The lead debt collector, a man whose neck was thick with scar tissue and low-tier mana tattoos, didn't even see Caelum move. One moment, the "Driver" was a shadow at the end of the hall; the next, the air had turned into a pressurized furnace.
Caelum's hand shot out, catching the man's throat. It wasn't a punch—it was an arrest of motion. The collector's boots left the floor, his mana-baton clattering onto the damp wood as his eyes bulged in sudden, primal terror.
"Madame Vesper sent you for a debt," Caelum said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to come from the stone walls themselves. "Tell me... what is the current market price for a man's life in Oakhaven?"
"Let... go..." the man wheezed, his tattoos glowing a desperate, frantic red as he tried to ignite his mana.
"Wrong answer."
Caelum didn't squeeze. He simply pulsed a microscopic thread of the Eternal Heart's energy through his palm. To the collector, it felt like a mountain had just collapsed onto his nervous system. His red tattoos turned grey, the mana inside them extinguished like a candle in a hurricane. He slumped, unconscious before he even hit the floor.
The other two collectors froze. They were used to bullying commoners and shaking down addicts. They weren't prepared for a man who could snuff out a Tier-2 mage's core with a touch.
"He's a sleeper!" the second one hissed, reaching for a jagged combat knife etched with corrosive runes. "Kill him and take the girl! The High Lord will pay double for her head anyway!"
They lunged together. The hallway was narrow, a tactical disadvantage for most, but for Caelum, it was a funnel. He stepped into the first man's guard, his elbow connecting with a ribcage in a sickening crack that sounded like dry kindling snapping. Without pausing, he spun, his leg a blur of motion that caught the third man in the temple.
Total elapsed time: four seconds.
Three "professional" enforcers lay in a heap of broken gear and bruised egos. Caelum stood over them, his breathing perfectly level. The first seal on his core groaned, demanding to be closed, but he held it open a moment longer. He looked at his hands—they were steady, but the golden glow was fading, replaced by the dull, grey light of the West Wing.
"Caelum?"
The bedroom door creaked open an inch. Elena stood there, clutching a heavy iron fireplace poker. Her face was pale, her eyes darting from Caelum to the bodies on the floor.
"Are they... dead?" she whispered.
"Sleeping," Caelum lied. He didn't want to tell her that their mana cores were permanently fractured. "They won't be coming back. But they weren't Valerius guards. That means the perimeter has holes."
He walked toward her, and for the first time, Elena didn't flinch. She watched him, her gaze lingering on the way his cheap suit jacket was torn, revealing the corded muscle of his shoulder. She was starting to realize that the man she had ignored for five years was the only solid thing in a world made of smoke.
"You should have left me," she said, her voice small. "If Silas finds out you're protecting me... if he sees what you can do... he won't send thugs next time. He'll send the Ravens."
"Let them come," Caelum said. He reached out and gently took the poker from her shaking hand. "A driver's job isn't just to move the car, Elena. It's to ensure the passenger reaches the destination. And your destination isn't a grave in the West Wing."
He looked past her, into the room where the stove was still crackling. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we're going to the city. We need to find a doctor who doesn't report to your father."
"There is no one," she sighed, sliding down the doorframe to sit on the floor. "My father owns the clinics. Silas owns the hospitals. I'm a ghost, Caelum. You're protecting a ghost."
Caelum knelt in front of her, his eyes locking onto hers. "Then we'll go to the places they don't own. The Underbelly. The Black Markets. I know people who deal in secrets more than medicine."
Elena looked at him, a flicker of hope—dangerous and fragile—igniting in her chest. "Why are you doing this? Truly. Is it the marriage contract? The money?"
Caelum reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, old photograph, worn at the edges. It showed a woman with the same steady eyes as his, standing in front of a modest garage.
"My mother always said that a king isn't the one who sits on a throne," he said quietly. "A king is the one who stands between the wolf and the lamb. For five years, I sat in that car and watched you turn into a lamb. I'm tired of watching."
He stood up and began dragging the unconscious men toward the shadows of the outer hall.
"Sleep, Elena. Tomorrow, the world finds out the Driver has a name."
Author's Note:
Caelum has cleared the first hurdle, but the "Ravens" are a whole different breed of killer. Can he protect Elena in the lawless Black Markets?