Chapter 239: Strays Must Be Killed
The sa ti at the Black Market
The afternoon sun cut weakly through the dense smoke that still clung to the ruined alleys of the Black Market. The fires had mostly burned out, leaving blackened ruins and the lingering acrid scent of ash and charred wood. A few columns of smoke twisted skyward, carrying the mories of screams, shouts, and the iron tang of blood.
Tobias—still cloaked in the guise of William—moved through the aftermath with silent precision. His boots stepped lightly over splintered crates and broken planks, his eyes scanning the remnants of chaos. Craig had issued his orders with brutal finality: every witness remaining in the Black Market was to die.
Tobias hated Craig for that. He had thought everything would end imdiately after they found Owl’s body, but it hadn’t. For the whole night and until now, they had continued haunting those in the Black Market.
People who had co to sell, whose only ans of livelihood was the market—Tobias saved those he could. While the others killed, he protected.
He paused by a collapsed stall, crouching low.
Ryker, his wolf, had alerted him to a presence beneath the stall.
He crouched lower, and indeed, there were people there, trembling with wide eyes.
Their faces, sared with soot and streaked with tears, looked up at him with silent pleas. He pressed a finger to his lips, urging them to stay still. The smallest of them—a boy no older than twelve—shivered violently.
Tobias muttered under his breath, "Not today."
He signaled them to follow a narrow crawlspace behind the remains of a storage shed.
The passage was cramped, suffocating in the lingering heat of the fires.
It opened to the side of a tunnel leading away from the market proper, giving the trio of vendors a chance to escape without being seen by Victoria’s n. Tobias lingered long enough to ensure they moved safely, whispering precise instructions:
"Go straight, follow the left-hand wall, and when you see three stacked crates, turn right. Keep low."
The vendors nodded quickly, fear and gratitude warring on their faces. Then, one by one, they disappeared into the shadows. Tobias watched them go, his heart heavy but steady. There was no room for hesitation; he had more people to save.
Victoria’s n were still hunting. Their laughter cut through the ruins like sharp knives, the joy in their cruelty echoing off the stone walls. Tobias forced himself to focus, keeping William’s voice and mannerisms intact. He moved through the alleys, counting, mapping, and planning—every stall could hold soone, every shadow could hide them if he acted fast enough. He and Ryker worked together, getting people away.
By mid-afternoon, the tunnels of the Black Market had grown eerily quiet, the survivors Tobias had been able to reach carefully concealed. For a fleeting mont, he allowed himself a quiet hope that the carnage might finally be over. But as he erged from a collapsed archway, he saw one of Victoria’s n dash toward Craig, urgency in his step.
The man’s leather boots kicked up cinders as he shouted, "Sir! Sir! We found them! So of the people we were hunting—they escaped into the woods not far from here!"
Craig’s reaction was imdiate: a booming, ugly laugh that seed to vibrate through Tobias’s chest. Every hair on his body rose, a primal alarm warning him that the hunt was far from over. Craig’s grin was cruel, teeth flashing, and he clapped his hands once, sharply. "Kill them all," he barked. His voice was heavy with pleasure, a predator reveling in the chase.
A chorus of shouts rose from the assembled n. The sound was celebratory, a perverse race against life and death. They surged forward like a pack of hunting wolves, boots and blades catching the last light of the afternoon. Tobias’s stomach clenched.
He ran with them, pretending to be overjoyed, but he moved with calculated precision. His head buzzed with thoughts, a constant whirl of planning and dread. The children. His people. He prayed silently that the boy and his sister had stayed where he had instructed, that they were hidden and safe, that none of Craig’s n would stumble upon them.
The edge of the woods ca quickly, a tangle of snow-dusted roots and twisted undergrowth. Tobias slowed, crouching as he surveyed the scene. Craig’s n had split, cutting into the trees, stabbing and dragging anyone they found into the open. One by one, Tobias observed the killings—blows to the head, slashes to the torso, screams cut short by cruel steel. He gritted his teeth, disgust and rage fueling him as he moved through the shadows.
Where necessary, Tobias acted. A man raised his sword to strike a hidden vendor—Tobias slipped silently from the shadows, a dagger to the neck, a single clean motion. The man crumpled silently into the snow. Another lunged toward a small crate concealing a rchant—Tobias ducked, slashing the man’s ankle with a blade he had pald, forcing him to fall without attracting attention. Each kill was precise, silent, leaving no trace that could link back to him. He could only hope the others understood the alternate routes he subtly guided them toward, the paths of escape he carved through the carnage.
Hours seed to pass in a blur of motion. Tobias’s body ached, sweat and blood mixing on his skin, but he continued. He moved through the forest like a shadow, his eyes catching glimpses of fleeing rchants and laborers, guiding them away with small signals and whispers—always careful that the n of Victoria’s faction didn’t see him. Every safe person was another risk he could not afford to lose.
Then, at the edge of a clearing, his heart seized. A familiar grouping of figures—his people—stood protectively over a small boy and his sister. The children were huddled behind a man Tobias knew well: a rogue nad Jarek, soone who had worked in the Black Market for years, loyal to Tobias alone. The man’s stance was rigid, every muscle tensed, hands gripping crude weapons he could barely hold. His eyes flicked to Tobias imdiately, narrowing. "Stay back!" he hissed, putting the children firmly behind him. "Don’t co any closer!"
Tobias’s chest constricted. The guise of William had its limits. If he moved incorrectly, if he made a sound out of character, Jarek—or worse, the boy—might mistake him for another threat. He inhaled slowly, pushing the dread down, and spoke in a low, controlled voice, then let it drop into his own, unmistakable tone. "Gold must be real gold."
Jarek’s eyes widened slightly. His fingers tightened around the weapons he held, but a subtle recognition passed over him. He whispered cautiously, almost incredulously, "Silver is trash... I only value gold."
The phrase was an inside joke among his people. They always mocked Tobias about how he only accepted gold as paynt, and he had told them once that silver is trash; he only values gold, and it must be real gold.
It had beco a secret ssage between them.
Tobias gave the slightest nod, the movent almost imperceptible. His heart pounded in his chest, both from the exertion of the chase and the precarious relief that Jarek had understood.
"...Owl?" Jarek’s voice was barely audible, a hushed confirmation carried on the wind.
Tobias nodded.
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