You don’t jump onto a man’s land unless you want his dogs loosed and his pride pricked. Jumping is intrusion. It says you don’t respect walls, gates, or the blood spent building them. Don Cinder paid for those stones. Paid in coin and in quieter things. I wasn’t about to spit on that from the start.
Partners get courtesy. Enemies get shortcuts.
So I walked.
The road climbed slow, winding through trimmed hedges and stone markers carved with symbols meant to be understood by the kind of people who needed reminding. Lanterns burned steady, fed with oil too clean for the warrens. The air smelled expensive. Wood smoke without rot. Flowers without apology. This was not a place for sudden arrivals.
Cinderhall rose ahead of me, wide and arrogant, sitting on its hill like it had always owned the ground and dared anyone to remember otherwise. Walls thick enough to laugh at fire. Gates tall enough to make men straighten their backs without knowing why.
Two guards at the entrance. Not bored. Not lazy. The kind that stood still because they chose to, not because they were told. They watched the road, not me. That told me enough.
I slowed. Let my steps announce themselves. No surprises.
“Careful,” one of them said as I came close. His voice was calm, practiced. “This isn’t a place where people explain things twice. Back off.”
A warning, not a threat. Yet.
“I’m here to see the Don,” I said. “Name’s Eymire. He sent for me.”
They laughed. Short, sharp. The sound of men who’d heard that line dressed in better clothes.
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“And I’m High Consort,” the other said, grinning. “Turn around.”
They were enjoying this. That meant they hadn’t been warned.
“Funny,” I said. “Because when he asked for me, he didn’t mention auditions.”
That got a second of silence. Not enough.
“Stronzo,” the first guard muttered, stepping forward. He put his hand on my shoulder.
I hate being touched.
Not fear. Not pride. Something older. Hands are claims. Hands say . I don’t belong anywhere men decide.
I didn’t step back.
My fist didn’t travel far. It didn’t need to. Space bent the smallest amount, just enough to skip the in-between. Knuckles met stomach like an argument ending. The guard folded with a sound halfway between breath and regret.
The second guard moved fast. Knife flashing. “U Minchia”
The shadow caught him.
It rose up from behind like it had been there all along, peeling itself off the stone, wrapping his arm, his chest, his throat. He froze mid-step, eyes wide, breath trapped. The knife clattered to the ground.
A man stepped out of the darkness wearing black like it was a second skin. Tailored. Clean. Not a crease out of place. His face was calm in the way only heirs ever manage.
“Signore del Vicolo,” he said, nodding to me.
Rossi del Vicolo. Eldest son. Heir apparent. The kind of man who never raised his voice because others did it for him.
“You’re late,” he added mildly.
Behind him, the guard I’d hit lay curled on the stone, whispering pain to anyone who might listen. The one in the shadow couldn’t move at all.
“I walked,” I said. “Didn’t think your father would appreciate surprises.”
That earned me a thin smile. Approval, or something close to it.
“He wouldn’t,” Rossi said.
The shadow loosened. The trapped guard dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, gasping, humiliated. Rossi didn’t look at him.
“You’ve made an entrance anyway,” he went on. “But that’s forgivable. Touching guests isn’t.”
“I warned him,” I said.
“Yes,” Rossi agreed. “You did.”
He turned toward the gate and gestured with two fingers. Not an invitation. A direction.
“Come. My father is already irritated. Best not keep him waiting longer than necessary.”
I adjusted my scarf and followed. My head still rang faintly from the last jump. Memory tugged at the edges, threatening to slip something small and personal if I wasn’t careful. I held it together. Not here. Not now.
As we passed through the gate, Rossi spoke without looking at me.
“Try not to break anything else,” he said. “The house remembers.”
So did I.
Eymire