The city grew darker as we descended.

It wasn't just the afternoon feebly giving way to evening, or the crowding of great cliffs over the slowly shrinking line of open sky above as we travelled further into the bowels of the earth. It was in more subtle and human realities that I noticed the dimming. Torches were less regular, open air was harder to find, the sun-mirrors were fewer in number and smaller in size, and even the people were darker, somehow.

They showed less skin, hoods pulled low and tight, and walked with an urgency that hadn't been present in the higher levels. Eyes were downcast, and they huddled in doorways and buildings rather than thronging the streets in casual groups.

I hurried closer to Jorge as he strode through yet more winding alleyways and down dark, spiralling steps cut directly into stone. I felt the presence of my spear and shield on my back within easy reach and was thankful for the city's strange rule on weapons. Although, when storage devices existed, I suppose it did make sense to display weapons prominently. They could be hiding anywhere, after all, so wearing them openly at least gave warning, if not a guarantee of safety.

By the time we arrived at our destination, I was thoroughly lost, and even more thoroughly intimidated. We'd seen our share of hard men and women, glaring out of shopfronts at us as we passed, and by the sounds and smells and general miasma emanating from them, I had a good idea of what they sold. Nothing good, that much was clear.

We came to a stop outside a nondescript door in an unremarkable building, nestled at the end of an entirely typical alleyway. The only things to stand out were the two enormous men guarding the door. They were anything but nondescript. In fact, it was hard to properly describe them, if I was honest. Tall, broad, with beefy arms criss-crossed with scars and tattoos, as you'd expect. But there was an air of active menace emanating from their beady eyes that made the hair on the back of my neck prick up in anticipation, and the pathbound Skill in my soul thrum with energy.

Jorge noticed and laid a hand on my arm as we approached. "Easy, lad," he muttered under his breath, before stepping up and addressing the two muscle-bound behemoths that glared our way.

"We're here by order of The Sigil," Jorge said calmly.

There was a twitch as one of the bouncers eyed us up and down, and then he banged on the door behind him, hard enough to make the heavy timber rattle in its hinges. I carefully stepped past the baleful glare of the guard to follow Jorge in as the door creaked open, and we were soon moving through a dark room.

I'd expected the air to be filled with heavy smoke and the sound of dangerous men chuckling darkly, perhaps punctuated by a scream or two. Instead, we walked through a number of relatively well-appointed antechambers before reaching a long hallway with doors on either side leading who knew where.

At least two led to kitchens of some kind from the sound of it, and at one point a waiter hurried out of one with a tray of drinks and almost collided with us. Jorge side-stepped with his usual supernatural awareness, and caught the man and the drinks before they could both go flying into the wall. The waiter scurried off with a nervous 'thank you', and Jorge shot me a cheeky grin, as if to say, 'you see that, lad?' in a no doubt infuriatingly smug tone.

Soon after, we were left in a small but comfortable room and told to wait. I sat in one of the armchairs, and then spent the next half an hour fidgeting and fretting until Jorge had had enough.

"Right, that's it!" he said, turning to pin me with a glare. "Sit."

"I am sitting–"

"On the floor. Cross-legged, like a monk."

I sighed and did as he ordered. Lounging in the plush chair had done me no good, and while I doubted that I'd receive a monk's calm acceptance of the world by sitting like one, I was willing to try anything to rid myself of the anxiety caused by all the waiting.

"Breathe. In, hold, out," he said in time with the motion, nodding his head afterwards as I copied the breathing pattern. "Good. Visualise your Skills. Look into your soul and focus on the connections between them. There's no rush, they'll have us waiting for a few more hours, I expect, so just sit tight and at least do something useful, aye?"

I popped open an eye to glare at him before sinking back into that meditative breathing cycle and doing as he suggested. I gained no special insight, achieved no hidden understanding, but by the time someone came for us several hours later, I hadn't burned the place down with the friction of my leg bouncing on the carpet like I had threatened to do earlier, and I did feel a measure of calm.

That calm was whisked away in an instant as we were ushered through another small hallway and out into what could only be described as a large underground amphitheatre. The central dais was filled with people, and they flitted back and forth like songbirds, laughing and twittering away as they socialised. The whole scene looked rather pleasant, honestly.

Until, that is, a sound cut through the room. It was the soft tinkling of metal on glass, but it stilled the constant buzzing of voices in an instant, slicing through the revelry as a knife parts flesh. The people, in their elegant evening attire, drew back from the dais and took their seats, swarming up the stands in a susurrating mass of swishing dresses and quiet whispers.

The scene no longer felt so pleasant, as we waited near one end of the dais, eyes flicking our way from the stands and armed men flanking every exit. A voice echoed out from above, and I looked up to see the speaker.

"Welcome all," the speaker of The Sigil said evenly. Her voice was hoarse and cracked, her features obscured by the gloom. She stood on a balcony overlooking the seating and dais below, and I could just faintly make out the shapes of other men and women seated behind her.

She gave a few customary thanks and welcomes to some of the notable members of the crowd, but it meant little to me. I didn't know the politics of Colchet, legitimate or criminal, and the names washed over me in a tumble of meaningless syllables until the speaker moved on.

"First, The Sigil wishes to give a demonstration to all present." The speaker flourished her hand in our direction, the eyes settling on us, and I noted Jorge stiffen next to me at the words. Before I could ready myself for a desperate last battle though, she continued. "I'm sure you have all heard gruesome tales of our retaliation against those who cross us, but today we wish to demonstrate our mercy."

I exhaled in relief, though it was short-lived as the man behind laid a hand on my shoulder and steered me forwards. We ascended the few scant steps to the dais and then stopped. The speaker, her face still shadowed by gloom and only the outline of her long hair and thin shoulders visible, looked down at me from on high.

"An agent belonging to a company that works for The Sigil was attacked in the street just this morning by this man you see before you."

There were a few mutters from the crowd, but nobody made much noise. Clearly, I wasn't the only one terrified by the situation. I risked a glance at Jorge, and seeing him standing close by helped calm my racing heart. Slightly.

"Normally, such a transgression would prompt a swift response, but circumstance smiles upon him today. He and his companions are new to the city and will be moving along shortly. He also sought us out himself to right this wrong, saving us from chasing him down. He was ignorant of the order of things, and did not know that the man he attacked was working under our orders. Under our protection."

She paused, and I felt the weight of the crowd upon me. I wondered what they saw. A meek, scared man? I hoped so. I wasn't trying for defiance right now. My shoulders were hunched, and I had a slight stoop to my back. I snuck glances at the speaker every now and then but made sure to keep my head lowered respectfully for most of it. I was trying to be the very picture of scared contrition, and it honestly wasn't very difficult considering the situation I found myself in. I still felt my actions had been just, if not wise, but right now I'd be lying if I said I wasn't feeling at least a little sorry. For myself, but still.

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"He has come here to offer apology to those that he wronged, and more importantly, to The Sigil. Speak, boy, and let all hear your voice."

That was all the warning I got, and suddenly I was facing not just the disapproving glares of a few hundred men and women, but their expectations as well. I fumbled for words, all cogent thought falling from my head at the worst moment imaginable. After what felt like several minutes but was probably no more than a second or two, my tumbling thoughts coalesced once more into some semblance of intelligence.

"I am here to offer my apologies," I began, somehow managing to keep the quaver out of my voice. I then thought better of it and added a little in again with my next words. "I didn't know who the man that I attacked worked for. My ignorance is a poor excuse, I know, but I meant no insult to your organisation. I humbly beg your forgiveness, and entrust myself to your mercy."

Silence followed my apology. After a few seconds without response, I chanced a glance upwards. The speaker was still standing against the railing of the balcony, but she was no longer watching. She had half turned, watching the men and women seated behind her as they discussed my fate.

Just as I was starting to feel a little twitchy, the woman spoke. "The Sigil forgives your transgression. You are free to leave."

I blinked, surprised by the relative simplicity of the whole ordeal. All of this preparation for a sentence or two? I had at least been expecting some sort of threat at the end before they let me go.

The moment the thought occurred to me, and I turned to leave, something hit me. An aura, heavy as the earth and vast as the skies, descended upon me mid-stride. My knees buckled and my chin slammed into the dais as a pressure pushed down on every inch of my body. The breath was forced from my lungs, and I felt blood welling from the cut in my chin even as I gasped for air.

"Cross us, or any of those in our employ, again however, and you will be strung out across the canyon for all to see as proof of what happens to those who rely overmuch on our mercy."

I grit my teeth as Indomitable Prey syphoned mana from my core. I had no conscious choice in the action; an aura was attempting to dominate me, and my pathbound Skill would not allow that easily. Add to that the fact that I couldn't breathe, and my natural instincts to fight or flee were burning their way through every nerve in my body.

The aura pressing down on me was powerful, there was no doubt about that. It was a physical thing, suffocating me and seeking to crush my body beneath its force rather than convince my mind of some unreal truth. Jorge watched nearby, and just when I was beginning to panic, I felt the calming wash of his age-old aura swallow me. It pushed back the crushing weight of whoever was tormenting me, and I saw the speaker of The Sigil twitch her head around to stare at Jorge. He said nothing, but his face held a fury I'd never before seen.

I only caught a mere glimpse of it as I clambered to my feet, but the hostile aura was now utterly crushed, and I stood under my own power once more. I wiped the blood from my chin and glared around at the people in the stands who looked on silently, their judgement only spiking my anger.

I'd known I had come here to be made a fool of, and I could accept that. But if my read on the situation was correct, this had turned into more a test of Jorge than myself. The Sigil wanted to see if they could pressure him to intervene by harming me, and clearly the answer to that question was that they could. They'd exposed a weakness in a powerful person, and I felt shame wash over me to know that I was the cause.

There was nothing quite like powerlessness to stoke the flames of fury though, and right now I burned with it. I'd taken my beating and shown them respect, and then they'd done this? Bastards, the lot of them.

Most of the men and women in the stands looked at me with empty faces. Some held calm amusement, others detached analysis. A pair eyed me with anger, glowering from their seats low in the stands, not far from the edge of the dais. I almost missed them, and would have if it wasn't for the flash of a red tassel I saw on the hilt of the woman's sheathed sword. A similar one hung from the haft of the man's axe where it peaked over his shoulder. The weapons were in the same ornate black and silver style as the spearman's from this morning.

Wielders of Azlan, then. That explained the glowers. I stared them down for a few long moments before I spat on the stone at their feet. I didn't care whether it was disrespectful or not, any longer. They were the ones that had gone running to their parents for help when someone had reacted to their petty bullying. I grinned at the anger my action prompted, and saw the axeman twitch in his seat.

My grin widened. "Try it," I mouthed at him.

A powerfully built man seated next to them with an oiled and well-clipped moustache laid a hand on the man's arm, restraining him with a but a touch. He watched me curiously, gaze flicking down to my hands, balled into fists at my side as they were. Whatever they saw made them widen slightly, and he looked back up at my face with much greater intensity now. As if memorising it.

I felt Jorge grab my arm and roughly pull me backwards, and I let myself be led back through the servant's entrance and out into the hallway. The moment the cool stone walls surrounded us and the door swung closed, I came back to myself, and my panic began to rise.

"Jorge, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking," I said, but the old man cut me off.

"Quiet lad, let's get out of here first."

He pulled me along behind him, retracing our steps as if he had walked this route a thousand times before. Once we emerged from the building with the two malevolent bodyguards standing watch outside and left the alleyway behind, Jorge led me through more twisting passages before we came to a stop on a balcony looking out into the canyon itself.

We were still low down in the city, and the evening had well and truly given way to night, but even so, just seeing a slither of the sky above was a relief, and I felt my shoulders sag slightly. Jorge came over and turned my head back and forth, getting a good look at the cut on my chin before wiping it down with a damp rag he had pulled from nowhere.

"I'm sorry, lad, I didn't think they'd take it that far," he said, puffing out his cheeks. "Shouldn't have brought you into this. Listen, you did well in there."

I laughed bitterly, turning away to look out at the view. "Nearly started another fight, honestly. What the fuck is wrong with me? I can't hold myself back sometimes. I'm not a berserker or anything either, so I've got no excuse. I know what I was here for, and now we've got a fucking criminal empire coming after us. Honestly, is it even safe for us to–"

Jorge gripped me by the shoulders and pulled me around to face him, hushing me calmly. "I know, I know. It's alright. They hit you with an aura and tried to choke the life from you. Strategy goes out the bag at that point, right? Listen to me, lad; they did this on purpose. You understand me?"

He sighed. "They baited a reaction out of you, looking for an excuse to punish you, and draw further concessions from me. Luckily, I'm stronger than they realised, and crushing that aura so quickly gave them a bit of a spook. They'll leave it a day or two before they come sniffing around again, so we've got time. It somewhat moves our schedule up, but there's no use crying over spilt milk, aye?"

He slapped me on the back and started up a staircase cut into the rock nearby. "Let's get back to the inn and have a chat about all of this. Don't fret though. It'll be fine."

*Frances D'Sware*

Frances gripped Antione's arm in a vicelike grip. The big man had looked like he would leap out of his chair at one point when the man on the dais had taunted him. Honestly, if it wasn't for everyone else in attendance, he would have been tempted to let that fight happen.

Antoine was in the 2nd tier, but not far into it. From what Frances had seen, he also wasn't much of a fighter. The man on the dais though? He was interesting. He had that rugged, half-wild look that the raiders from the north had, the ones that came sailing down from the Ice Meadows with their bodies painted in blue woad and armoured in fur and iron. Capable warriors, one and all, from what he'd heard. One didn't last long in the Ice Meadows with a meek heart, in any case.

But alas, everyone else was in attendance, and Frances was supposed to be lending support to the Wielders of Azlan, not aiding in their abject humiliation. That was supposed to be saved for the man on the dais, but that plan had gone up in smoke. The man's backer had stared down the entire Sigil without flinching and cast off their combined might without visible strain.

Others might not understand what that meant, but Frances did. He knew that the old man was strong, though he suspected that display would cost him later on. One didn't simply stand up to an organisation like The Sigil in the very heart of their power without consequence, though honestly, the manoeuvrings of the truly powerful were beyond him. For now.

What held his interest currently was the man that was no doubt fleeing the building after his master. He'd first gained his attention with the comment on him being a recent arrival, but there were so many arrivals at the moment – that was part of the problem. Frances personally doubted a newly arrived God-Touched would be starting brawls in the street with common criminals, and one reckless enough to do so likely wouldn't have survived this long, so he'd dismissed him as a possibility.

Then he'd seen his hands. Specifically, the smallest finger of his right hand. Francis recognised that signet ring. There was only one way he could have gotten that, and Francis didn't believe in coincidences this vast. Location and timeline both fit, and while he wasn't sure how a God-Touched would have killed a member of the Lions, he knew for sure that he had.

He kept up appearances for the next hour or two before making his excuses and slipping away. He'd need to get Rank, Sven and Shavkat back in and brief them. They'd had a job to do for a while, but now, they also had a target.

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