Page 38 of Oracle of Ruin

“Good.”

The others have lowered their hoods, but I keep mine raised. It earns odd stares, but I’d rather not make my face known to the entirety of the rebels until I’ve guaranteed Vera’s safety. Only a few have seen the face of the Noiteron—my Nightwalkers, Mavis, and people who now lay beneath the earth. Anonymity is a luxury to keep in the fine industry of crime.

Amír and Kya wear their faces proudly during all our hits unless the particular heist calls for the thin cloak of stealth. Their faces are their own weapons, their objective beauty just as lethal as the gun and daggers hanging at their sides. Mavis’s generals may not fall for that form of weaponry, but her foot soldiers—her predominantlymalefoot soldiers—fall for it every time. Hook, line, and sinker. They’re still staring into Amír’s green eyes with wonder as her bullet pierces between their brows.

They stand just slightly behind me now, their eyes constantly scanning. A few of the scattered rebels hunch their shoulders and drop their gawking gazes as we pass. I cannot feel the cold and yet some of them shiver. Gooseflesh prickles the back of Blaine’s neck. He shoots me a sideways glance, the whites of his eyes peeking out from behind his lashes like whitecaps cresting on the ocean.

“We are here,” one of the hooded figures says now, dropping their cloak to the side. His sandy hair falls out in waves, framing his freckled face. He clutches at where Kya sliced him earlier, blushing as he tries to hide the blood. The other does the same, too ashamed to explain how he got the wound.

Torin nods. “The mask goes on now,” he whispers, just loud enough that I can hear it.

I dip my chin beneath my hood and the young man opens the door. I pinch my shoulders back as if a board is between them, flexing every one of my finely carved muscles. Amír scoffs.

The room is dim, but by no means is it poorly lit. No, the mounds of bodies piled into the small space absorb and block out the majority of the light, leaving only shadowy shapes along the walls. I bite back a grin. They let the king of night into their territory all while hiding in the dark—where I thrive.

The bodies part as Torin walks through, leading us. Some actually bow as we pass, their knees scraping on the floor, disappearing within the masses. A little girl looks up at me with wide blue eyes before she, too, is lost to the shadows.

A man stands in the center of it all, his hulking body seemingly absorbing the rest of the light in the room. A bold fur pelt clasps around his shoulders, the white fur shining brighter than the torches on the wall. His gray beard matches his weathered appearance, cut close to his jaw, just short enough to show off the thin white scar across his throat.

Amír steps forward, standing a hair’s breadth before me. She crosses two fingers over her heart, a small slight that I will forgive for now. “Amír. Second to the Noiteron, the king of the mercenaries.” There is no hint of a scoff or her usual blade-biting sarcasm as she speaks. Her voice is low and even-toned, just as it always is when the gunslinger’s mask coats her mannerisms. She does not bow, just as I expected of her.

Kya steps forward, mimicking her movements, but without the warding sign. “Kya. Third to the Noiteron, son of the shadows.”

A whistle goes out through the crowd and Amír’s hand flies to her holster. The calling ceases immediately.

The hulking man’s lips lift upwards in a smirk. He gesticulates in my direction with a large hand. “And the Noiteron, I presume?”

“Oh, don’t presume things. I’d prefer a bit more conviction,” I deadpan, smooth wit coating my throat like a fine liquor.

A small gasp of a laugh puffs from the man’s nose. Not quite a laugh, but just enough effort to show he heard. “Why don’t you take your hood down?”

“Why don’t you tell me your name?”

“Roiden. Now, your hood.”

Not quite a demand, but not quite a question either. His words are something else entirely that lays in the same domain of all other earthly dangers. Judging by the thin scar across his throat, as well as the multitude of others across his thick, tanned skin, this man is no stranger to danger. I doubt I am the first man he has attempted to anger to violence, and a lesser man might have fallen prey to such petty notions.

However, there is a difference between me and other men. If I had been holding the blade, that wound wouldn’t have scarred.

I catch a flash of green from the corner of my eye. Amír’s gaze burns into the blackness of my hood. Her gaze is questioning, rather than challenging for once. She dips her chin, feeling a shift in the air, and drops her hand from her holster. I reach up, my fingers snagging in the thick fabric as I pull it down.

An awed silence falls over the darkened room. Most are unable to see, but those in the front row look up in awe.

Until Roidan barks out a rough laugh like iron grating on iron. “Sorry,” he grins, “I wasn’t expecting a pretty blond boy. This famed killer, all along, was simply a boy.”

I keep my features neutral, unlike his manic grin. Something tells me he doesn’t wear a smile often, given the way his features pinch and his cheeks pull as if they’ve already grown weary.

Blaine covers a small scoff with a cough, the noise startling the rebellion leader’s stare.

His gray gaze focuses on the former captain’s face before his brows pinch together and he snarls in recognition. “And you’ve got some gall showing up here, captain. You’ve killed more of my men than all these criminals combined.”

Blaine squares his shoulders. “You made multiple attempts on the heir’s life. I was doing my duty.”

“I wonder,” Roiden drawls, his canines hooking on his lower lip, “if it was your duty you were thinking of and not your desire. We all know you had an affair with the bitch.”

Kya’s espa is pressed into my side before I can even lunge to finish the job of ripping that man’s throat out. From the shadows, no one else can see the slender blade, but its sharp edge pricks my side with just enough pressure as to not draw blood. I ball my fists to the point of breaking skin. I’ll kill him. Godsdamnit, I will use him as I need to and then I will take immense pleasure in tearing him limb from limb. I picture myself dragging a blade along each of his scars, using those as markers for points to dismember. Order be damned. Morals be damned.

Torin rests his hand on Blaine’s shoulder, but the man shakes him off. He fixes the older man with an iron glare that would make any lesser man shrink.

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