Chapter 460: The Blade in the Alley

Gillian pulled the heavy cloak tighter around his broad shoulders, drawing the oversized hood down until it covered most of his face. He walked at an easy pace, his boots making little noise against the muddy cobblestones. The streets smelled of old garbage, fried river fish, and damp brick, nothing like the perfumed halls of the Auzelian embassy.

He turned sharply into a narrow, dead-end alleyway squeezed between a run-down bakery and a boarded-up weaver’s shop.

Stopping right near a row of empty wooden rain barrels, Gillian halted, his ears straining against the quiet crackle of evening fires in the distance.

A moment later, a floorboard creaked above him. A tall figure wrapped in a matching dark cloak dropped lightly down from the bakery’s fire escape, landing on his knees with barely a sound before straightening up.

"Your High..." the man began hurriedly, reaching to pull down his face mask.

"Shoosh," Gillian cut him off instantly, his voice a low, warning whisper as his sharp eyes darted toward the mouth of the alley. "Don’t call me that here."

The scout flinched slightly, quickly bowing his head. "Forgive me, sir. My apologies."

"What did you find?" Gillian asked, taking half a step closer into the deep shadow of the rain barrels. His posture was tense, his hand resting casually near the hilt of the thin hunting blade hidden beneath his cloak. "Did you track the supply route?"

"I did," the scout reported quietly, his breath fogging slightly in the cool night air. "The imperial Auzelian guards are still keeping a tight, unbroken perimeter around the embassy quarters, just as you ordered. But... I personally searched the lower trade markets and questioned the black-market brokers near the docks. I didn’t find anything suspicious regarding the merchant who supposedly sold that specific poison."

Gillian’s jaw tightened under his hood, a cold, dangerous glint passing through his eyes.

"Nothing?" Gillian murmured.

"No, Sir," the scout said softly. "Whoever supplied the poison that the maid used against Princess Iryna cleaned their tracks completely. There is no paper trail left in the lower district."

Gillian let out a short, quiet breath through his nose. "Of course there isn’t. They aren’t street criminals, Rien. This was planned from inside, probably the higher circles of the city and knew exactly how to make the evidence disappear." He paused, his tone dropping even lower, colder. "Keep an eye on the guard shifts at the embassy, and stay cautious. If whoever tried to take Iryna out realizes we’re digging around the lower city, they’ll try to shut us up next."

"Understood, sir," Rien replied smoothly. He reached deep into his inner tunic, pulling out a folded piece of heavy parchment bound with a simple piece of twine. "Also... you asked for this."

Gillian reached out, taking the paper into his gloved hand. "What is it?"

"It’s the complete registry list of every operational orphanage and sanctuary in the Capital and its outer skirts," Rien whispered. "Cross-referenced with the crown’s old charitable records from five years ago."

"Ah, right. Good job," Gillian said, slipping the folded parchment directly into his inner cloak pocket. "Now go. Don’t take the main road back."

Rien nodded once, stepped back into the alley, and climbed the wooden fire escape. Within moments, he was and out of sight.

Gillian remained motionless in the quiet alley. Slowly, he unfolded the heavy parchment Vane had handed him. The rough paper rustled softly in the air.

It was an exhaustive register, dozens of sanctuaries, temple-run shelters, and orphanages scattered across every quarter of the Capital, from the wealthy inner rings down to the filthy, overcrowded docks of the lower district. Beside each location were meticulous annotations detailing dates of establishment, and the names of the head caretakers who managed them.

Gillian’s thumb traced slowly down the long column of names. Satisfied for now, Gillian carefully refolded the parchment along its original creases, bound it tight with the piece of twine, and slipped it deep into the inner lining of his heavy cloak, resting it close to his ribs.

He took a slow breath, adjusting his hood before stepping back toward the cobblestone street.

He took three steps.

Tap

It was tiny, barely a soft, wet scrape of leather against damp stone, but to Gillian’s trained ears, it sounded like a thunderclap.

Gillian didn’t turn around. He kept walking at the exact same steady pace, turning left into a narrow, winding alley that led deeper into the maze of the lower residential district.

Ten paces down, he felt it again. A cold, prickling sensation at the base of his neck, the distinct weight of someone watching his heels, matching his step for step from the shadows of the rooftops above.

I’m being followed.

Gillian’s lips thinned into a dark, razor-sharp smile under his hood. He didn’t speed up. Instead, he took a sharp right turn into an unlit, pitch-black covered passageway between two leaning brick tenements.

The moment his boots hit the deep darkness of the tunnel, Gillian melted into the alcove behind a heavy wooden support beam.

In one silent motion, his hand reached beneath his cloak. The steel hilt of his short sword slid from its leather scabbard with a faint, metallic whisper.

He held his breath, his eyes wide in the dark, his thumb resting flat against the crossguard as he waited for the shadow behind him to step into the tunnel.

The shadow stepped into the pitch-black tunnel without hesitation.

It moved with slow, careful steps, its boots making no sound against the damp cobblestones. Gillian didn’t wait to see a face. The moment the intruder passed his hiding spot behind the wooden support beam, Gillian lunged from the shadows.

Gillian swung his short sword around, forcing the intruder hard against the brick wall. The blade came to rest against their throat.

"Why are you following me?" Gillian growled, his voice a low, threatening rasp in the gloom. "Speak before I cut your throat."

The intruder didn’t answer. They didn’t even draw a weapon. The figure remained completely still against the cold stone, their breath coming in short, shallow rasps beneath the dark hood pulled low over their face.

Gillian’s eyes narrowed under his hood. "I won’t ask a second time," he warned, leaning his body weight into the hilt, pressing the steel closer until it bit faintly into the cloth covering their throat.

Still, no word came. Only a tense, suffocating silence filled the narrow passageway.

Pushed past his patience, Gillian reached out with his left hand, grabbing a handful of dark fabric near the intruder’s shoulder. With a single, harsh jerk, he pulled the heavy hood back.

Gillian froze.

The short sword in his right hand trembled, the blade lowering an inch as the breath caught violently in his throat.

"You...?"