Chapter 9: Chapter 9

A sound like bone against wood. The braggart’s drink, slammed down, deliberate, a challenge weighted in glass and alcohol. His voice dropped to a slur, too slow, too thick. The kind of quiet that meant the only question was how badly he wanted to hurt something.

"Say that again."

Imp spread his hands too fast, too wide. An open gesture, a peace offering, but panic sat behind it.

"I’m just sayin’, odds that bad seldom happen on their own."

His gaze flicked toward Azariah. A fraction of a second. Looking for help. Expecting it.

Azariah just raised his glass.

The first hit came fast.

A fist, heavy as a hammer, slammed into Imp’s jaw. The sound was a crack, wet and final. His body twisted with it, legs flailing, arms grasping at nothing. His chair tipped, dice scattering across the wood like teeth spilled from a broken jaw.

Imp folded.

Like bad cards in a losing hand. Like dice slipping off the table.

The tavern didn’t go silent, but it shifted. Conversations dipped into whispers. The fight stayed background, until it mattered.

Until someone didn’t get back up.

Azariah held steady. Just watched.

Imp groaned, rolling onto his side, grinning like a man who still thought he was alive.

"That all you got?" he muttered, spitting a thick glob of red onto the stone floor.

Azariah let the silence stretch too long, a noose tightening by inches.

He sighed, finishing his drink with an air of finality.

"See?" His voice stayed low. Easy. Almost amused.

"Desperate."

The barfly lifted a brow, studying him.

"And if I wanted to know what you’re really listening for?"

His smirk came slow. Knowing. A gambler showing a losing hand, on purpose.

"Then you’d have to try harder than that, sweetheart."

He tipped his drink in a half-toast before pushing off the bar, leaving her watching him go.

She smirked. Something sharp. Something calculating.

"And what’s your plan?"

Azariah set his cup down, finally turning toward the fight.

"Interfere." His gaze flicked toward the brewing chaos. "Gently."

Then, he moved.

Leather creaked as he pushed off the bar, the coat settling against him, the weight shifting like a beast settling in its skin. His boots hit the wood with quiet certainty, no rush, no wasted step. Across the room, the braggart barely looked up, but something changed.

Imp gasped, clawing at the thick forearm pinning him down. The tavern kept talking. The barkeep stared, unblinking. The world kept moving through violence like this; it always does.

By the time Azariah reached them, the fight was already one-sided.

Imp was losing.

The braggart had him by the collar, pressing him against the table, teeth bared, fist still cocked.

Azariah let the air shift first.

The braggart tensed, less at Azariah than at the change in the room.

Then, and only then, he moved.

One step. Easy. Slow.

No threats. No orders. Just presence.

His fingers brushed the attacker’s wrist before closing around it. Casual. Effortless. Like testing the weight of a blade. Neither tight nor squeezing, just pressure.

Measured. Exact.

A quiet warning in the way tendons tensed beneath his fingers, how the braggart’s pulse stuttered, a subconscious betrayal beyond words.

This was control. This was precision.

A man who knew exactly how hard to press before things broke, and how long to let them suffer first.

Enough to let him feel it.

The bigger man stiffened.

Azariah tilted his head, slightly. A silent question: Is this worth it?

For a second, the braggart held on. He did not release immediately. His breath hitched, nostrils flaring. He squared his shoulders, like he might still push it, like he wanted to be sure.

Then he felt it.

No force. Only certainty.

Azariah’s fingers remained calm; they needed no show.

His touch said he had done this before. Said he could press down a little harder, and things would go bad.

The braggart’s jaw tensed. He felt no fear. But he was thinking.

His fingers curled, knuckles twitching, one last impulse to fight.

Azariah tilted his head. Just slightly.

A quiet invitation.

The braggart exhaled sharply, releasing Imp with a grunt.

He stepped back. Flexed his fingers. Muttered something about drunks who should know better.

He felt no fear.

But he knew when a fight offered nothing.

Azariah’s fingers uncoiled from the braggart’s wrist like a slow exhale.

The fight was over.

It ended without him; starting had never been necessary.

He turned back toward the barfly, already reaching for his drink.

"Told you."

His smirk held more than self-satisfaction.

It was inevitability.

He lifted his glass, flicking her a glance over the rim.

"You should’ve been listening sooner, sweetheart."

He tipped his drink back.

"Might’ve learned something worth knowing."

She swirled her own drink. Let the silence hang.

Then, lazily, she lifted an eyebrow.

"And if I’m not much for listening?"

Azariah drained his glass without looking at her.

"Then you’d best be good at guessing."

The barfly huffed a laugh.

Too slow. Too measured.

She rolled her glass between her fingers, like she suddenly needed something to do with her hands.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

Imp coughed, still grinning, but his eyes darted now, quick, searching, finding no exit.

His gaze caught on the door for a fraction too long before he forced it away. His fingers drummed against his cup, a quick, stuttering rhythm that faltered, then started up again.

Imp groaned, rolling onto his side, blinking through the haze. Then he stilled, just for a second. His gaze flicked to Azariah’s forearm, where the candlelight traced the old ink curling up from beneath his sleeve. A mark from before the Syndicos. From before the Hollows belonged to them.

He exhaled sharply, tongue darting over his split lip.

"Funny. Thought your kind were all ghosts now."

Imp huffed out something like a laugh, licking the blood from his teeth.

His eyes flicked to the ink again, the old sigils woven through Azariah’s skin like echoes of another world.

"Guess not."

Azariah slid into the chair across from him, slow, unbothered. The wood stuck to his gloves. He clicked his tongue softly, tilting his head.

He flexed his fingers, stretching the ink along his knuckles—worn, faded, but still there.

“Talking too much.”

Smooth. Casual. That slow, lazy pull in his voice that made it hard to tell if it was amusement or a warning.

Imp’s grin twitched, but he forced it to stay in place. His fingers tapped—too quick, erratic, like a man trying to keep up with a song he didn’t know.

“You act like words are the problem.”

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Azariah hummed. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just a sound.

“Depends on who’s listening.”

He leaned back, loose, easy. Like he had all the time in the world.

Imp exhaled through his nose, tapping the rim of his cup. A small gesture. Too small. A man pretending he wasn’t nervous.

“Yeah? Well, I figure a man like you ain’t listenin’ for the sake of it.”

Azariah let the words settle, then exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose. He smirked—sharp, knowing.

“Maybe.” A small shrug. “Maybe I just like hearing stories.”

Imp scoffed, but it sounded thin, forced.

“That so?”

Azariah lifted his drink. Slow. Deliberate. Took a sip. Held the silence just a little too long.

Then, he set the glass down with a soft, deliberate tap of glass against wood.

“Heard a good one recently.”

His tone stayed light. Too light. A man discussing the weather.

Nothing alarming. Nothing threatening.

“About a job in the Hollows. Fire. Blood. A real mess.”

His gaze stayed easy, but there was something beneath it. Watching. Measuring.

“Word is, someone got sloppy.”

He leaned back slightly, one foot shifting beneath the table—not casual, not tense, just enough to mark the rhythm of something unspoken. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, weightless but wrong, like a mask settling into place.

“But me? I don’t buy it.”

Imp’s fingers stilled. His breath hitched—barely. Just enough.

He blinked, then forced another lazy grin. But it sat wrong on his face now.

“Bad luck, that. Fires happen.”

Azariah hummed again. Soft. Disbelieving.

“Bad luck’s a funny thing.”

Let the words breathe. Let them settle. Let Imp feel them.

“Some men have too much of it. Almost like it follows ‘em.”

Imp’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

A long second passed.

Azariah leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table—casual, but deliberate. A cat settling onto its paws, watching the mouse twitch.

“You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Imp’s jaw worked. His fingers resumed drumming. Faster now.

“Nah.” The pause came a breath too long. A fraction too uncertain. “Can’t say I do. Sounds like a ghost story.”

Azariah clicked his tongue softly. Tilted his head.

“That’s a shame.”

He sighed, shaking his head. Mild disappointment. Nothing more.

“See, I figured a man crazy enough to cross Mael the Viper?”

The name landed like an iron weight. A fist, pressing down, just enough to see what squirmed.

“Well… that’s a man worth meeting.”

Imp’s laugh came too quick. Too sharp. A man trying to pretend he wasn’t choking on his own nerves.

“Yeah? You and half the damn city.”

Azariah arched a brow. Watched the way Imp’s fingers curled slightly inward—not much. But enough.

“That so?”

Imp shrugged. Suddenly too focused on his drink.

“Dunno. If he ever was here, bet he’s long gone by now.”

Azariah let the pause stretch.

Watched the way Imp shrank just a little—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Azariah to know.

“You sound sure.”

Imp hesitated.

Just a breath too long.

“Haven’t seen ‘im. Haven’t heard nothin’.”

Azariah exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose. He smirked—thin, razor-edged. The kind that made men wonder if they’d already lost.

“Funny thing about ghosts.”

Imp’s fingers stopped tapping again.

Azariah’s voice dropped lower, thoughtful.

“They don’t stay dead when men like Mael the Viper are looking for them.”

Imp swallowed.

That hit something.

Azariah didn’t press.

Not yet.

The trick was patience.

Men like Imp filled silence out of discomfort.

It didn’t take long.

“He ain’t running.”

Azariah didn’t react. Didn’t shift. Just waited.

“Had the chance. Didn’t take it.”

Azariah rolled his shoulders. Easy. Curious. Like it didn’t matter much to him.

“Why?”

Imp hesitated. His grin faded—hollow now.

“Maybe he’s waiting.”

A slow inhale. A slow exhale.

“Maybe he don’t see a point.”

A crack of thunder rattled the windows. The candlelight shuddered, shrinking back as if the room itself had gone still.

Imp swallowed, his gaze flicking to the darkened corners. Watching. Listening.

"What aren’t you saying?"

A fracture of silence. Just one. Not hesitation—calculation. A flicker behind his eyes. Fear. Not of Azariah, but of something heavier. Something pressing down on both of them.

Imp exhaled—too sharp, too forced, like he’d just realized he’d been holding his breath.

"The botched job—" He stopped. Jaw clenched.

Then, as if trying to brush it away, he flicked his hand, forcing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

"You know. Bad luck."

Azariah said nothing. Didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just watched.

Imp swallowed again. Wet his lips. His fingers twitched against his glass. The next words felt like a gamble.

"It wasn’t just a mistake."

His fingers curled slightly, as if he could grasp the words and shove them back into his mouth. As if he hadn’t meant to say them at all.

"Someone wanted him to fail."

The weight of it settled. Azariah let it sit between them, let Imp feel the silence choke him.

Then, he leaned back. Slowly. Measured.

"And Mael?"

Wrong name.

The air shifted. Not much. But enough.

A conversation near the bar stalled. A chair tilted forward slightly, as if someone had gone still mid-lean.

The bartender’s hand—mid-pour—froze. The ale overflowed, just barely, before he set the mug down.

Imp didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His fingers—tapping, twitching—stilled against the table’s surface.

When he spoke, his voice was low. Tight.

"You don’t get it."

His grip on his drink tightened. Knuckles pale. Tendons pulled taut beneath the skin.

"It ain’t about him."

Azariah understood before the words finished leaving Imp’s mouth.

His smirk didn’t return.

He stood, unhurried. Deliberate.

One hand dipped into his pocket. He pulled out a single coin, let it sit between his fingers.

He didn’t slide it forward immediately. He tapped it against the wood first. Once. Sharp. Deliberate.

The sound cut through the hush. Imp’s fingers twitched against the rim of his cup, breath coming a little too sharp, too shallow. The metal felt cool against Azariah’s fingertips, steady, absolute. A gambler’s gesture.

Then, finally, he pushed it forward.

Imp didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared.

"If you see him," Azariah murmured, tone even, absolute, "tell him I’ve got work for him."

The warmth of the tavern was suffocating. It pressed against his back like a hand against his spine. He pushed the door open and stepped forward, the door swinging shut behind him with the finality of a dying breath. The city pressed in around him. Streets slick with rain, the hush of distant voices swallowed by the storm. The warmth of the tavern was already a memory—nothing but a dull imprint against his spine, already fading beneath the weight of cold and silence.

Lightning split the sky. For a breath, in the jagged burst of white—he saw it. tone glistening, water pooling, shadows stretching long and thin.

And in the center of it, a silhouette. Unmoving. Watching.

Broad-shouldered, worn, wrapped in the kind of stillness that didn’t belong to the living.

Azariah’s pulse did not quicken. He did not tense.

But he waited.

The brief burst of light cut through the dark, carving sharp hollows into his cheekbones, catching in the short-cropped curls dusted with rain. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes, deepening the quiet weight behind them. He blinked once, slow—a deliberate thing, unreadable. The lines of his face gave nothing away. Not unease. Not interest.

The wind rattled the door on its hinges. The rain thickened.

Another flash, and it was gone. Only empty space.

Azariah stepped into the street. The cold hit hard, sharp, like a blade pressed against bare skin. His coat shifted with his steps, the damp leather creaking at the seams, clinging like a second skin. Beneath it, the reinforced vest hugged his torso, the weight of it familiar, constant, inevitable. Warmth still pulsed along the fabric, the magic in the stitched runes fading slow, embers cooling but not yet dead.

The city stretched out before him—glistening, slick with torchlight, empty of faces but not of ghosts. The air reeked of wet stone, gutter smoke, and old blood.

He moved without hurry, boots clipping against the cobblestones in a rhythm too even to be careless.

The alley where the figure had stood loomed ahead, but silence meant nothing. He knew better.

Someone was still there. Watching. Waiting.

Kristos hadn’t just failed.

He had been meant to fail.

And that changed everything.

Lightning carved the sky. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, Mael the Viper was watching.

Not just waiting.

Closing in.

Azariah exhaled, shaking off the thought.

He had a ghost to find.