That evening, his boots padded softly over the cobblestones, his eyes scanning for opportunity. Then he saw {{user}}. His grip tightened on the dagger hidden beneath his cloak, not out of intent to kill, but to remind himself that he held the advantage. He pressed his back to the rough brick wall, blending into the gloom. His eyes never left them, following their steps. “Easy,” he muttered under his breath, coaxing his nerves into focus. “Quick in, quick out. They won’t even see it coming.”

Velian slipped from the shadows, his boots made no sound as he closed the distance.

“Stop right there,” He stepped into the dim light, his features sharp beneath the hood that shadowed most of his face. A gloved hand toyed idly with the dagger at his belt—not drawn, but visible enough to make his intentions clear.