“In the shadows of empire, gold buys silence, and blood buys loyalty.”

  Lord Lucien Greystone was not a man prone to unease.

  Even here—on the murk-rimmed docks of Struttsburg, where the tide choked on filth and the stink of river rot hung thick as breath—he held the bearing of nobility carved in stone. The wind off the bay flapped his long grey cloak behind him, trimmed in sable, stitched with the symbol of House Greystone.

  Six of his house guard followed close behind, armored in blackened mail, their helms visored and swords loose in their sheaths. They had crossed the lower river and wound their way through the narrow alleys and crab-shell courtyards of the docklands, where whores smoked pipes with stevedores and glass-eyed boys watched from rooftops like vultures in training.

  Lucien stood now before the appointed building—an old grain depot, if the fa?ade was to be believed. It was two stories tall, its stonework surprisingly well-kept, shuttered windows framed in clean wood. A warehouse, certainly—but not one abandoned.

  He studied it with a tactician’s eye.

  Too clean, he thought. Too quiet.

  The Bayway Docks were rarely either.

  Three rivers fed into this part of the city—carrying goods, rumors, and corpses from all corners of the empire. The air was thick with must and steam, and each creaking barge that passed added a new chorus to the harbor’s groaning song.

  Lucien stepped forward.

  He had learned long ago not to trust what was offered freely. The man who called himself Viggo had requested the meeting—a supposed dealer in “rare merchandise” seeking an arrangement of mutual benefit. The kind of man who spoke in half-phrases and carried the stink of middlemen with delusions of grandeur.

  The location had raised red flags. But Lucien was no fool. Before approaching, he had dispatched a pair of unremarkable men—dockhands in appearance, swordsmen in truth—to scout the site. Their report had arrived an hour ago:

  “Three men posted at rear exit. Five entered at dawn, never came back out. Two more came with crates. All armed. Looked like they were waiting for someone.”

  Lucien had smiled. A trap, clearly.

  But for whom?

  That was what intrigued him.

  For many years, such schemes would not have dared unfold with his name at the center. His daughter’s marriage to Emperor Gregor Willinghelm had gilded his name with protection only fools ignored. For someone to come after him now… well. That was the true cargo of this meeting.

  And he meant to collect it.

  The door opened at the third knock. A balding man in drab servant’s garb, eyes forever fixed on the floor, beckoned them in.

  “This way, my lord,” he muttered, without raising his gaze.

  Lucien followed. The corridor was narrow; walls lined with old merchant banners bleached by time. The servant led them past storage racks and through a trapdoor to a staircase descending into the earth.

  At the stair’s mouth, he paused.

  “The master waits below.”

  Lucien merely nodded.

  He descended slowly—three full flights, each carved into stone. The smell changed as they went: from damp timber to cold earth, and then, strangely, to fresh water. The stair opened into a vast underground chamber, its stone columns rising like tree trunks into the ceiling. On one side, a channel of water ran in from a hidden canal, lapping gently against the stone, with two flat-bottomed boats tied to a mooring post.

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  An old smuggler’s dock, Lucien thought. Hidden. Accessible by river. Useful.

  He let his gaze pass across the room. Wooden crates, stacked and sealed, marked with symbols he did not recognize. Lanterns hung from iron sconces. And in the center—a long table, set with a silver carafe, maps, and folded parchments.

  Viggo sat at the table, flanked by six armed men, with another half-dozen lingering near the crates.

  He rose as Lucien approached, arms wide as if embracing a long-lost friend. “Lord Lucien! What an honor. What do you think of my little operation?”

  Lucien’s face did not change. “Efficient. Discreet. I can see the appeal.”

  “I knew you would like it,” Viggo said, smiling like a man who imagined himself clever.

  Lucien cut him off. “But why drag me all the way to the underbelly of Struttsburg? Why not have your… merchandise delivered to my office, like any sensible merchant? And why so many blades?”

  Viggo’s smile froze.

  Lucien stepped forward. “What am I missing, Viggo? I was under the impression this was a simple transaction.”

  Viggo’s eyes gleamed. “Yes, well, I do have other motives. You see, I could not kill you out in the open. That would be… suicidal. The wrath of the emperor and all that.”

  Lucien raised a brow. “So, you did lure me here to kill me.”

  Viggo chuckled, shrugging. “It’s not personal. I was paid. Handsomely, I might add. You’re the job, my lord.”

  Lucien nodded slowly. “I see. Just business.”

  He turned slightly, hands behind his back, as if observing the crates. “And I take it you don’t even know who really hired you. Your nothing more than a low-level pawn, in over his head."

  Viggo’s smile faltered. “How dare you—”

  He turned to the largest figure behind him—a tall man in a hooded cloak, whose silence had become its own presence. “Do it,” Viggo barked. “Kill them!”

  The hooded figure stepped forward. His hands emerged from his cloak, each holding a long-curved blade—shining and clean.

  The other five guards behind Viggo drew their weapons, as did the six on the flanks.

  Lucien’s guards moved too, blades drawn with smooth, practiced grace.

  Twelve against six.

  And Lucien? He stood motionless. Not even a flicker of concern on his face.

  The hooded man took one more step forward and—removed his hood.

  Lucien smiled.

  “Nephew.”

  The man bowed his head slightly. “Uncle.”

  Viggo’s face twisted in confusion, then horror. “What…?”

  Too late.

  The hooded man and five others turned—not on Lucien, but on Viggo’s men.

  Steel met steel.

  The betrayal was immediate and brutal—Lucien’s kin moved with military precision. Two men fell before they could react. Another reached for a horn but was cut down before breath could meet brass. Blades flashed, blood sprayed the crates, and within moments it was over.

  Only Viggo remained.

  He stumbled backward, eyes wide, face pale. A dark stain spread down his tunic as his bladder gave way.

  “How?” he gasped. “How is this possible?”

  Lucien stepped forward now, slowly drawing a curved dagger from his belt. Its blade was old. Blackened. Pitted from decades of quiet use.

  “I suspected treachery the moment you requested this place. I let it play out. I wanted to see who would come.”

  Viggo shook his head. “I—no—wait, please, I can explain—”

  “You’ve wasted my time,” Lucien said calmly. “That is unforgivable.”

  Viggo raised his hands. “I didn’t—!”

  Lucien opened his throat.

  The man fell to the ground in a twitching heap, drowning in his own blood, piss soaking the floor beneath him. Lucien wiped the dagger on the corpse’s sleeve and turned away.

  His nephew—Lemune Greystone, a captain in his own right—picked up a coin pouch and tossed it to Lucien.

  “He wasn’t lying about the payment,” Lemune said.

  Lucien caught it and tossed it back. “Keep it. Spread it out amongst the men.”

  He crouched beside the body and withdrew a folded letter from inside Viggo’s doublet. It was sealed with no sigil, no house, no wax of note.

  He opened it.

  Only one line inside.

  “The deed is to be done by week’s end. Light the signal upon success.”

  Lucien read it twice. There was nothing more. No name. No motive. Just expectation.

  He tucked it away.

  Who would dare now? he wondered. He had not made any new enemies—none he hadn’t already made peace with or crushed. The last few years had been quiet, too quiet.

  And that was the most dangerous kind of calm.

  As Lucien turned to leave, Lemune stopped him. “Uncle. What about the crates?”

  Lucien nodded. “Yes. You’re right.”

  He surveyed the underground storehouse. The boats. The wares. The entire operation had clearly been a front—and likely quite profitable before it was turned into a death trap.

  “Empty the place,” he ordered. “Take it all. Move it to our warehouse in the Merchant’s District. I’ll have it evaluated there. It’s the least Viggo can do for wasting my evening. And wipe the perimeter of the rest of Viggio's men. Best to leave none to tell the tale."

  Lemune smiled. “Yes, uncle.”

  Lucien ascended the stairs slowly. With each step, he considered the quiet war being waged behind locked doors across the Empire. Someone had put a price on his head.

  That was a mistake.

  Not because Lucien Greystone feared death.

  But because he welcomed it.