The night he killed his captor, it was raining.

  Aiden sat in the corner of a damp, candlelit room, wrists raw from the rope binding them. He could barely breathe, his ribs bruised from earlier.

  Then, the door creaked open.

  His handler stepped in, reeking of cheap alcohol. The man grinned, spinning a dagger between his fingers.

  “Ready for another lesson, boy?”

  Something inside Aiden snapped.

  His hand curled around a loose nail on the ground. As the man reached for him, Aiden lunged, jamming the nail into his throat.

  The man gurgled, staggering back. Blood spilled down his chest.

  Aiden scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. The man wasn’t dead yet. His fingers cwed at the wound, rage burning in his eyes.

  Aiden didn’t hesitate.

  He grabbed the fallen dagger—his first real weapon—and drove it into the man’s chest.

  This time, he didn’t miss.

  Silence filled the room.

  Aiden stood there, chest heaving, watching as the life drained from his tormentor’s eyes.

  His hands were shaking.

  His stomach twisted, but he swallowed down the nausea.

  He had won.

  For the first time in his life, he wasn’t the one bleeding.

  Aiden took a step back, then another.

  Then, he ran.

  Through the alleys, through the filth and rain. He ran until his legs gave out, until he colpsed in the dirt, gasping for air.

  His body ached. His head spun.

  But for the first time, he was free.

  And for the first time, he let himself believe—maybe he could be something more.

  Maybe he could be strong.

  He clenched his fists, blood still warm on his fingers.

  He would never be weak again.

  And House Valtor…

  They had abandoned him.

  One day, he would return the favor.