Chapter 17: The First Execution - Part 1
The alley stank of piss and rotting fish.
Perfect.
I stood in the shadows across from the Pissing Goat, hood pulled low, face hidden. The tavern door opened and closed irregularly, spilling drunks into the night. None of them Harren.
Midnight came and went. I waited.
The door opened again. Big silhouette. Familiar gait—controlled stumble that looked drunk but wasn't quite.
Harren.
He paused on the threshold, scanning the street with practiced caution. Old instincts from his Gold Cloak days. Looking for threats, ambushes, anyone paying too much attention.
I dropped my weight to thirty kilograms, made myself light as shadow. Didn't move. Barely breathed.
His gaze passed over my position without catching. He grunted, satisfied, and started walking.
I followed.
Twenty meters back. Close enough to track, far enough to be invisible. He took his usual route—narrow streets, avoiding main thoroughfares, heading toward Fishmonger's Square.
Every fifty paces, he'd glance back. Professional paranoia.
I used Soru in short bursts when he checked, closing distance while his head was turned, freezing when he looked forward again. Silent. Controlled. Predator stalking prey.
He turned into an alley. Narrow. Dark. Walls close enough to touch on both sides.
Now.
I triggered Soru. Full burst. The world compressed, and I shot forward like an arrow, closing twenty meters in a heartbeat.
Harren sensed something—started turning.
Too late.
I drove my stiffened fingers toward his lower back. Shigan. Aiming for the kidney. One strike to cripple, second to kill.
He twisted.
Combat instinct. Muscle memory from years of street fights and war. My fingers missed the kidney, punched through his shoulder instead. Blood, hot and immediate. Meat and muscle tearing.
He roared. Not pain—rage. Spun with shocking speed for a man his size, butcher's cleaver appearing in his other hand.
Where the fuck had he been hiding that?
The blade came horizontal, aimed at my neck. I threw up my arm, hardened it with Tekkai.
The cleaver hit with a sound like a hammer on an anvil. Metallic clang that echoed off the alley walls. The blade rebounded, didn't cut.
Harren's eyes went wide. "What the fuck are you?"
I didn't answer. Shifted my weight. Five hundred kilograms in an instant. My feet sank into the cobblestones. I drove my fist into his ribs.
The impact sounded like wood cracking. His ribs caved. He gasped, a wet sound, dropped to one knee.
But he didn't drop the cleaver.
He swung again. Wild. Desperate. I stepped back, let it pass.
He tried to stand. Failed. Blood bubbled at his lips. Internal bleeding. Broken ribs had punctured something vital.
Finish it. One more strike.
I stepped forward, raising my hand for the killing blow—
"Wha—what in the Seven Hells—"
A drunk. Stumbling into the alley entrance. Staring at us with bleary, uncomprehending eyes.
Witness.
Everything slowed. Tactical assessment in milliseconds.
Kill him? I could. Soru forward, Shigan to the throat, done in two seconds. But that's two murders tonight. Twice the risk. Twice the evidence.
Let him go? He'll report to the Gold Cloaks. Describe me. Maybe. If he remembers through the alcohol haze.
The drunk bent over and vomited. Projectile. Splashing across the alley stones.
"Demons," he mumbled. "Fucking demons in the alleys."
He fled. Stumbling, terrified, disappearing around the corner.
Shit.
I looked at Harren. Unconscious now, face-down in his own blood. Breathing shallow. Dying, but not dead.
Footsteps. Multiple sets. Boots on stone.
Gold Cloaks. Patrol route. They must've heard the commotion.
No time.
I grabbed Harren by his collar, dragged him deeper into the alley. Heavy bastard, even with my enhanced strength. Left a blood trail in the dirt.
The footsteps got closer. Voices. "—heard shouting—" "—probably another tavern fight—"
I dropped Harren, triggered Soru, and vanished.
The rooftop was three buildings over. I crouched behind a chimney, breathing hard, watching the alley below.
Two Gold Cloaks entered. Torches raised. They found Harren immediately.
"Seven Hells!" One knelt, checked for a pulse. "He's alive. Barely."
"That's Harren. Used to be one of us."
"Get a cart. Now!"
One ran. The other stayed, trying to stop the bleeding with cloth torn from his own cloak.
I watched from above, fists clenched.
Alive. He's still alive.
Failed. I'd failed to finish the kill. And now Harren would survive, would tell them someone attacked him, would be on guard.
And the drunk had seen. Not clearly, probably. But enough to mention demons and strange attacks.
The timeline had just accelerated in the worst possible way.
A cart arrived. They loaded Harren onto it, carried him away toward the city healer's quarters. Moving fast. Efficient.
I stayed on the rooftop long after they'd gone, staring at the blood-slicked cobblestones.
First assassination attempt: failed.
One witness loose. One target alive and now protected.
Adapt. Reassess. Try again.
Harren was wounded. Badly. Internal bleeding, broken ribs. The healer might not be able to save him.
Or he might. And then I'd have a former Gold Cloak who knew someone was hunting him.
I needed a new approach. Subtle. Certain. No witnesses.
I left the rooftop, moved through King's Landing's night shadows, heading back to my room.
Tomorrow, I'd find out where they'd taken Harren. Tomorrow, I'd plan the second attempt.
Tonight, I'd failed.
But failure was just information. And information could be used.
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