The scent of blood and damp wood clung to the air as Mossius led the charge, boots thudding against the warped wooden floor. Torches flickered, throwing jagged shadows along the damp stone walls, the flames barely strong enough to push back the creeping darkness. Behind him, his men moved as one—hardened enforcers of the City Watch, clad in patched mail and boiled leather. The familiar clank of weapons being readied filled the silence, broken only by the distant sounds of revelry spilling from the taverns deeper in the city. Somewhere in the dark, a drunkard sang an off-key tune, oblivious to the violence about to unfold.

Mossius raised a hand, signaling the breach.

Harwyn stepped forward—a brute of a man, his hulking frame squeezed into old bronze plate that had seen better days. His massive metal club rested against his shoulder, slick with the blood of the last fool who had resisted arrest. He ran thick fingers along the edges of the heavy door, his brow furrowed in concentration. Checking for traps. A moment passed. Then another.

Harwyn grunted, turning to Mossius with a curt nod. Clear.

Mossius returned the nod. “Do it.”

Harwyn let out a slow breath, adjusted his stance, then swung.

The club came down like a battering ram, splintering the wood with a deafening crack. The hinges shrieked, iron bolts twisting from the stone as the door caved inward, revealing the darkness beyond.

A sudden scurry of movement inside. Shadows darting. A sharp intake of breath.

“Move!” Mossius barked.

His men surged forward, weapons drawn. The hunt had begun.

Mossius led them in, his sharp emerald eyes scanning the chamber.

Quickly a flash of steel caught him, yet his plate stopped it. A wiry man dressed in boiled leather armorlunged at him, a curved dagger clutched in his trembling grip. The assassin’s face was half-masked in blood, wild-eyed with desperation. Mossius barely had time to react before Harwyn stepped in, swinging his club in a vicious arc.

The weapon connected with a sickening crunch, sending the man sprawling against the wall, his skull caved in like rotten fruit. His body twitched once, then stilled.

More figures emerged from the shadows—three of them, cloaked and armed. A clash erupted, steel flashing in the dim torchlight. The confined space turned the fight brutal and quick.

One of the Watchmen, Tarl, took a blade to the gut before he could raise his shield. He staggered, blood gushing between his fingers, collapsing with a choked grunt. Mossius barely registered it—no time for mourning, only action.

He ducked low, driving his sword through the ribs of a second attacker, twisting the blade deep before kicking the man off his feet. The room was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and steel.

Harwyn took down the last one, his club cracking bone, sending the figure to the floor in a broken heap.

Silence followed, broken only by the labored breaths of the survivors.

Mossius straightened, flicking the blood from his sword. His gaze swept the chamber once more, heart still hammering from the brief but deadly skirmish.

And then he saw them.

Not brigands. Not thieves. Not the filth of the underworld.

Nobles.

Their bodies lay in crumpled heaps across the room, adorned in rich silks now darkened with their own blood. Heavy signet rings still clung to stiff fingers, gold and jewels gleaming in the torchlight.

Mossius felt his stomach tighten. This wasn’t some lowly smuggler’s den. This was something else entirely.

His eyes locked onto the sigil embroidered on a fine cloak near the foot of the overturned banquet table.

A silver crescent moon pierced by a black thorn on a field of deep violet.

House Blackthorn.

Harwyn cursed under his breath. “Ain’t just criminals bleeding here, Mossius.”

Mossius knelt beside the corpse, studying the clean cut across the nobleman’s throat. A precise kill. Professional.

This was no random attack.

This was an execution.

A rustle caught his attention. Beyond the bodies, a second door stood ajar, a thick trail of blood smeared across the floor leading towards it.

A weak, gurgling voice called from within.

"Help… gods… help me…"

Mossius tightened his grip on his sword.

"Men, with me," he ordered.

Harwyn moved first, shoving the door open. The hinges groaned, revealing another bloodstained chamber.

The source of the voice—a man, barely clinging to life.

Slumped against the far wall, a nobleman struggled to breathe, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. His doublet—finely woven and once pristine—was now soaked through with crimson. The emblem of House Blackthorn shimmered faintly in the low light, embroidered across his chest.

His eyes darted toward Mossius, desperate and pleading.

“Who did this?” Mossius asked, kneeling beside him.

The man’s lips parted, forming words, but only a wet gurgle escaped. His fingers twitched, grasping at nothing.

Then, with a final shudder, his head slumped forward.

Gone.

Silence swallowed the chamber whole.

Mossius exhaled slowly, rising to his feet. His gaze lingered on the bodies, on the once-opulent setting now reduced to a slaughterhouse.

This wasn’t just a massacre.

This was a purge.

And the only question left was—

who had given the order?