Five Clans, One Crowm

The Serpent's Tooth

The sewer entrance was exactly where Connor said it would be.

Oscar dropped through the rusted grate first, landing ankle-deep in foul water that smelled of rot and old secrets. The others followed—Ivanna light as a cat, Kelvin struggling to keep his balance, Connor bringing up the rear with the quiet confidence of a man who'd done this a hundred times before.

"The tunnel runs north for two hundred yards," Connor whispered. "It opens into a maintenance room beneath the safe house. From there, stairs lead up to the main floor."

"How many guards?" Oscar asked.

"At this hour? Three, maybe four. They're not expecting company through the sewer."

Ivanna's blades were already drawn. "Then let's give them a surprise."

They moved through the tunnel in single file, their footsteps muffled by the sluggish water. Oscar's heart pounded against his ribs. The darkness pressed in from all sides, broken only by the faint glow of Connor's hooded lantern. Every sound—the drip of water, the skitter of rats—made his muscles tighten.

The tunnel ended at a rusted iron door. Connor reached into his coat and produced a set of lockpicks. His scarred fingers worked quickly, silently. A soft click echoed through the darkness.

"Done," he breathed.

The door swung open, revealing a small room cluttered with old crates and broken equipment. A single torch burned on the wall, casting dancing shadows. The air smelled of dust and stale smoke.

Oscar stepped through, sword drawn. The room was empty. But somewhere above, he could hear voices.

"Two guards at the top of the stairs," Connor whispered. "Maybe more in the main room. We go fast, we go quiet."

"Quiet's never been my style," Ivanna said.

Before anyone could stop her, she moved.

The Cinder Step carried her up the stairs like smoke on wind. Oscar cursed and followed, Kelvin and Connor close behind. By the time he reached the top, the first guard was already down—a gash across his throat, his eyes wide with surprise.

The second guard spun, a short sword in his hand. He opened his mouth to shout, but Connor's knife found his spine before the sound could leave his lips. The guard crumpled, twitching.

Oscar stared at the bodies. "Fast," he said quietly.

"Fast is the only way," Connor replied, wiping his blade. "Now move. The records room is at the end of the hall."

They crept through the safe house, a maze of narrow corridors and cramped rooms. The place was quiet—too quiet. Oscar couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The Bleached Maw was supposed to have six guards, but they'd only encountered two. Where were the others?

"Connor," he whispered. "You said six guards."

"I said at least six." Connor's jaw tightened. "Maybe they're on patrol. Maybe they're—"

A door slammed somewhere in the building.

Then, from the shadows at the end of the hall, came a slow clap.

"Well, well. The old wolf finally crawls out of his den."

The voice was smooth, mocking, dripping with false amusement. A figure stepped into the torchlight—tall, lean, dressed in dark leather. He wore no mask, but his face was pale as bone, his eyes the color of dried blood.

"Orion," Connor growled. "I should have known."

Orion smiled. "Yes. You should have."

Oscar's blood ran cold. Orion. The brutal enforcer of the Ironclaw Clan. The reigning champion of the Shattered Coliseum. A mountain of scarred muscle who'd killed more men than the plague.

But this man was lean, almost elegant. Not the Orion Oscar had heard about.

"You're confused," Orion said, reading Oscar's face. "You expected the Coliseum champion. A big, dumb brute with fists like hammers." His smile widened. "My brother fills that role well. I'm the other Orion. The one who works in shadows."

"Twins," Ivanna breathed. "The champion has a brother."

"Clever girl." Orion's eyes flicked to her, and something hungry stirred in them. "And you must be the blood-child. The purest strain. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Ivanna's blades rose. "Come closer. I'll introduce you properly."

Orion laughed—a cold, empty sound. "I like her. Shame she has to die."

He raised a hand, and the corridor behind him filled with movement. Figures emerged from the shadows—ten, fifteen, twenty of them. All wearing the bone-white masks of the Bleached Maw. All armed. All ready.

Oscar's grip tightened on his sword. "It's a trap."

"Of course it's a trap." Orion shook his head, as if disappointed. "Did you really think you could waltz in here unnoticed? We've been watching you since you left the warehouse. Your every move, your every breath. We knew you were coming before you did."

Connor's face had gone pale beneath his scars. "The traitor. They knew because of the traitor."

"Traitor?" Orion tilted his head. "I prefer the term 'loyalist.' Someone who understands that the old blood belongs to us. That the Crown must be reclaimed for its rightful heirs."

"Who?" Oscar demanded. "Who sold us out?"

Orion's smile turned cruel. "Wouldn't you like to know? Maybe I'll tell you before you die. Or maybe I'll let it eat at you while my people peel the skin from your bones."

He stepped back, vanishing into the shadows.

"Kill them all. But bring me the girl alive. Her blood is too precious to waste."

The Bleached Maw surged forward.

Oscar moved without thinking. The Ashen Rebirth Style flared to life, flooding his body with burning heat. He met the first attacker head-on, driving his broken sword into the man's chest. The blade snapped—the old metal finally giving way—and Oscar was left holding a jagged stub.

"Damn it!"

A second attacker swung a mace at his head. Oscar ducked, but not fast enough. The weapon clipped his shoulder, sending him staggering into the wall. Pain exploded through his body.

Then Ivanna was there, her blades flashing like silver lightning. She cut through two attackers in as many seconds, her movements fluid, precise, deadly. The Cinder Step made her a ghost, appearing and disappearing in the chaos.

"Get to the stairs!" she shouted. "I'll hold them off!"

"No one's holding anything alone," Oscar growled.

He grabbed a fallen sword from one of the dead men and swung it in a wide arc, forcing the attackers back. Beside him, Kelvin fought with desperate fury, his knife finding gaps in armor and flesh. Connor moved like a man possessed, his blade singing through the air.

But there were too many. Every time one fell, two more took his place. The corridor became a killing floor, blood slicking the stones.

"Go!" Connor shouted. "Through the window! I'll cover you!"

"We're not leaving you!" Oscar yelled back.

"You don't have a choice!" Connor drove his sword into an attacker's chest, then spun to face the next. "The girl is what matters! Get her out of here!"

Oscar hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to stay, to fight, to die beside his companions. But Connor was right. If the Bleached Maw captured Ivanna, everything was lost.

"Kelvin! With me!" Oscar grabbed Ivanna's arm and pulled her toward a window at the end of the hall. She resisted for a moment, her eyes wild with battle-lust.

"I won't run again!"

"Today you will!" Oscar shoved her toward the window. "Kelvin, break it!"

Kelvin smashed the window with a fallen chair. Cold night air rushed in.

Behind them, Connor roared—a sound of pure defiance—as the Bleached Maw closed around him. Oscar caught one last glimpse of the old warrior, sword swinging, blood streaming from a dozen wounds.

Then he was through the window, falling into the darkness beyond.

They hit the ground hard, rolling through mud and broken glass. Oscar staggered to his feet, pulling Ivanna and Kelvin after him. The alley behind the safe house was narrow and dark, but he could see figures spilling from the building behind them.

"Run!" he shouted.

They ran.

The city swallowed them whole, its winding streets and crowded alleys offering a maze of escape. But the Bleached Maw was fast, and they knew the terrain. Footsteps echoed behind them, gaining with every passing second.

"Where do we go?" Kelvin gasped.

Oscar's mind raced. The temple district was too far. Isabella's safe house was compromised. The warehouse—Connor's warehouse—was empty now, but it had supplies and hiding places.

"The warehouse!" he shouted. "We go back to the warehouse!"

They cut through a merchant's courtyard, vaulted over a collapsed wall, and emerged onto a wide street. The warehouse loomed ahead, dark and silent. Oscar led them toward it, his lungs burning, his legs screaming.

But as they reached the door, a figure stepped out of the shadows.

He was young, no older than Oscar, with silver hair and cold green eyes. He wore the gray cloak of a pit master, but the insignia on his collar marked him as Viperfang.

"Lord Kane sends his regards," the young man said.

And then the world exploded into darkness.