The abandoned warehouse loomed over the old business district like a relic of a forgotten era. The once-grand marketplace, now decayed and swallowed by the slums of Xylodia, was Jace’s domain. The shattered glass windows let in streaks of the moonlight, casting jagged shadows along the rusted beams and broken crates scattered across the floor. This was the heart of his empire—the empire he had built from the bones of those who dared oppose him.

  Tonight, a storm was brewing.

  Jace stood at the center of the raised platform, surveying the room below. Beneath him, his lieutenants gathered, each one ruling a different section of the old business district. They had been killers, thieves, and outcasts before Jace molded them into something more—commanders of his growing empire. They had been instrumental in eliminating the old gangs and taking control of the territory over a year ago. Now, they each commanded their own factions, overseeing hundreds of young men who operated in the shadows of Xylodia.

  There were four in total, each leading a dozen or more subordinates ranging in age from fifteen to nineteen. They were ruthless, hardened by the streets, their names whispered in fear by those who had the misfortune of crossing them.

  First was Silas, broad-shouldered with a scar running from his jaw to his temple. He was the enforcer, the one who ensured order with an iron fist. His men were the bruisers, the ones who handled the dirty work when intimidation alone wasn’t enough.

  Next was Renna, the only female among them, but no less lethal. Her thin, wiry frame was deceptive—she was as fast as she was merciless, her blades whispering death before her enemies even realized they were bleeding. Her faction specialized in ambush tactics, information gathering, and assassinations.

  Then there was Darin, tall and lanky, but deceptively strong. His boys were the best at smuggling, pickpocketing, and sabotage. If something needed to disappear or be burned to the ground, Darin’s crew made sure it happened without a trace.

  Finally, Markus, the strategist. He was the oldest at nineteen, with piercing eyes that always seemed to be calculating. His men were disciplined, efficient. They weren’t just brawlers—they were soldiers, trained to follow orders with unwavering loyalty.

  The air was tense as they stood in a semi-circle, waiting for Jace to speak.

  He let the silence stretch, watching them shift slightly under his gaze before he finally spoke. "We have unfinished business."

  Silas cracked his knuckles. "That so? The docks made it sound like we had our heads kicked in."

  Jace’s jaw tightened. "We did. And that’s why we’re going to fix it."

  Renna folded her arms, eyes narrowed. "Who are they?"

  Jace took a step forward. "A crew led by a boy named Orion. Five others. They humiliated us in our own territory." His voice darkened. "I want them dead."

  Darin raised an eyebrow. "Why now? You don’t usually call a meeting over a street fight."

  Jace exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening on the railing. "Because this isn't just about a fight. This is about power. We own this district, but we aren’t at the top—not yet. We answer to Lucian's ranks, but after them, we are the next in line. If we want to climb higher, we need to prove that no one can defy us and live."

  Markus leaned forward slightly, always the most perceptive. "And what’s the plan? You wouldn’t be gathering us if you didn’t already have one."

  Jace smirked. "Tomorrow, we hunt. Orion and his crew think they’re safe because they beat a few of us. They don’t know what it means to have the entire district turn against them. We make sure they learn that lesson."

  Renna’s fingers drummed against her blade’s hilt. "And the girl? The rabbit one?"

  Jace’s expression darkened. "Kannie belongs to me. I’ll keep her as a pet."

  Silas chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re twisted, Jace."

  "No," Jace corrected, his voice cold, "I’m smart. We send a message that no one defies us and walks away."

  Darin smirked. "Alright. I can cut off some of their escape routes, make sure they don’t slip out."

  Markus nodded. "I’ll spread word in the district that any street rat caught aiding them will be dealt with."

  Silas cracked his knuckles. "My boys will break them the second they step foot in our territory."

  Renna grinned. "And when the time comes, I’ll make sure they never see us coming."

  Jace surveyed them all, his chest swelling with satisfaction. This was his empire, his army. Orion and his pathetic band of misfits had no idea what was coming.

  Then, Jace hesitated for a moment, before adding, "Lucian wants the girl. Tara. He wants her alive."

  A ripple of surprise passed through the group. Silas raised an eyebrow. "What for?"

  Jace didn’t give details. He wasn’t about to tell them about the deal he had made with Lucian. Instead, he kept his answer vague. "Doesn’t matter. What matters is that we deliver. He wants her, and we make sure he gets her."

  Renna smirked. "A high-value prize, then? Shouldn’t be too hard to track her down."

  Jace nodded. "She’s been hiding, but not for much longer."

  The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of blood and ambition hanging between them. The old business district belonged to them. Tomorrow, they would reclaim what was theirs.

  And Jace would make sure Orion would suffer

  Later that day

  The gates of Xylodia loomed tall before them, their towering stone archways etched with salt-weathered carvings of sea serpents and roaring waves. The city’s coastal winds carried the briny scent of the ocean, mixing with the aroma of roasted street food, damp wood, and the distant musk of fish markets. Beyond the walls, the sprawling giant kingdom pulsed with restless energy—dockworkers unloading cargo, merchants calling out prices, and distant bell tolls marking the flow of trade and travel.

  Three figures stepped through the open gates, moving seamlessly into the bustling crowd.

  The tallest among them, a broad-shouldered man cloaked in a deep hood, walked with an unhurried, effortless gait, his massive frame cutting through the tide of people like a ship parting the waves. Though the depth of his hood concealed his features, the occasional glint of lantern light revealed glimpses of dark brown skin and faint strands of white dreadlocked hair peeking from beneath the fabric. His presence was commanding, yet detached, as though the world around him existed solely for his amusement.

  Beside him, a young woman hovered inches above the ground, her long golden braids swaying gently as if caught in an invisible current. The tilted wizard’s hat atop her head gave her an air of playful mischief, though her violet eyes gleamed with something, far sharper. She wore a short robe that left her toned midriff exposed, an equally short skirt that moved freely with her floating form, and long leather boots that stopped just beneath her knees.

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  Trailing just behind them, a smaller figure cloaked in black moved like a shadow slipping through the cracks of the world. The twelve-year-old boy’s ninja garb ensured he blended into the shifting crowd, his mismatched eyes—one blue, one brown—flicking with quick, sharp calculation as he absorbed the movements, voices, and rhythms of the unfamiliar city. He memorized escape routes, studied the placements of guards, and noted every potential threat or opportunity.

  Their arrival drew no special attention. In a city like Xylodia, where traders, sailors, mercenaries, and criminals alike roamed freely, they were just another group of travelers passing through the gates.

  But the moment they entered, the air around them shifted.

  Something in the way the streets hummed—the murmurs of dockworkers, the urgent exchanges of traders—suggested an undercurrent of tension, something brewing beneath the surface.

  The floating woman smirked, casting a lazy glance at the hooded man beside her. "Smells like secrets."

  He gave a soft chuckle, his grin barely visible beneath the hood. "Then it's our kind of place."

  Their first stop was clear.

  They needed passage to Galewind—and that meant visiting the Tidal Blades Marine Guild.

  The Tidal Blades Guildhall – Heart of the Seas

  The Tidal Blades Marine Guild stood just beyond the docks, its fortress-like structure carved from enchanted stone, built to resist the relentless assault of wind and tide. Above it, the Beacon Tower pulsed with rhythmic light, a magical signal guiding ships through thick fog and violent storms. The crest of the Tidal Blades—an oceanic whirlpool encircling a trident—was emblazoned across banners hanging along the stone walls.

  Inside, the guildhall thrived with movement—navigators charting maps, adventurers negotiating contracts, the scent of parchment, salt, and burning lantern oil filling the air.

  The clerk behind the main desk, a lean, weathered man with graying hair, barely glanced up from his towering stack of documents as the floating woman approached.

  His spectacles rested low on his nose, his expression worn with the exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights dealing with reckless sailors.

  "Looking for work, passage, or trouble?" he asked without preamble.

  The floating woman smirked, resting her elbows on the counter. "Only one of those things, but I won’t tell you which."

  The clerk sighed, already regretting the conversation. "What do you need?"

  "A ship to Galewind," she replied, tilting her head. "Preferably one that doesn't sink halfway there."

  The clerk snorted, flipping open a weathered ledger. He adjusted his spectacles, scanning the entries.

  "Galewind, huh?" He traced a finger along the parchment, his voice carrying the tired monotony of a man who had repeated this information countless times. "Most ships heading that way are trade vessels, not passenger transports. If you need passage, you’re looking at two days' wait. Next ship sails on the Morning Tide, a merchant vessel under Captain Ralnor."

  The floating woman pouted, crossing her arms. "And if we don’t feel like waiting?"

  The clerk didn’t even look up. "Then you buy a ship, steal a ship, or swim."

  The hooded man exhaled softly, a low chuckle vibrating beneath the shadows of his cloak.

  The floating woman grinned, tapping her staff against the counter. "Well, two days it is, then. How do we book passage?"

  "Payment upfront. Thirty silver for a standard room. Fifty if you don’t want to share with rats."

  She leaned in. "I like rats. They tell better stories than most people."

  The clerk didn’t react, merely stamping a receipt and sliding it toward her.

  The hooded man took it lazily, tucking it into his cloak with an amused grin.

  As they turned back toward the city, the floating woman stretched, hovering backward toward the exit. "Two days to kill. Plenty of time to get into trouble."

  The boy in black, still silent, barely reacted, though his mismatched eyes flickered toward the shifting streets, already anticipating where they would spend those two days.

  The hooded man, still grinning, tucked his hands into his cloak. "Or to be entertained."

  They continued through the streets until they reached a modest inn,

  By the time they reached the inn, the mood of the city had shifted. The energy of merchants and sailors had faded, replaced by the low hum of whispered deals, hushed exchanges, and the kind of tension that only appeared when the law wasn’t watching. They settled in a district just above the slums—a place where people did not ask questions, and faces were easy to forget.

  They stepped inside.

  The tavern’s warmth enveloped them as they entered, carrying the familiar scents of roasted meat, ale, and old wood. The atmosphere was lively but subdued, filled with the quiet energy of people who had learned to speak without drawing attention, to listen without being seen.

  The barmaid, a woman with auburn hair tied loosely back, turned toward them as they approached the counter. Her eyes flickered with curiosity, pausing for a second too long on the towering hooded figure, before moving to the floating woman and finally, the silent boy dressed in black.

  She straightened, her tone polite but cautious. "Looking for a room?"

  The hooded man tilted his head slightly, his voice deep, calm but laced with a lazy amusement.

  "That depends," he mused, tapping his fingers against the counter. "Are good prices included with a friendly smile, or do I have to work for that?"

  The barmaid blinked, a slight pink creeping into her cheeks, before she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. A nervous laugh slipped out before she quickly looked away. "I—uh… well, that depends on how much charm you think you have."

  The floating woman sighed dramatically, rolling her violet eyes as she tapped her staff against the wooden floor. "For the love of magic, just pay her so we can sit down."

  The barmaid, still slightly flustered, quickly listed the prices, her gaze pointedly avoiding the hooded man now.

  At the edge of the conversation, the smallest figure raised a single hand and muttered, "Juice."

  The barmaid hesitated, then slid a glass of fresh fruit juice across the counter. The boy took it without another word, walking toward an empty table near the back, where he could watch without being watched.

  The hooded man leaned back, his massive frame sinking into the chair with an almost lazy ease. The lantern above them flickered, casting just enough light to reveal hints of dark brown skin, the faintest strands of white dreadlocked hair escaping from his hood.

  The young woman plopped into her chair with exaggerated ease, stretching her arms dramatically before grabbing a large pint of ale. The size of it was enough to make most men pause—something only the burliest of sailors might drink. She took a deep gulp without hesitation, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  As the night deepened, the inn’s energy shifted. The boisterous drinking had begun to quiet, and now, conversations turned low, secretive, tense.

  From a nearby table, a group of rough-looking men sat hunched over their drinks, speaking in hushed but urgent tones.

  "I'm telling you," one of them muttered. "Stay out of the Old Business District slums tomorrow."

  "Why?" another asked. "Jace up to something again?"

  "More than something," the first man grunted. "He's looking for someone. A kid."

  The hooded man, previously relaxed, shifted slightly, his hidden eyes flickering toward the conversation.

  "A kid?" one of the others asked. "Who?"

  "Some street brat," the first man muttered. "Jace wants him dead. Him and his whole damn group."

  "Shit," another exhaled. "That serious?"

  "Yeah. The kid beat the hell out of Jace at the docks—in broad daylight. Humiliated him in front of half the slums."

  The hooded man froze for just a fraction of a second, then leaned back, fingers tapping the rim of his drink.

  "Jace ain't the type to let something like that slide," the second man continued. "He’s bringing out the youth gangs—wants the whole slum to know what happens when you embarrass him."

  The third man, who had been quiet until now, scoffed. "He’s hunting some kid named Orion."

  The woman beside the hooded man stopped spinning her magic, her fingers pausing mid-air. Her violet eyes flickered with sharp interest.

  The masked boy remained still, his mismatched eyes narrowing slightly.

  Another man, shaking his head, added, "All I heard is that he's after some kid with dark brown skin and white dreadlocked hair."

  The hooded man’s fingers, which had been lazily drumming against the table, stopped.

  For a moment, silence stretched between the trio.

  The woman leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on one hand, a knowing smirk playing at her lips.

  "Now that's interesting," she murmured.

  The hooded man exhaled through his nose, his smirk barely visible beneath the shadow of his hood.

  "Yeah," he said quietly, voice laced with intrigue. "Very interesting."

  The masked boy finally spoke, his voice calm but weighted.

  "Are we going after him?"

  The hooded man took a sip of his drink, then set it down with a quiet chuckle.

  "Not yet," he said. "But I want to see how this plays out."

  The woman beside him smirked, tapping her staff against the wooden floor.

  "Then tomorrow," she said, lifting her glass, "we take a little walk through the slums."

  The three drank in silence.

  Tomorrow, the Old Business District would be chaotic. And they would be there to watch.