The night wind carried a chill.

Winter was setting in.

"Goddamn it. Without coin, we’ll starve through this winter," a gruff man muttered.

Over a dozen figures crouched low on a nearby hillside, eyes fixed on the caravan below.

Darkness blurred details, but campfire glow marked their target.

"That damn Claire Family tricked us into smuggling Grute herbs. Soldiers caught us, and *still* no buyer!"

"We gut them today. Carve some meat off."

"Patience," growled their leader, Klaun. "They’re moving everything they own. One clean hit, and we’re set for life. No mistakes."

Klaun was a scar-faced brute, battle-hardened and steady.

Sometimes a mercenary, mostly a smuggler.

The Guild forbade side jobs, but enforcement was spotty. Klaun’s operation stayed hidden—bribes kept Gorde’s soldiers blind.

But this Grute herb deal had backfired.

The loss stung less than the wasted time. The missed fortune was a knife to his pride.

His men howled for Claire blood, so he planned this ambush.

"Boss, that young mistress and her maids? Real lookers," a thug leered.

Others grinned, lust thick in their eyes.

Klaun scowled. "Use your heads, not your dicks. If they lacked power, I’d cut off my own head and hand it to you."

Fools. Thinking with their lower halves during a high-stakes job.

The men shrank back under his glare.

"Didn’t you hire help?" one asked.

"Where are they?" Klaun pressed.

"Saw the Roach brothers earlier. And a short figure in black—wrapped head to toe. Vanished quick."

"I know her," another whispered. "Female assassin. Never misses. Don’t cross her."

"How’d you find her?"

"She found *me*," Klaun said flatly.

"Enough. I also called the Underground Champion. Check if he’s here."

"Right here." A booming voice cut through the dark. A thug led forward a bald man, skull gleaming under moonlight, inked with snarling tattoos.

Klaun nodded.

Bruto ran Fokxas’s casinos and dominated its fight pits. Raw power.

He’d jumped at robbing the Claires—everyone knew their wealth dwarfed both major guilds combined.

"With this many pros, we’re golden, right?" Bruto chuckled, eyes hungry on the distant fires. Riches. Women. Who wouldn’t crave them?

Klaun sent men to fetch the Roaches and the assassin. They’d strike when night deepened.

"I’ve bribed someone inside the caravan. We hit hard and fast," he ordered.

Agreement rippled through the group. Safety first.

The black-clad assassin would lead.

Swathed in shadow, only crimson eyes showed beneath her hood. Petite. Almost doll-like.

She gave a silent nod and melted into the dark.

The others edged closer, waiting.

Midnight hushed the world.

Liya and Lekui slept slumped against each other in their wagon, guarding precious cargo.

Dragonfolk weren’t known for sharp senses. Thieves worried them more than bandits.

Enami landed soundlessly atop their wagon. Neither sister stirred.

She slipped sleeping smoke through a window, then glided to Lanche’s wagon—a shadow given grace.

Inside, Kestia slept deeply against the wall.

Dragonfolk boasted high offense, high defense, insane magic resistance. Stealth? Not their strength.

Legends always spoke of thieves slipping past slumbering dragons.

Lanche opened his eyes, staring at his oblivious wife.

*Thought marrying a powerhouse meant safety. Guess I’d die first while she naps?*

Enami poised to release more smoke—then froze. A sound. She held her breath.

Lanche eased the wagon door open, careful not to wake Kestia.

Enami watched from the roof as he stretched, twisted his waist. *What’s he doing?*

Sensing no threat—and knowing his reputation as talentless—she dropped silently behind him, fist raised to knock him out.

Lanche spun. Dodged. His hand chopped her neck.

Dizziness crashed over Enami. Her eyes flew wide in shock.

She caught herself on the ground, flipping back just as darkness threatened to swallow her.

"Not out yet? Off you go!" Lanche materialized behind her. A rock *cracked* against her skull.

Enami’s vision blacked out. Her last thought was pure confusion.

If the first hit was luck, the second was justice.

Concussed, she crumpled without a sound.

Lanche caught her, hands meeting unexpected softness.

"Definitely a girl. Heh~" He grinned, eyes crinkling.

Curious, he peeled back her wrappings—*ahem*, her disguise.

The black cloth fell away, revealing porcelain skin and a delicate, doll-like face.

"Not quite human, are you?" He pried open one eyelid—crimson stared back. Then her mouth: two tiny fangs gleamed.

"Yep. Not human."

Grinning wider, Lanche bundled the petite figure back into her own clothes, tight as a gift.

Mouth gagged, limbs secured, she looked like a life-sized doll.

He glanced around, then shoved her under his seat—hidden from Kestia’s sight.