Chapter 16: Chapter 16

The industrial docks of Ebonhelm were a graveyard for the forgotten, but the dead here never rested.

It stank, not just of sweat and refuse, but of industry gone to rot. Brine and rust clung to everything, mingling with the acrid tang of aether discharge and the metallic bite of old blood, the kind that had lingered too long, sinking into the stone, staining it beyond repair. The runoff from the factories and shipyards pooled in uneven gutters, oily and dark, reflecting the guttering streetlamps in warped, broken shapes.

The stone beneath Kristos’ boots was tacky, clinging, half-dried gore, seeping into the cracks like an accusation. It had been here long enough to become part of the street itself. Someone had died here. Maybe more than once.

Overhead, the lamps stuttered, their glow sickly, erratic. Some ran on old aether lines, their enchantments failing, pulsing unevenly, struggling to cling to existence like a dying breath. Others were gas-fed, their mantles flickering orange, casting shadows that stretched too long, twisting unnaturally against the grime-streaked walls.

The grime itself was more than dirt. Soot from the furnaces, residue from failed alchemical processes, streaks of rust where pipes leaked more than water. The walls bore scars of past violence: dark stains spattered like inkblots beneath scratched warnings carved into brick. Some were messages. Some were names. Some were prayers that had never been answered.

Beyond the alley, the distant groan of rusted cranes and the hollow clang of shifting metal echoed from the docks, swallowed immediately by the thick, oppressive silence of those who knew better than to listen.

Here, nothing was truly abandoned.

Not even the things that should have been.

Kristos stood in the half-dark, wrecked. His coat hung off him like old skin, torn and sodden with sweat, blood, his, theirs, it didn’t matter anymore. His ribs ached, the dull, swelling kind of pain that meant something inside had cracked. His breath rattled, wet at the edges. His knuckles burned, split wide, raw to the bone.

The weight of clotted blood clung to his tongue, thick, metallic. It made him want to spit, to swallow, to choke.

Imp’s blood.

Imp’s face.

Imp’s skull, collapsing in against the stone.

His fingers twitched. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. Wanted to kill something, but everything worth killing was already dead.

And then there was him.

Azariah leaned against a rusted railing, arms folded, untouched by the filth and violence clinging to the alleyway. Unmarked and spotless. He looked like a man watching the tide roll in, already knowing how it would end.

Stillness. Control. An inevitability in human form.

His unreadable gaze flicked over Kristos like he was weighing him against something else, something unseen. Not measuring injuries. Not concern. Just calculation.

He had been waiting.

Kristos’ breath came ragged, uneven. His ribs screamed when he tried to straighten. The alley was too tight, too close. He clenched his teeth, blood pooling at his gums. His body screamed to lash out, at Azariah, at Mael, at anything still breathing.

Instead, he spat. His cracked lips split wider, dried blood flaking against his already raw skin. The spit landed dark against the filth, swallowed by the alley like it belonged there.

He stared up, unblinking, as if trying to force the blur into focus. Muscles tensed for a strike that wouldn’t come. Silence tightened around the edges of him, pressing against the ringing in his ears.

His voice came out raw.

“You.” His jaw flexed, as if the next words scraped their way out. “Who the fuck are you?”

Azariah paused before answering. He just breathed in, slow and measured, like he had all the time in the world. Then, with the faintest twitch of amusement,

“The man who just saved your life.”

He shifted his weight slightly, casting a look over his shoulder, not quite at Kristos, not quite away. A glance meant to sting without effort.

“Try to keep up.”

Kristos nearly laughed. Instead, he moved. A shove. Hard. Or it should have been.

His muscles betrayed him, too drained, too stiff, too wrecked. The force barely made Azariah shift.

Azariah just watched.

Kristos’ breath turned sharp. His pulse hammered off rhythm, uneven. Neither fear nor rage, something worse.

His fingers twitched. "We need to deal with Mael."

Azariah kept walking without looking back. "No, we don’t."

Kristos felt his body lock up. "You’re out of your mind if you think he’s just going to stop."

Azariah let out a slow breath, not a sigh. A disappointment. "He doesn’t have a choice."

Kristos’ voice came sharper this time, edged with something raw. “He’s not finished yet.”

Azariah barely breathed, just the smallest shift of air, inevitable, expected. His head tilted slightly, amusement flickering at the edges. “If you really think that, you’re dumber than I gave you credit for.”

Kristos bristled, but said nothing. The words stuck, whether he wanted them to or not. Azariah was already looking ahead; Kristos was still fighting ghosts.

His fists clenched. “You don’t get it. This doesn’t just end. He’s been hunting me for years. He’s not going to stop.”

Azariah turned his head, studying him, gaze sharp and unreadable. Then, simply:

“No. He’s not.”

He let the words hang, his expression unchanged, as if the rest required no saying. But it was. And it was worse.

“Because the Syndicos will stop him first.”

Kristos stiffened. His pulse slammed against his ribs.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The words barely left his mouth before he pushed forward, closing the space between them.

“You saw what he did.” His voice was raw, frayed at the edges. “You saw what he’s willing to do.”

Azariah finally met his eyes.

“I did.” His tone didn’t shift, didn’t waver. “And I also saw what he wasn’t willing to do.”

Kristos’ breath hitched. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Azariah didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. His voice was steady, absolute.

“It means he was alone.”

Kristos swallowed hard, his throat working against the weight settling in his chest.

“So what?”

"The Syndicos don’t do theatrics." Azariah’s voice was casual, like he was stating a fact. "If he still had their favor, you’d already be dead."

He gestured lazily toward the alley, where the blood hadn’t dried yet.

"If they wanted you gone, you wouldn’t still be standing. And if they were backing him, he wouldn’t be the one cleaning up."

Kristos’ jaw tightened. The pounding in his skull only got worse.

“That’s bullshit.”

Azariah gestured again toward the alley, the blood, the bodies, the fight Kristos was still trying to convince himself wasn’t already lost.

"Where were his men?" Azariah’s voice was almost bored. "Where was the backup? The resources? The reinforcements?"

Kristos hated how fast his pulse was beating.

Azariah shook his head slightly.

"Think, Fortier. He’s been cutting through this city like a man with nothing to lose. Like a man trying to prove something."

Kristos clenched his teeth.

"He’s proving he won’t stop."

Azariah adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, a quiet breath slipping through his nose.

"He’s proving he’s desperate."

Kristos froze. Kristos' mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t know what to say.

Azariah tilted his head slightly, watching him falter. “He’s finished. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Kristos’ breath came sharp.

“Then why didn’t you kill him? Why the hell did you let him walk away?”

Azariah watched him, unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, unaffected.

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“Not my job.”

Kristos let out a bitter breath.

“Fuck you. Imp’s dead, and you—”

“Imp was dead the moment he opened his mouth.”

Kristos stopped short. The words landed like a blade to the gut.

Azariah spoke plainly, not cruelly. "Killing Mael wasn’t an option. Not yet." Azariah barely shrugged.

“And I don’t care to put a Syndicos boss on my record.”

Kristos’ pulse slammed against his ribs.

“So you did nothing.”

Azariah held still. He let the words settle between them.

“You’re breathing. That’s all that matters.”

“But you let him die.” The words rasped out, raw and jagged. “You were watching, weren’t you?”

Azariah blinked, slow and measured.

“Would you rather I let you die next to him?”

The air tightened. No birds. No breeze. Just the echo of blood still drying on stone.

Azariah’s gaze didn’t waver. He studied Kristos carefully, like he was cataloging every flicker of emotion before speaking again.

“Or would you rather I let Mael finish the job?”

Kristos’ breath caught in his throat.

“Why the hell were you even there?” His voice cracked, hoarse at the edges.

“You were watching. The whole time. You saw him die. You let it happen.”

Azariah’s expression stayed the same.

“I saw you about to die, too. And I stopped that from happening.”

He let the words hang, precise, deliberate. The silence that followed wasn’t mercy. It was a scalpel pressed flat against the skin, not cutting, just waiting.

“You’re welcome.”

Kristos’ jaw clenched. His pulse was a riot in his ears.

"Imp said someone offered him a job." His voice was shaking now, from exhaustion, from rage. "He didn’t tell me who, just that it was good money. That it was safe."

Azariah adjusted the rifle slung across his shoulder, his voice as flat as his expression. "It wasn’t."

Kristos felt like his ribs were caving in.

"That was you, wasn’t it?" His fists curled. "You set him up."

Azariah’s head tilted just slightly. "I passed the job through him. It was never his. He was never the job. You were."

Kristos' breath hitched. "You were using him to get to me?"

Azariah didn't confirm it. He didn't need to.

Kristos’ pulse hammered. His head spun. Imp hadn’t even known what the job was. Kristos hadn’t let him finish explaining before Mael put a bullet in his skull.

He swallowed. "What was it? What was the job?"

Azariah adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders. "You’ll find out soon enough."

Kristos nearly lunged at him again. "That’s not an answer."

Azariah’s voice remained even. "It’s the only one you’re getting."

Kristos felt something crack in his ribs as he breathed too hard.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Azariah just looked at him. The same measured gaze. The same unreadable calm.

"It means you can keep wasting time fighting me, or you can start listening."

Kristos shook his head, trying to get air past the knot in his throat.

"You set me up. You fed Imp some lie about a job to get me here."

Azariah sighed.

"No. I found you. The rest is just logistics."

Kristos couldn’t breathe. This was wrong. This didn’t make sense.

He clenched his teeth, voice raw.

"Then why didn’t you kill Mael?"

Azariah finally blinked. A fraction of a hesitation. Then:

"Because I didn’t need to."

Kristos' stomach turned.

Kristos flinched, the words hitting a nerve; that wasn’t an answer. His throat worked as he swallowed the sour taste rising in his mouth.

"You really believe that?"

Azariah gestured towards the carnage that had been left behind. The blood, the broken bodies, the proof of a fight already lost.

"I do. And you will soon enough."

Kristos’ stomach turned. That wasn’t an answer.

Azariah adjusted the strap of his rifle. "Mael’s finished. He just doesn’t know it yet."

Kristos flinched, his shoulders stiffening, breath stuttering just once before he forced it steady. The words hit something raw. His throat worked as he swallowed the sour taste rising in his mouth. "You really believe that?"

Kristos clenched his fists, bloodied knuckles aching. His body screamed at him to fight, but he had nothing left to give.

"I don’t want your job."

Azariah blinked once. "It's not exactly the kind of offer you refuse."

Kristos breathed hard through his nose. "I’m not going with you."

Azariah sighed through his nose, tilting his head slightly, like he was humoring a child. "You don’t have to want to."

Kristos’ vision blurred. His pulse pounded. The words dug into his skull, pressing in on the parts of him that were already too raw.

He wasn’t being asked. He was being told.

His mouth curled into something close to a snarl. "So what? You gonna drag me?"

Azariah adjusted the strap of his rifle. "No need."

Kristos let out a sharp, bitter breath. "You that confident?"

Azariah let out a sound, something between amusement and exhaustion. "No. Just patient. You’ll follow. You already are."

Kristos stares at him, breathing hard, hands twitching. He wants to argue. Wants to fight. But Azariah is already moving past it.

Kristos stood there, staring at the blood, at the bodies, at nothing.

His teeth clenched. His whole body was telling him to keep fighting.

But something in him, some small, wretched part, knew Azariah was right.

This wasn’t his fight anymore.

It never was.

Azariah’s voice was steady, measured. “Let’s make this simple.” His gaze flicked toward the distant alley, where the bodies still lay in the blood-soaked filth, then back to Kristos. “You can sit here, licking your wounds, waiting for Mael to come finish what he started,” he gestured vaguely toward the distant carnage, barely acknowledging it, “or you can get up, walk out of here, and do something with whatever’s left of you.”

Silence stretched between them. Not long. Just enough.

Azariah turned away without hurry. “I don’t care which one you pick.” His voice didn’t harden, didn’t shift, just stayed cool, matter-of-fact. “But I’m leaving. And you’re coming with me.”

Kristos clenched his jaw. He wanted to say no. Wanted to spit in his face. Instead, he forced himself to stand. On his own. No help. No hand extended. Just the ugly, undeniable truth, he had nowhere else to go.

Azariah nodded once and turned away.

Kristos followed.

He swallowed against the bile in his throat. "Where the hell are we going?"

Azariah didn’t slow. Didn’t turn. "To regroup."

Kristos' pulse slammed into his ribs. His jaw tightened. "Regroup with who?"

Azariah didn’t answer.

Kristos' fingers twitched. "Who are you?"

Azariah kept walking.

Kristos felt the world shifting under his feet, tilting. Mael was supposed to be the problem. Mael was supposed to be the worst of it.

But now there was this. This man. This job he never wanted. This group he didn’t know.

And none of them were giving him a choice.

"Answer me, damn it!"

Azariah finally slowed. Just a fraction. Just enough to let Kristos think, for a second, that he was about to explain.

He didn’t.

Instead, he kept walking. Calm. Unhurried. Like he already knew Kristos would follow.

And that was the worst part.

Because he was right.

Kristos had nowhere else to go.

He spat onto the bloodied ground, wiped his mouth on his torn sleeve, and glared after him.

"This doesn’t mean I trust you."

Azariah’s lips twitched, the barest hint of amusement beneath it.

"Not my problem."

He let the words linger, just long enough for the silence to turn heavy, for the inevitability to settle like weight behind the ribs.

Then, over his shoulder, casual, careless:

"But if you slow me down, I’ll leave you next time."

Kristos hesitated. Then followed.