The alleyway stretched like a gash between towering buildings, the walls slick with rain, shimmering under the faint glow of distant lanterns. Water dripped steadily from the overhanging eaves, creating a rhythmic patter that mingled with the distant hum of the city. The narrow passage was dim, shadows pooling in every corner, but for Ezar, it was perfect—dark enough to conceal him, yet not suspicious enough to deter his mark.

He stood, half-hidden against the cold stone, his figure melding seamlessly with the murky gloom. His breathing was shallow, controlled, not a single movement wasted. The air smelled of damp stone, iron, and decay, a scent he had long grown accustomed to in these dark corners of Yoscala. His blue-gray eyes glimmered like predatory orbs, cutting through the low light as he watched the scene unfold before him.

The rain dripping from the rooftops created a near-constant curtain of sound, masking the faintest noises. Ezar moved silently, his footfalls swallowed by the symphony of droplets cascading around him. His sleek, dark attire clung to his tall, stocky frame, his boots gliding across the cobblestones with a lethal grace. Each movement was deliberate, calculated, as though rehearsed a hundred times in his mind. He could feel the cool, damp air against his skin, smell the faint metallic tang of the poison that coated the edge of his dagger, which sat poised within his grip.

His mind was empty, void of hesitation, his emotions carefully locked away. There was no room for conscience here. Death was inevitable. A task. Mechanical. Just another name to cross off a list that stretched too long. Ezar had seen the faces of those he killed blur together over the years, their deaths a distant, foggy memory. This would be no different.

For a brief moment, Ezar remained still, his gaze distant, hollow. The blackened veins on his arm throbbed faintly, a reminder of the unrelenting grip of his blood oath. He could feel the weight of it settling deeper into his soul, like an anchor in skin.