Page 22 of City of Secrets and Shadows (Empire of Vengeance #2)

22

I knew something was wrong the moment Marcus appeared at our door. His knuckles were bloodless where they gripped the doorframe, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles straining beneath his skin.

“Let me in,” he said, his voice low and hard in a way I’d never heard before. “Now.”

Tarshi, who’d been sharpening his blades at the small table in our shared quarters, looked up with narrowed eyes.

“What happened?” I asked, stepping aside to let Marcus enter.

He closed the door behind him with deliberate care, the soft click more ominous than if he’d slammed it. “It’s Livia.”

Those two words sent ice through my veins. I grabbed his shoulder, fingers digging into muscle. “What about Livia? Is she hurt? She’s with Octavia isn’t she?”

“She’s alive,” Marcus cut me off. His eyes, when they met mine, burned with a cold fury that made me release my grip. “She’s at my place now. Sleeping.”

“What’s she doing there?” Tarshi’s voice held a dangerous edge. The knife he’d been sharpening caught the lamplight as he set it down with careful precision.

Marcus looked between us, seeming to weigh his words. “A nobleman here at the academy cornered her in the changing rooms after training. Tried to force himself on her.”

The room went silent. Even the constant sounds of the city beyond our walls seemed to fade away. All I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears and the scrape of Tarshi’s chair as he stood.

“Who?” I asked, the word barely audible through my clenched teeth.

“Lord Varin Mallistus,” Marcus said, the name clearly memorized. “She fought him off — had her knife. But she…” He hesitated, and the uncertainty in his expression cut deeper than his words. “She’s not hurt, but she’s shaken. More than I’ve ever seen her.”

“I’m going to kill him,” I said simply. Not a threat, not a declaration of intent — just a statement of inevitable fact.

“We’re going to kill him,” Tarshi corrected, sliding his freshly sharpened blade into its sheath. “Tonight.”

Marcus nodded, and in that moment, the three of us — who had spent months locked in a silent battle over Livia’s affections — found perfect understanding.

“I got his name from Livia,” Marcus said. “But we need to find him.”

“That won't be difficult.” I moved to the chest at the foot of my bed, pulling out my old gladiator’s blade — not the ornamental weapon I wore as Livia’s “bodyguard” at the academy, but the real one, pitted and worn from countless arena fights. “Varin has a slave who runs errands in the lower city. ‘ve seen him at the market.”

“You think this slave will tell us where to find his master?” Tarshi asked sceptically.

I allowed myself a grim smile. “Slaves always know where to find those who hurt other slaves. And they’re rarely loyal to masters who abuse them.”

The next hour passed in tense preparation. We dressed in dark, nondescript clothing — nothing that would draw attention or mark us as anything other than common labourers returning from a day’s work. I strapped my blade beneath a worn cloak while Tarshi concealed multiple smaller weapons about his person. Marcus carried only a simple dagger, but I’d seen him kill men with less.

As darkness fell, we slipped into the restless energy of the Imperial City’s night. The elite districts were aglow with lanterns and revelry — the Midwinter Ceremony celebrations would continue well into the early hours. It provided perfect cover, the streets packed with drunken revellers and distracted guards.

Finding Varin’s slave was easier than expected. The thin, wary-eyed man was exactly where I’d seen him before, waiting in an alley behind a merchant’s shop that served as a drop point for messages between the noble districts and the underground networks that serviced them.

“You,” I called out, my voice carrying just enough authority to make him freeze. “I have business with Lord Varin Mallistus.”

The slave’s eyes darted between the three of us, quickly assessing the danger. “My master receives petitioners at his family estate during designated hours.”

“This isn’t that kind of business,” Marcus said, stepping closer. “And we need to find him tonight.”

Fear flickered across the slave’s face. “I cannot—”

“He attacked a woman today,” I interrupted, watching his reaction carefully. “At the academy. Forced himself on her in the changing rooms.”

Something shifted in the slave’s expression — a hardening around the eyes, a slight tightening of his mouth. Recognition. This wasn’t the first time.

“My master’s activities are not my concern,” he said stiffly, but there was a new undercurrent to his voice.

Tarshi moved closer, his black eyes reflecting the dim lamplight. “We’re not here to cause trouble for you,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “But this woman is important to us. And your master hurt her.”

The slave glanced over his shoulder, then back at us. “If my master discovered I had spoken to you…”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch, heavy with coin. More than this man would see in a year of service. “This buys your freedom,” I said quietly. “Enough to leave the city tonight, start somewhere new.”

His eyes widened at the sight of the pouch.

“Where is he?” Marcus pressed.

A heartbeat of hesitation, then: “The Crimson Veil. It’s a private establishment in the merchants’ district. He goes there most nights after sunset.” The slave’s voice dropped lower. “He has four guards with him. Professional fighters, not just household soldiers.”

I pressed the pouch into his hand. “You never saw us.”

He clutched the coins to his chest, eyes darting between us one last time. “When you find him... make it hurt.” Then he was gone, disappearing into the labyrinth of back alleys.

The Crimson Veil turned out to be exactly the kind of establishment I expected — an exclusive club where the empire’s wealthy young men indulged their vices away from the scrutiny of court. The kind of place that required either significant coin or significant family connections to enter.

We had neither, but we didn’t need to go inside. We stationed ourselves in the shadows across the street, watching the ornate doors with predatory patience.

“What’s our plan?” Marcus asked, his voice barely audible over the ambient noise of the district.

“We wait until he leaves,” I replied. “Follow him to somewhere quieter, then—”

“Then I kill him,” Tarshi interrupted. There was something in his tone that made me glance at him sharply. His face was a mask of controlled rage, but beneath it, I sensed something else — something volatile and dangerous that I’d never seen in him before. A shiver ran down my spine, though not from fear.

“We kill him,” I corrected.

The wait stretched two hours, each minute tightening the coil of tension between us. Marcus grew increasingly agitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“I should get back to Livia,” he said finally. “She’ll wake and wonder where I’ve gone.”

“Go,” I told him. “Tarshi and I can handle this.”

He hesitated, clearly torn between his desire to protect Livia and his need to exact vengeance on the man who’d hurt her.

“She needs you more than we do,” Tarshi added, surprising me with his insight. “We’ll make sure it’s done.”

After another moment’s hesitation, Marcus nodded. “Make it quick,” he said. “But make sure he knows why he’s dying.”

With that, he slipped away into the night, leaving me alone with the half-breed.

“Do you think less of her?” Tarshi asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence between us. “For going to Marcus instead of us?”

The question caught me off guard. “No,” I answered honestly. “She went where she felt safe.”

“But not to you,” he pressed, a hint of challenge in his tone. “Her childhood friend. The one who swore to protect her.”

I bristled at the implication. “And not to you either, whatever you are,” I shot back. “So what does that say about both of us?”

Before he could respond, the doors of the Crimson Veil swung open, releasing a burst of light and laughter into the street. I grabbed Tarshi’s arm, pulling him deeper into the shadows as a group of men emerged from the establishment.

In the centre walked Varin Mallistus, exactly as Livia had described him — tall, handsome in a cold way, with an air of entitled arrogance that only generations of unchecked power could create. Four men flanked him, their posture and watchful eyes marking them clearly as hired protection.

“That’s him,” I whispered unnecessarily.

Tarshi’s arm beneath my grip had gone rigid, the muscles like iron. The group was moving away from us, heading toward the less populous areas that led to the nobility’s private estates.

We followed at a careful distance, waiting for our opportunity. The streets grew quieter as they moved away from the celebration’s epicentre, the crowds thinning until we reached a narrow avenue lined with silent shops closed for the night.

“Now,” I murmured to Tarshi, drawing my blade.

We emerged from the shadows, moving swiftly to block their path. I positioned myself in front of Varin while Tarshi circled to cut off their retreat.

The bodyguards reacted instantly, hands moving to weapons as they formed a protective circle around their employer.

“What is the meaning of this?” Varin demanded, his voice slurred with expensive wine but still carrying the unmistakable tone of a man accustomed to obedience.

“You attacked a woman today,” I said, advancing slowly. “At the academy. In the changing rooms.”

Recognition flickered across his features, followed by disdainful amusement. “Is that what this is about? Some academy whore sent her pet thugs to frighten me?” He laughed, the sound grating against my ears. “Do you know who I am, peasant?”

“We know exactly who you are,” Tarshi replied from behind him. “Lord Varin Mallistus. Son of Governor Mallistus. Heir to the eastern provinces.”

“And rapist,” I added. “Though not for much longer.”

The lead bodyguard drew his sword — a proper military-grade weapon, not the ornamental blades favoured by noblemen. “You’re making a grave mistake,” he warned. “Walk away now, and we’ll forget this happened.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” I said, dropping into a fighting stance I’d perfected over years in the arena. “Your employer put his hands on someone who belongs to us.”

“Belongs to you?” Varin’s laughter turned cruel. “Oh, I see now. You’re the slave-guard who follows that Cantius bitch around the academy. I should have recognized you.” His eyes shifted to Tarshi. “And the half-breed pet. How charming.”

The casual way he used those words — “slave” and “half-breed” — ignited something primal in my chest. I’d spent my entire life being defined by others, labelled and categorized and dismissed. I might have called Tarshi “half-breed” myself behind closed doors, thrown the word at him during our heated arguments, but hearing it from Varin’s privileged mouth made it something else entirely. The realization struck me with unexpected force — Tarshi was one of us now, whether I liked it or not. He stood with us, bled with us, fought for Livia just as fiercely as I did. And no silver-spoon noble had the right to look down on him.

“That ‘half-breed’ is about to be the last thing you ever see,” I growled, my knuckles whitening around the hilt of my blade. The protectiveness I felt surprised even me, but there was no time to examine it as the night erupted into violence.

I didn’t bother responding. I simply attacked.

Years in the arena had taught me one crucial lesson: strike first, strike hard, and never hesitate. I lunged forward, my blade finding the gap between the lead guard’s armour plates before he could properly react. He grunted in surprise, stumbling backward as blood darkened his tunic.

The night erupted into chaos. The remaining three guards rushed me while Varin retreated, shouting for help. I parried a blow from my left, ducked under a swing from the right, and kicked the third man hard in the knee, feeling it buckle beneath my boot.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Tarshi moving with inhuman speed, intercepting Varin before he could escape. The nobleman drew a jewelled dagger from his belt, slashing wildly at Tarshi, who easily evaded the clumsy attacks.

I had no time to watch further as the guards surrounded me, their training evident in how they coordinated their attacks. But they had been trained to fight common thugs and drunken brawlers — not a gladiator who had survived the most brutal arenas in the empire.

I feinted left, drawing one guard’s attack, then spun and drove my blade deep into the exposed side of another. He dropped with a gurgled cry, clutching at the wound as his lifeblood pumped between his fingers.

The remaining two circled me more cautiously now, one sporting a deep gash across his forearm where my blade had found its mark. I shifted my stance, balancing on the balls of my feet, waiting for the opening I knew would come.

“Septimus!” Tarshi’s voice rang out in warning.

I dropped instinctively, feeling the rush of air as a thrown dagger passed through the space where my head had been a moment before. It struck one of the guards in the throat, his eyes widening in shock as he collapsed to his knees, hands clutching futilely at the protruding hilt.

The last guard, seeing his fallen companions , made a desperate lunge. I caught his blade on mine, the clash of steel ringing through the empty street, then twisted sharply, sending his weapon clattering to the cobblestones. Before he could recover, I drove my knee into his stomach, doubling him over, then brought the pommel of my sword down hard against the base of his skull. He crumpled at my feet, unconscious but alive.

I turned to find Tarshi holding Varin against the wall of a shuttered shop, one hand wrapped around the nobleman’s throat. The jewelled dagger lay on the ground, apparently knocked from Varin’s grasp during the struggle.

“You think you can threaten us?” Varin was saying, his voice strained but still defiant despite the hand at his throat. “Do you know what will happen to you? My father will have you hunted down like animals. He’ll raze whatever filthy village spawned you.”

“Your father will never know who killed you,” I said, stepping closer, my blade still dripping with his guards’ blood. “You’ll simply disappear, another noble who wandered into the wrong part of the city after dark.”

Fear finally began to register in Varin’s eyes as he realized the seriousness of his situation. “Wait,” he gasped, struggling against Tarshi’s grip. “I have money. More than you’ve ever seen. Name your price.”

“We’re not here for money,” Tarshi growled, tightening his hold until Varin’s face began to redden. “We’re here because you touched her.”

Something shifted in Varin’s expression — a flash of recognition, then a twisted smile despite his predicament. “The Cantius whore?” He laughed, a choked, desperate sound. “She wanted it. They all do. Playing hard to get until they get a taste of real power.”

I saw something change in Tarshi’s eyes — a flicker, like flames igniting in their dark depths.

“You know what?” Varin continued, seemingly oblivious to the danger in Tarshi’s gaze. “Kill me, and you’re all dead too. My father’s men will find you. And then they’ll find her. They’ll take turns with her before they finally let her die—”

What happened next occurred so quickly I almost couldn’t process it. Tarshi’s free hand, the one not holding Varin’s throat, seemed to transform before my eyes. His fingers elongated, nails extending into wicked, curved claws that gleamed like obsidian in the dim light.

Varin’s eyes widened in terror, his sentence cutting off mid-word.

“What are y—”

Tarshi’s clawed hand plunged into Varin’s chest with a sickening crunch of breaking bone. Blood sprayed outward, hot droplets spattering across my face. Varin’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his body convulsing as Tarshi’s hand twisted deeper.

I stood frozen, unable to look away from the impossible sight before me. Tarshi’s eyes had changed completely, the endless black blazing into an unnatural golden glow that illuminated his face from within. His teeth, when he snarled, looked sharper, longer than any human’s had a right to be.

With a savage growl that sounded nothing like Tarshi’s voice — more bestial, ancient, and terrifying — he ripped his hand free of Varin’s chest, bringing with it a pulpy mass that could only be the nobleman’s heart.

Varin’s body slumped to the ground, eyes staring sightlessly at the night sky. Blood pooled beneath him, black in the moonlight, seeping between the cobblestones in rivulets.

Silence fell, broken only by Tarshi’s laboured breathing. He stood over Varin’s corpse, blood dripping from his still-transformed hand, the glow in his eyes gradually fading as his chest heaved with exertion.

For several long moments neither of us moved. The reality of what we’d done — what Tarshi had done — hung in the air between us like a physical presence.

“We need to move the bodies,” I finally said, forcing practicality through my shock. “Into the alley. The night patrol won’t find them until morning, if at all.”

Tarshi looked up at me, his eyes now back to their normal colour but filled with something I couldn’t quite name — fear, perhaps, or confusion. He stared at his hand, which had also returned to its human appearance, though it remained covered in Varin’s blood.

“What am I?” he whispered, so softly I almost didn’t hear it.

The vulnerability in that question cut through my defences. For all our animosity, all our rivalry over Livia, I found myself unable to feel anything but a strange, reluctant empathy for the warrior standing before me.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Are you... are you a demon?” The question sounded ridiculous even as I asked it, but I’d seen his hand transform, seen the unnatural glow of his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he echoed, clenching his bloodied fist. “I’ve always felt something inside me, something dark I had to control. I thought it was just the Talfen blood.” He looked up, meeting my gaze directly. “But no one gets to touch her. Not if she’s unwilling. Not ever.”

There was such fierce protectiveness in his voice that something twisted in my chest — recognition of a feeling I knew all too well.

We worked in tense silence, dragging the bodies into a nearby alley and arranging them to look like the aftermath of a robbery gone wrong. I stripped them of valuables to complete the illusion, tucking coins and jewellery into my pockets to discard later.

“We should separate,” I said as we finished. “Take different routes back. Less conspicuous.”

Tarshi nodded, wiping his blade clean on a dead guard’s cloak. He still moved with a strange tension, as if afraid of what his own body might do next.

“I saw what you did to him,” I said abruptly, unable to let it go. “That wasn’t normal, Tarshi. That wasn’t human.”

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “And that bothers you, doesn’t it? That the ‘half-breed’ you’ve always despised might be even less human than you thought?”

The bitterness in his voice stung more than I expected. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” he interrupted, advancing on me suddenly. “You’ve made your feelings about the Talfen perfectly clear from the beginning. Called us animals, demons, abominations. And now you’ve seen something that confirms your worst suspicions.”

I stood my ground as he approached, refusing to retreat despite the memory of what those hands had done to Varin. “If I thought you were a monster, I wouldn’t be standing here,” I said firmly. “I’d have run the moment I saw what you did.”

“Then why did you stay?” he demanded, stopping inches from me. His eyes, though normal now, seemed to burn with an inner fire that had nothing to do with their colour. “Why are you still here, Septimus?”

The way he said my name — half challenge, half something else entirely — sent a jolt through my body that had no place in this blood-soaked alley.

“Because we’re on the same side,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Because whatever you are, whatever you did, you did it to protect Livia.”

“And that’s all that matters to you, isn’t it? Livia.” He practically spat her name. “Always Livia. Your childhood friend. The girl you swore to protect. The woman you can’t have.”

His words struck too close to the feelings I’d been trying to bury. Anger flared inside me. “Careful, Talfen,” I growled. “You’re treading dangerous ground.”

“Am I?” A bitter laugh escaped him. “What will you do, Septimus? Kill me? Go ahead and try.” He stepped even closer, until I could feel the heat radiating from his body. “But we both know you won’t. Because you need me. Because deep down, beneath all that hatred and prejudice, you’re just as fucked up as I am.”

Something snapped inside me. I grabbed the front of his blood-stained shirt, slamming him back against the alley wall. “Shut up,” I hissed. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you watch me when you think I’m not looking,” he said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I know your heart rate speeds up when we’re close, like it is now. I can hear it, Septimus. I can smell your anger, your confusion — and something else you don’t want to admit.”

We stood frozen in that moment, my fists gripping his shirt, his back against the wall, surrounded by the men we’d killed together. The air between us crackled with tension that had nothing to do with hatred and everything to do with something I’d been denying for months.

“I hate you,” I said, the words coming out breathless, unconvincing even to my own ears.

“I know,” Tarshi replied. Then, with movements too quick to counter, he grabbed the back of my neck and crushed his mouth against mine.