Chapter 5: The Maw Pits

  After leaving the Velvet Quarter, the scent of incense and oil no longer clung to Raian’s senses as he made his way toward the southwestern district of Vel’farra.

  “Madame Sava…” Raian closed his eyes for a moment.

  Her words about his father resurfaced in his mind. The unease that had briefly stirred in his chest slowly eased as he considered the possibility of a connection between Madame Sava and his father.

  But his steps did not slow. He increased his pace toward the location she had given him.

  Thorn-Tail Three…

  The name echoed in his thoughts. His features hardened. His fangs caught the cold light of the moon.

  “I will repay what you did to my sister.” Raian moved toward the city’s edge in swift silence.

  The scent of the urban night wind gradually gave way to dust, chalk, and raw stone scraping against his senses. The closer he drew, the sandy road shifted into a stretch of large, pale stone blocks embedded in the earth like exposed bones.

  The Maw Pits.

  Once, it had been a quarry—carved into the bones of Vel’farra to mine precious stone from deep beneath the land.

  Now, it was something far worse.

  Faint lights flickered from the deepest hollow of the quarry. Distant cheers echoed upward, growing clearer as Raian stood before the steep stone steps descending toward the heart of Thorn-Tail Three’s operations.

  He pulled his cloak hood lower. Only the tip of his nose, tense whiskers, and blue eyes reflecting torchlight from below remained visible.

  His steps shifted as he descended the slick stone stairs—polished by the sweat and blood of forced laborers. Whether they had been outcast cats or forgotten prisoners of war, none could say.

  The quarry corridor narrowed, then opened toward a glow at its end—accompanied by the roaring cries of cats thirsty for the spectacle of an underground match in progress.

  The air thickened with cigarette smoke and beer. The scent of sweat and iron—fresh blood—clung to every breath.

  “HIT HIM!”

  “BITE! Bite his tail—hahaha!”

  Mad laughter echoed off the stone walls. The workers’ blood had long dried—now replaced by that of fighters.

  Raian glanced toward the ring. Two cats grappled brutally in the center of a sand circle, their bodies soaked in blood and torn fur.

  He turned his face away. That was not what he sought.

  His eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for any sign of the Thorn-Tail Three. Guards were scattered at various corners, watching visitors with suspicious stares. By chance, his ears caught whispers from two of them.

  “Hey… don’t greet the boss if you see him. Just lower your gaze. He’s in a foul mood.”

  “Really? I just saw him enter his room. Good thing I didn’t speak to him…”

  They could not hide the nervousness in their voices.

  Raian drifted away from the crowd and merged with a patch of darkness untouched by torchlight.

  He moved low, nearly soundless—slipping between stacks of large wooden crates, using every blind spot when the guards’ attention drifted toward the ring and their wagers.

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  His steps were calm. Measured.

  Hunting not with anger—but with purpose.

  Raian waited. And kept waiting for the right moment to pass through the tightly guarded corridor. From the shadows of his concealment, he watched the crowd.

  Soon—A thunderous roar exploded from the ring. The match had ended.

  Cheers erupted. The guards were swept into the euphoria—some rushed to collect their bets, others dropped to their knees in despair over losses.

  That was the moment.

  Raian moved. Fast. Silent.

  He shot from wall to wall, his shadow nearly indistinguishable from the dark stone.

  One guard who had been kneeling suddenly lifted his head.

  “What—?” His hand reflexively reached for the sword at his waist.

  He looked left. Right.

  No one.

  “Wind…” he muttered irritably. “Huft… nearly scared me.” He returned to his position.

  Meanwhile, Raian had already passed through the corridor and slipped deeper into the belly of The Maw Pits.

  Beyond lay a wide chamber filled with round tables. Several guards sat lazily, chins resting on their palms, bored by routine.

  And there—A massive tom nearly two meters tall stood with broad shoulders and bulging muscles, holding a glass of beer in his claw. His face matched the scroll Madame Sava had shown.

  Muzz the Split-Fang.

  His broken lower fang had been sharpened to a point, reflecting torchlight.

  He scolded two guards who were too absorbed in their card game. Afterward, Muzz turned and walked toward an iron vault at the end of the room.

  “The captain’s been tense lately… wonder what’s gotten into him…” one guard complained.

  “Hush… careful he hears you,” the other replied, stifling a wide yawn.

  “A night like this makes you want to close your eyes for a bit…”

  Raian stood at the edge of the corridor, his eyes reflecting dim light.

  The guard rubbing his eyes caught that glint. He jolted upright, his chair tipping backward. But his reaction was too late.

  Raian had already moved. He lunged forward and drove a hard kick into the guard’s chest, sending him flying and crashing to the ground.

  The second guard barely managed to reach for his weapon—his face was slammed into the table by Raian with brutal force.

  Wood cracked. The table split in two. The guard’s body went limp among the debris.

  Raian stood amid the wreckage, his breathing steady.

  Not finished. Not even close.

  The fallen guard crawled, reaching for his sword that had landed inches away. His fingertips finally touched the hilt—Crack. The sound of bone breaking split the air. Raian stomped down on the guard’s hand with full force.

  “Argh—!” He writhed, lifting his chin, eyes searching for the figure above him.

  “Wh… who are you…?” All he saw was the silhouette of Raian’s face—shadowed, untouched by light.

  In a heavy, calm tone, he replied,

  “I am the twilight before the coming of eternal night.”

  The guard froze. Then—Whack.

  His body went limp, unconscious from Raian’s blow.

  Inside the chamber, Muzz remained unaware of the silence creeping in from beyond the walls. He sat in the dim light, placing his beer glass on the thick wooden table. Across from him, Krann sat hunched, his face hidden behind both hands.

  “How could Nesk screw up a mission that simple…” he growled softly.

  His claw pressed against the table as he pointed at Muzz with a sharp nail.

  “And you—with all that bulk and brawn—you couldn’t restrain a slip of a girl. You ruined the operation.”

  Muzz pushed the beer glass closer to Krann. “Drink first, boss. Seems like you need—”

  Clank! The glass flew against the wall and shattered. “Shut up, idiot!”

  Muzz growled, baring his sharpened broken fang. “Don’t pin this on me.”

  “It would’ve gone clean if Nesk hadn’t snapped and stopped chasing the girl.” He spat the name. “You know he’s got a loose screw in that skull of his. Umbrafel or not—he’s discarded stock.”

  Krann snorted but did not argue. “A shame,” he muttered. “A beast like him with no leash.”

  But Krann was not merely brutal. He was old. Experienced.

  And deep beneath instincts older than reason—his feral blood whispered.

  A warning.

  His body suddenly went still. His remaining ear twitched once. His claws slowly unsheathed beneath the table.

  Danger.

  It was near. It was real. It was already in the room.

  Muzz, slower to sense it, felt the shift seconds later. He looked at Krann—and saw the old tom frozen, eyes narrowed, breathing thinning. The fur along Muzz’s neck rose.

  “Boss…” he murmured low.

  Krann did not turn. His jaw tightened.

  “I know.”