The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Velithor had yet to fully awaken, but the signs of life were already stirring. A lantern flickered dimly in the hands of a bleary-eyed merchant setting up his stall, the scent of baking bread curling through the narrow alleys as a baker stoked the first embers of his oven. Horses clattered across damp cobblestones, their riders draped in thick wool to ward off the lingering chill of the night.

The city, despite its vastness, felt strangely smaller at this hour. The veil between its waking and sleeping world was still thin, as if neither side had fully claimed it yet. It was this in-between space that I preferred. A space where eyes weren't yet sharp, where shadows stretched long enough to hide what needed to be hidden.

As I walked, my mind replayed the events in the archive, dissecting every moment with meticulous scrutiny. The assassin's movements, the way they adjusted their stance, the precision of their strikes. They hadn't been reckless, nor had they been a mere hired blade. Their discipline spoke of training—not just in combat, but in something deeper. Ritualistic. Intentional.

The dagger now hidden beneath my coat was proof of that.

The Gravekeepers.

Their sigil alone raised a thousand questions. If they had been involved in Belisarius's disappearance—or his return—then I had underestimated just how far their reach extended. That was a mistake I would not make again.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled me from my thoughts. Two guards, clad in city patrol uniforms, turned onto the street ahead, speaking in low tones. One gestured vaguely toward the direction of the Tower, his voice barely audible over the distant murmur of the waking city.

"…still don't know what caused it. Some kind of anomaly in the lower levels."

"Another damn student messing with things they shouldn't?" the other muttered.

"Unlikely. Security's already tightened after—" He hesitated, lowering his voice further. "After what happened with Lady Sharon."

I kept my pace even, unaffected, slipping past them as though their words held no weight. But inside, I noted the shift.

The Tower was already stirring.

Word of the archive breach wouldn't take long to spread. Perhaps, at this very moment, someone was already tracing the residual magic left behind, trying to make sense of the presence that had walked through barriers that weren't meant to be crossed.

It wouldn't be enough. I had ensured that.

Still, I had no intention of lingering.

_____

The Starlit Quay was an unassuming place, tucked between the aging brickwork of Velithor's winding alleys. The kind of establishment that did not officially exist on any registry, yet held its own undeniable presence within the city's underbelly. It catered to a clientele that thrived in the spaces between the law and necessity—smugglers, informants, those who dealt in things better left unspoken.

The heavy wooden doors swung inward with a quiet groan as I stepped inside, the scent of aged liquor and candle smoke greeting me. The room was dimly lit, the glow of a few scattered lanterns casting elongated shadows against the rough stone walls. A handful of patrons lingered at the tables, hunched over drinks, speaking in murmurs that did not invite interruption.

Merrick was exactly where I expected him to be.

He sat at a back table, one hand curled around a glass of dark liquid, his coat draped over the chair beside him. The years had not been unkind to him, though they had left their marks in the fine lines at the edges of his sharp eyes, the streaks of silver threading through his dark hair. He was a man who had survived long enough to learn that survival itself was an art.

As I approached, he looked up, his gaze sharpening in recognition. A slow smirk tugged at his lips, though there was a glint of something else beneath it—calculation, perhaps. A flicker of curiosity.

"Well, well," he murmured, leaning back in his chair, the smirk widening just slightly. "Didn't expect to see you tonight."

I slid into the seat opposite him. "I need information."

Merrick exhaled through his nose, swirling his drink lazily. "You always do. That's what makes you such a delightful conversationalist." His fingers drummed absently against the wooden surface, a steady rhythm that matched the muted hum of the tavern around us. The Starlit Quay was alive in its own peculiar way—low murmurs of hushed conversations, the occasional clink of glasses, and the soft rustling of cloaks as people moved in and out of the establishment like ghosts. A neutral ground, a haven for those who didn't want their names recorded.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "What kind?"

"Lorik the Unbound."

The humor in his eyes faded. He set his glass down with a deliberate slowness, the amusement from before draining away like wine from a shattered cup. His fingers tapped against the wood—once, twice, three times. A tell.

"That's not a name I hear often."

"But you have heard it."

Merrick tilted his head slightly, considering me in that way only people in his trade did—balancing wariness against profit, risk against potential gain. "He's difficult to track. The man doesn't stay in one place for long, and when he does, he makes sure it's somewhere nobody sane would follow."

"That's not my concern."

Merrick sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You have a way of making my life considerably more complicated."

"You'll survive."

"I always do." He clicked his tongue, tapping his ring against his empty glass. A silent signal to the bartender, who, in turn, slid another drink down the counter with practiced ease. Merrick caught it with a smooth flick of his wrist, never breaking eye contact. "I don't suppose you'd consider telling me why you're after him?"

"I don't suppose you'd consider minding your own business."

Merrick chuckled, but there was an edge to it. He had known me long enough to recognize when I wasn't in the mood for games. He exhaled sharply, taking a slow sip of his drink.

"I can get you a lead, but it won't be cheap."

I slid a small parchment across the table. A single symbol was etched into the surface—one Merrick would recognize. A favor owed.

His eyes flicked down to it, then back up to me. His lips pressed into a thin line. "You don't use these lightly."

"No."

He clicked his tongue again but took the parchment anyway, tucking it into his coat. His shoulders squared, the weight of my request settling into place. "Fine. I'll see what I can dig up."

I nodded, watching him drain the rest of his drink before setting it aside. Merrick was good at what he did—an informant who made it his business to know what others didn't. If Lorik was anywhere within reach, he'd find him.

I stood, adjusting my coat. "Be quick."

"I always am," he muttered, but his expression was unreadable.

As I stepped away from the table, the whispers of the Quay followed me—a shifting tide of secret dealings and veiled threats. Rumors painted a picture of someone who did not wish to be found. The Gravekeepers were moving, and not just against me. The Council was too quiet, their hand yet to be played, but it was coming. The old magic in the catacombs beneath Velithor hummed with latent energy, and if Lorik was hiding in their depths, it meant the past had begun to stir in ways that could not be ignored.

The streets had emptied by the time I reached the old library. A relic of a time before the Tower dominated Regaria's arcane knowledge. Its halls were silent, its corridors dust-laden with the scent of old parchment and fading enchantments.

A cold breeze slipped through the broken archway, whispering between the ruined shelves and abandoned study halls. The library had been left to decay, its once-grand purpose lost to the shifting priorities of the Tower. What knowledge remained here was unwanted—too obscure, too dangerous, or simply too forgotten to matter anymore.

I moved through the darkness with careful precision, my boots barely making a sound against the stone. The weight of the captured Gravekeeper dagger rested against my hip, a constant reminder of how quickly the game had escalated.

But I was not alone.

The sensation crawled along the back of my neck, the unmistakable awareness of being watched.

Someone else was here.

I didn't stop moving, didn't tense or hesitate. Instead, I adjusted my pace, my peripheral vision catching the subtlest flicker of movement in the shadows. The air shifted slightly—no sound, no footfalls, but the faintest ripple of intent.

Trained.

I turned.

The first blow came fast, a flicker of steel catching the dim light before slicing toward my side. I sidestepped, twisting my wrist, deflecting the strike with my own blade. The impact sent a sharp vibration through my arm, the force behind it heavier than expected.

Another figure moved behind me, too quick to be an amateur.

I pivoted, evading a second attack, my mind calculating their approach.

Two.
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Not Gravekeepers this time. The insignia on the nearest one's belt marked him as Council. They had moved faster than I expected.

They didn't speak.

Professionals.