum beneath his skin, ready to be called upon.
He moved deeper into Weaver's Alley, not towards the more open Chandler's Way where Paulus had entered, but towards the labyrinthine warren of passages he knew lay beyond. His meticulously prepared exit route. He'd spent a good hour the previous night ensuring it was clear, noting any new obstacles, any changes in the usual detritus.
A short burst of enhanced speed propelled him over a collapsed section of wall that would have stymied a normal pursuer. His boots, their soles worn smooth in familiar patterns, found purchase on surfaces that looked impossibly slick. He used a rusted drainpipe, reinforced with a subtle application of his Gift to bear his weight, to swing across a narrow chasm between two leaning tenements where the alley floor had long since given way to a fetid sump.
Each movement was economical, precise. He wasn't just running; he was flowing through the urban decay, a phantom in the grime. He passed through a curtain of hanging laundry, reeking of lye and mildew, that served as a makeshift door for some unseen hovel, ignoring the startled squawk from within. He squeezed through a gap between a crumbling brick wall and a stacks of rotting crates, a passage barely wide enough for a child, his shoulders brushing the rough surfaces.
Finally, he emerged into a slightly wider, though no less squalid, courtyard known locally as "Rat's Nest." It was deserted, save for a few scavenging rodents that scattered at his approach. He paused for a moment, hidden in the shadow of a derelict cooper's shed, his breathing even, listening intently. Only the distant, muffled sounds of Oldgate reached him – no shouts of pursuit, no alarm bells. Good.
He ducked into the shed's collapsing doorway. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying wood. Light filtered weakly through cracks in the roof. Satisfied he was momentarily secure, Artem finally allowed himself to examine his prize.
He untied the leather thong of Paulus's pouch. The contents spilled into his palm: a handful of copper bits, three tarnished silver pieces, and a small, intricately carved wooden token – likely a guild marker of some minor significance. He sifted through it. Meager. Barely enough for a few decent meals and perhaps a fresh whetstone for his blade. Roric's "big score" was, as usual, mostly hot air.
A flicker of his habitual cynicism touched his lips. This was the reality of his life: calculated risks, fleeting bursts of power, and a constant scrabble for the bare essentials. He pocketed the coins, tossing the wooden token into a dark corner. Useless to him. The effort had barely been worth the drizzle soaking through his clothes. Still, a score was a score. And he was free, which was more than Paulus could say at the moment.
Artem was just turning the meager coins over in his palm when the sound came: three sharp raps, a pause, then two more. Their knock.
His jaw tightened. Annoyance, sharp and familiar, pricked at him. His hand drifted towards the hilt of his knife. He let out a slow breath, then unlatched the door, pulling it open just enough.
Roric barged in, nearly shouldering Artem aside. Lena followed, more hesitantly. Roric's new brass ring glinted. "Artem," he began, voice overly hearty. "Just the man. We've got something… big. Magisterium supply wagon, lightly guarded. Or Hendriks, the silk merchant—gems, enough to set us up!"
Lena added, "The wagon route's through the Old Tannery. Few patrols…"
Artem cut Roric off, voice flat. "Silas says the Oldgate district is crawling." He met Roric's gaze. "Crown's Guard are jumpy. Making examples after that mess by the West Market. Silas explicitly said: no scores. Too much heat. His intel is usually solid, unlike yours." He gestured vaguely. "Saw Greycloaks on a pickpocket near Tanner's Row. They weren't asking questions."
Roric's face darkened. He stepped closer, invading Artem's space, his own brutish attempt at intimidation. "Silas is getting soft! Street sweepings, Artem! While the Guard are busy with small fry, that's our window! You're just scared to take a real risk!"
Artem didn't flinch, didn't yield an inch. His eyes, cold and assessing, locked onto Roric's. "Scared? Or smart enough not to walk into a cage for your half-baked ambition?" He tilted his head slightly. "That strongbox job last month? You left a trail a blind badger could follow, reeking of cheap perfume. You want to try that with Magisterium goods or a merchant with connections? Be my guest. But you do it alone."
Roric balled his fists. "Maybe I will! Maybe we don't need you and your high-and-mighty act!" He puffed out his chest, a low growl rumbling in his throat. For a moment, the cramped shed felt charged, the air thick with unspoken violence. Roric took another half-step, close enough for Artem to smell the stale beer on his breath.
This was the point where lesser men backed down from Roric's bluster. But Artem wasn't lesser. He didn't move, didn't speak. He simply focused.
It wasn't a visible essence flare, not like an Enhancer's shimmer. Instead, a subtle shift occurred in the space around him. A pressure, an almost imperceptible weight in the air that only those with increased essence – or those who'd been on the receiving end of it – might sense. An aura. Cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of warmth or welcome. It wasn't aggressive, not yet, but it was a clear, silent warning: tread carefully.
Roric, for all his bravado, wasn't entirely an idiot. He felt it. A sudden prickle on his skin, a tightening in his chest. His bluster faltered. The aggressive lean in his posture softened almost imperceptibly. He'd seen Artem truly angry once or twice, seen glimpses of that raw, untamed essence he wielded, and it wasn't something he was keen to provoke unnecessarily, especially not in close quarters. Lena, standing behind Roric, visibly paled, her nervous tic becoming more pronounced.
Artem held Roric's gaze for another beat, then his expression softened, but only into a deeper disdain. He reached into the pouch he'd taken from Paulus, fished out two silver pieces and a few coppers. He tossed them onto the dusty crate.
"Your cut from the wharf job," Artem said, his voice back to its flat, dismissive tone. "Silas said lay low. That means you too. If you bring Guard attention down on this part of the city because you can't control your greed, I'll deal with you myself before they do. Now get out."
Roric's face was a mask of conflicting emotions – anger, bruised pride, and a reluctant flicker of fear. He glared at the coins, then at Artem, but the fight had gone out of him. He snatched the money. "Fine," he muttered, "Keep your warnings. But when we strike it rich, don't come crawling." He turned and practically shoved Lena out of the shed ahead of him.
Artem secured the door, the crude latch groaning. The encounter had left a more potent residue than usual. Roric's aggression, the momentary stand-off, the subtle press of his own aura – it was draining. Idiots like Roric were becoming more than just an annoyance; they were a spark near a powder keg.
He stood in the dim light, the remaining coins from Paulus cool in his palm. Silas's warning was clear. The "mess by the West Market" was clearly serious. And Roric, driven by greed and stupidity, was exactly the kind of fool to ignore it. The fragile balance was shifting, and the thought of being dragged down by their inevitable recklessness settled like a stone in his gut.