Oswald kept his head low as he moved, his boots barely making a sound. Every few steps, he glanced over his shoulder to check for movement. He wasn’t dumb enough to think the Black Hounds had forgotten about him.

  He slipped between several buildings, weaving through the maze of backstreets with practiced ease. Most people in these parts didn’t look twice at someone keeping to themselves, but Oswald still stayed cautious, making sure to avoid open spaces as much as possible.

  After what felt like an eternity, he reached the alley he was looking for. It was a narrow gap wedged between two half-collapsed buildings, filled with stacks of old crates and barrels. The smell of damp wood and stagnant water lingered here, masking anything sharper.

  Oswald crouched down, brushing against the damp, splintered wood of an overturned crate. His stash was around here, it had to be.

  He moved carefully, peeling back a rotting cloth covering one of the barrels. His pulse quickened as he reached inside, sifting through cold, damp straw. For a second, doubt gnawed at him. But then, his hand closed around familiar shapes, coarse fabric pouches, tied shut with simple twine. Gotcha.

  Oswald pulled the pouches free, brushing away the bits of straw clinging to them. They were just as he remembered. With a quick tug, he loosened the ties and peered inside. He saw the dull glint of copper coins, stacked unevenly against each other.

  He poured a few into his palm and did a rough count. Fifteen in one. Fifteen in the other. Thirty copper in total. Not bad, but not enough.

  He clicked his tongue, stuffing the coins back into their pouches. The last time he’d checked, the adventurer’s guild charged fifty copper, or around five silver just for registration. That was years ago, but places like that didn’t lower their prices. Even in the best case, I'd still be twenty copper short. Ain’t much, it's a start.

  Oswald pulled a length of frayed rope from a nearby pile and threaded it through the loops of the pouches. With a firm knot, he secured them to his belt, making sure they wouldn’t jostle too much when he moved.

  With the coins settled, he turned his attention to his gear. His boots were worn but solid, the reinforced stitching holding despite the scuffs and dried mud. His tunic and trousers were patched in places, but they still fit well enough. And his faded cloak did its job of keeping him concealed.

  Then, his hand moved to his hip, around the hilt of his shortsword. He pulled it free, the metal whispering against the sheath. Running his thumb carefully along its side, he felt the familiar bite of sharpness. Set me back quite a bit, but worth every damn coin.

  The shortsword was far from anything special. But having it at his side had always been enough to help him sleep a little easier.

  He slid the sword back into its sheath, tightening the strap on his belt. Anyway, first thing’s first, getting to the city proper. I’ll find some odd jobs, pick up whatever work I can. Won’t take long to scrounge up what I need.

  Oswald moved toward the alley’s exit, pressing his back against the cold stone of the nearest wall. He leaned out slightly, scanning the narrow street ahead. If the Black Hounds are still hunting me, they’ll split up to cover more ground.

  He exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. Can’t stay put. They wouldn’t have given up so quickly, but I can’t waste time waiting for them to show up either.

  Keeping low, Oswald slipped out of the alley, sticking close to the buildings. Every few steps, he glanced over his shoulder, checking the rooftops and the street ahead for movement. His heartbeat remained steady, but tension coiled in his chest like a drawn bowstring.

  At every corner, he stopped and listened. So far, there was nothing out of place.

  Once he was satisfied no one was following, he looked up and surveyed his surroundings. The buildings here were taller than the ones deeper in the slums. Most looked like they had once been homes or workshops, now hollowed out and abandoned.

  Oswald eyed the closest building, a three-story structure with its roof partially caved in. A rickety wooden ladder clung to its side. That ladder should be sturdy enough to hold me… I think.

  He darted across the alley and gripped the ladder, climbing quickly but carefully, testing each rung before putting his full weight on it. The wood groaned under him, a sound that sent a jolt of adrenaline through his veins, but he pressed on.

  Reaching the first landing, he paused, his back pressed against the wall. He scanned the ground below, his breath steady despite the tension coiling in his chest. Still clear.

  He continued upward, his muscles burning as he hauled himself onto the roof. The shingles were loose, a few sliding under his weight as he moved cautiously across the surface.

  From here, Oswald could see the chaotic sprawl in all its miserable glory. Narrow alleys twisted like veins through clusters of dilapidated buildings. But further out, the buildings grew taller, more orderly, marking the edge of the slums where the rest of the city began. There it is.

  Carefully, he made his way back across the roof, crouching low to avoid catching the attention of anyone below. As he dropped to the ground, he pressed himself against the wall, checking the alley for any signs of life.

  The street stretched out in shadows, empty except for discarded trash and broken crates. Good. still no one here.

  After nearly an hour of weaving through the labyrinthine streets of the slums, Oswald stopped at the edge of a shadowed corner. Pressing his back against the cracked and grime-streaked wall, he leaned out just enough to peer into the open space ahead. The bridge! Just a bit more, and I’m free.

  To say the bridge was in bad condition would be an understatement. It was little more than a rickety stretch of rotting wood barely holding together.

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  Most of its planks were warped and slick with moss, some so decayed they looked ready to snap under the slightest weight. Gaps had been patched with whatever scraps of wood people could scavenge. Rusted nails jutted out at odd angles, doing little to hold the structure together. Below, stagnant water festered, thick with filth and an oily sheen that smelled as bad as it looked.

  Oswald stepped into the open, hovering a hand near the hilt of his sword. I'm close, but can't afford to get careless here.

  For a few moments, Oswald was in the clear. But when he made it halfway across the bridge, a harsh voice shattered the quiet.

  “Well, well, well! If it ain’t Black Eye himself!”

  Oswald froze. His breath hitched as his hand flew instinctively to his sword hilt, gripping it tight enough that the leather bit into his palm. He turned toward the voice, his heart hammering in his chest. A figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the bridge. Jorven.

  The man’s greasy, thinning hair clung in damp strands to his pockmarked forehead, and his yellowed teeth flashed as he swaggered forward.“Thought you could sneak outta here, did ya? Don’t think I didn’t notice you skulkin’ about."

  Oswald’s grip tightened on his sword. He forced his voice to remain steady, low, and sharp. “Can't say I'm happy to see you."

  Jorven chuckled. “You didn’t think I’d let you off that easy, did ya? Not after the mess you made.” He gestured behind him, and several thugs armed with makeshift weapons stepped into view. One held a rusted machete, another had a club wrapped in nails, and the rest clutched a variety of makeshift implements.

  Oswald’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword as more figures slipped out from the shadows behind him. A cold weight settled in his chest when he saw them fan out, cutting off his escape. Damn it, I'm surrounded.

  The thugs advanced slowly, the one clutching a crowbar flexed his fingers around the metal as if savoring the thought of the next blow, while another, brandishing a jagged shard of glass, grinned like a wolf baring its teeth. There was no mistaking the hunger in his eyes, and Oswald knew very well what would happen to him if he was caught.

  Jorven sauntered forward next. "Ya really thought ya could just piss off after makin’ a fool outta me? Nah, don’t work like that. Nobody pulls a stunt like that an’ walks away, and 'specially not a filthy little street rat like you.”

  Oswald’s gaze darted between the thugs, his mind working in overdrive. The bridge. The spacing. The angle of their approach. He had to find a gap, some misstep in their movements.

  His pulse pounded in his ears like a drumbeat, but his face remained impassive. Gotta find a way out somehow.

  “What’s the matter, Black Eye? Gonna beg for mercy?” Jorven asked, chuckling eagerly.

  "Go on, then," Jorven sneered, throwing his arms wide like he was putting on a twisted show. "Any last words? Somethin’ special before my boys carve ya up?"

  Oswald stayed silent as he stared Jorven down. His fingers brushed the edge of his eyepatch, almost reflexively. The thought whispered through his mind like a shadow: Take it off.

  The memory of the last time he’d unleashed that power surged to the surface. He’d been unstoppable.

  Yet, Oswald had no desire to lose control of himself so soon. Besides, he still hadn't forgotten the side effects of when he used his right eye the last time.

  With that, Oswald forced his hand away from the eyepatch. Just gonna have to do this on my own.

  Jorven’s grin faltered slightly at Oswald’s silence, irritation flashing across his face. He snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing across the bridge. “Boys, get him!”

  The thugs pressed in, their footsteps reverberating against the stone bridge like a drumbeat heralding violence. Oswald drew a steadying breath, his focus sharpening as his chest rose and fell in measured rhythm. Stay calm. Think.

  The first thug barreled forward, the machete swinging in a wild, deadly arc. Oswald shifted his weight, twisting his body as the weapon smashed into the wooden planks of the bridge.

  The impact sent a jarring crack through the air, splinters flying like shrapnel. The whole structure groaned beneath the force. But before the thug could recover, Oswald spun sharply, driving the hilt of his sword into the man’s stomach. The blow landed with a deep, satisfying thud, and the thug staggered backward, doubling over as a strangled wheeze escaped his lips.

  The bridge swayed beneath Oswald’s feet, the old ropes creaking ominously in protest. His eyes darted left, catching the movement of another attacker rushing in with a nail-studded club. The weapon whistled through the air, missing his head by inches.

  Oswald ducked low and drove his boot into the thug’s knee. A sickening snap echoed in the air, followed by the man’s guttural howl. He swayed dangerously near the edge of the bridge, arms pinwheeling as he fought for balance.

  The rotten wood beneath him splintered with a groan, offering no mercy. His scream cut through the night before it was abruptly silenced by a wet splash as he hit the sewage water below.

  Oswald sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes flicked across the narrow wooden bridge, every step from the advancing thugs making the rotting planks groan beneath their weight. Holdin’ ‘em off here ain’t gonna last. If I stay too long on this bridge, they’ll swarm me in no time.

  A glint of movement tore his attention to the left. Another thug charged, clutching a shard of glass that caught the moonlight like a jagged tooth. The man lunged, stabbing downward with reckless force.

  In response, Oswald sidestepped, pivoting smoothly on the balls of his feet. His blade flashed as he slashed downward, slicing the crude weapon cleanly in two. The shattered glass rained onto the planks as the thug stumbled, disoriented, clutching his now-empty hand.

  Oswald's boot shot out, kicking the thug square in the chest. The man staggered back, colliding with another behind him. Both toppled sideways, their combined weight breaking a rotted section of the bridge. They plummeted through the gap, their screams mingling as the filthy water swallowed them whole.

  The bridge trembled beneath Oswald’s feet, the tension in the ropes straining against the chaos. Yet, Jorven’s enraged voice cut through the air like a whip. “Get him, you useless idiots!”

  Oswald's gaze darted to the opposite end of the bridge, his salvation. But between him and escape stood three more thugs. They’ll block me if I go straight through. I need to create an opening.

  The thug closest to him lunged with a broken pipe, the jagged edge streaked with grime. Oswald sidestepped once more and drove his blade into the man’s thigh.

  Immediately, the thug collapsed with a scream, clutching his wound. Another came at him, swinging a makeshift club in a clumsy arc. Oswald ducked low, letting the club pass harmlessly over his head, before surging upward to slam his shoulder into the thug’s chest. The impact sent the man reeling backward into the third attacker, the two crashing into the side railing with a splintering crack.

  The wooden barrier gave way, and both men tumbled over the edge. But their screams were drowned by the roar of the water below.

  Oswald’s chest burned as he bolted toward the far end of the bridge. His legs pumped furiously, each step rattling the fragile planks beneath him. The entire structure groaned, swaying under the strain, but he didn’t slow. Behind him, Jorven’s curses rang out, followed by the thundering footsteps of those still in pursuit.

  This is it! Oswald thought as he made a mad dash for the edge of the bridge.