The moment the young man stepped into the hall, the air shifted.
Felix had been in the Syndicate long enough to recognize when power changed hands. It wasn't always in whispers, in carefully brokered deals. Sometimes, it came like this—a quiet footstep, a slow smile, a moment before the knife slid in.
The stranger—no, Edmund Ardent, as he had introduced himself—stood in the doorway like he owned the place, shoulders relaxed, hands empty. Too young to be this confident. Too calm to be bluffing.
The Syndicate's ruling table had gone deathly still.
Felix wasn't the only one who noticed the way Varrel tensed, his fingers curling against the polished wood. Ivara, seated beside him, was still as a statue, her gaze narrowed on the newcomer. Tormand Vale, the overeager fool, was the first to break the silence.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he snapped, rising to his feet. "You think you can just waltz in here and—"
Edmund moved.
Fast.
Felix's mind barely had time to process before Edmund had crossed the room in an instant, his foot slamming into Tormand's gut with a force that sent him crashing through the wooden chair behind him. The younger Syndicate member gasped for air, but before he could recover, Edmund drove a knife into his chest.
A wet, strangled sound escaped Tormand's throat. Then, silence.
The entire hall exploded into chaos.
The Massacre Begins
Felix darted back, pressing himself into the shadows as steel was drawn, and the room became a battlefield.
The Syndicate wasn't made up of common thugs. The men and women seated at the table were killers, smugglers, warlords, and tacticians. Some of them had led entire battalions in wars before settling into a more profitable life of crime. They weren't going to sit back and let some unknown upstart butcher them.
But Edmund wasn't normal.
He moved like a phantom, his body shifting in and out of the flickering torchlight, one moment standing on the floor, the next appearing behind a Syndicate enforcer, his knife cutting across the man's throat.
Shadow Shift.
Felix recognized the ability immediately. A movement technique, allowing him to slip from one place to another through the darkness itself.
"Fucking mage!" one of the guards cursed, slashing at Edmund—only to cut through empty air.
Edmund reappeared above him, balancing on the back of a chair. His heel came down like a hammer, crushing the man's skull against the stone floor.
Then, all hell truly broke loose.
Felix pressed himself against a pillar in the back of the room, out of the way of the flying blades. His breath was steady, but his hands were cold. This wasn't a battle. This was an execution.
A Syndicate swordsman lunged, a curved saber flashing in the firelight. Edmund caught the blade mid-swing with a dagger, twisted his wrist, and sent the saber spinning out of the man's grip before stabbing him through the ribs.
Another rushed from behind, swinging a club at Edmund's skull. But the moment the weapon should have connected—Edmund was gone.
He reappeared behind his attacker, driving his knife upward, beneath the jaw, piercing through the roof of the mouth.
A scream. A gurgle. Another body fell.
One of the Syndicate enforcers, a huge brute wielding twin axes, bellowed and charged. "Die, you little shit!"
Edmund didn't move.
He simply smiled.
Just before the axes could cleave into him, his shadow flickered—and suddenly, he wasn't there anymore.
The brute staggered forward, swinging at nothing.
Edmund reappeared behind him, crouched low, his dagger carving a deep line across the back of the man's knee.
The enforcer collapsed with a roar of pain.
Edmund kicked the back of his head against the stone floor, the sickening crunch echoing through the room.
Felix had seen massacres before. Wars, assassinations, entire family lines erased overnight.
But this was something different.
Edmund wasn't just killing them.
He was dismantling them.
Every movement was precise, calculated. Every kill made with efficiency and intent. He didn't waste energy. He didn't fight like a reckless warrior.
He fought like a man who had already won.
The last remaining fighters backed away, panting, weapons trembling in their hands. Blood pooled at their feet, soaking into the fine rug beneath the Syndicate's table.
Varrel and Ivara were already moving toward the door, their personal guards pushing forward, blocking Edmund's approach. Felix saw no hesitation in their retreat. They knew they couldn't win this fight.
Cowards.
No—survivors.
Felix exhaled slowly, his heart pounding as he watched Edmund stand in the center of the carnage, surrounded by bodies.
And then, the young man turned.
His eyes—sharp, gold-flecked—scanned the room, as if searching.
Felix held his breath.
Edmund took a single step toward the back of the room—
Then paused.
For a moment, it was as if he sensed something.
Felix's fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt. He wasn't sure if Edmund had seen him, if he even knew he existed.
But then, just like that, the moment passed.
Edmund's gaze swept away, settling instead on the far doors, where Varrel and Ivara had escaped.
The fight was over.
Felix let out a slow breath.
Then, carefully, silently, he melted deeper into the shadows.
He had seen enough