CHAPTER 71: THE EMERALD REAPER

The noble district bled gold into the night sky. Sylas walked its outskirts with unhurried steps, moving beneath pools of torchlight without hurry or hesitation. The sword at his hip, disguised with common wrappings, rested against his thigh with familiar weight. A gentleman returning from an evening’s entertainment, nothing more.

Noblemen’s guards rarely troubled gentlemen.

He adjusted his hood, ensuring his green hair remained concealed. Not from shame, Sylas had long since abandoned such useless sentiments...but from practicality. Green hair made for memorable witnesses, and tonight’s work required discretion until the proper moment.

The Marquis of Everton’s estate rose before him, a bloated monument to excess. Three stories of imported stone, windows gleaming with interior light, gardens sprawling in cultivated chaos. Sylas had studied it for seven nights now, learning its rhythms as intimately as a butcher knows a carcass before the first cut.

The western wall: patrolled every twenty-seven minutes.

The servant’s entrance: three final smoke breaks before midnight.

The upper balcony: unguarded, its decorative lattice providing perfect handholds.

A patrol rounded the corner ahead. Sylas didn’t alter his pace or duck into shadows. Such behavior attracted attention.

Instead, he adjusted his posture subtly, shoulders back, chin lifted, the unmistakable arrogance of nobility etched into his bearing. The guards’ eyes slid over him, registering his presence and dismissing it in the same moment.

Predictable. Complacent. Trained to recognize threats based on appearance rather than essence.

Sylas continued past the main entrance, where carriages occasionally deposited late guests for whatever frivolity occupied the Marquis tonight. Music drifted through open windows, string instruments played with more technical precision than passion. The sound grated against his ears like steel on stone.

He circled toward the eastern garden, timing his approach with practiced precision. The head gardener, a man of admirable punctuality, had just completed his final inspection. The grounds would remain unattended until dawn.

The wall before him stood twelve feet high, smooth stone interrupted only by decorative flourishes near the top. To most, an effective barrier. To Sylas, a mild inconvenience.

He removed his outer cloak, folded it with methodical care, and secreted it beneath a hedge. The formal attire beneath would serve him better inside.

With three quick movements, he scaled the wall, fingers finding purchase in crevices invisible to casual observation. He paused at the top, surveying the gardens below.

Two guards, moving predictably along their assigned route.

A servant girl, slipping between hedgerows, meeting a lover, perhaps.

A single window on the second floor, curtains drawn but light burning.

The Marquis worked late this evening. How convenient.

Sylas descended into the garden with liquid grace, landing in silence among carefully tended roses. Their scent filled his nostrils, too sweet, too cultivated, lacking the honest simplicity of wildflowers. Like nobility itself: bred for appearance rather than substance.

He moved through the gardens like a shadow sliding between torches, his steps finding the soft earth between gravel paths.

The servants’ entrance stood unguarded save for a single dozing watchman, chin resting on chest, breath emerging in gentle snores. Sylas passed within arm’s reach without disturbing the man’s slumber.

Inside, the manor opened before him like a body splayed for dissection. Corridors leading to dining halls, ballrooms, galleries filled with art the Marquis appreciated for its cost rather than its beauty.

Sylas oriented himself quickly, recalling the floor plans he’d memorized from a drunken architect’s boasts in a tavern three towns away.

Second floor. East wing. The Marquis’s private study connected to his bedchamber.

Sylas ascended the main staircase without hesitation. A servant rounded the corner, arms laden with linens. Her eyes widened briefly at his unexpected presence, but his confident nod...the gesture of a guest who belonged, smoothed her features. She dipped in a quick curtsy and continued on her way.

So simple, to move among them. They saw only what they expected to see.

The east wing corridor stretched before him, carpeted in rich crimson that swallowed his footsteps. Portraits lined the walls, generations of Evertons gazing down with painted arrogance. Sylas noted their features with clinical detachment. Strong jawlines. Narrow noses. Eyes that had never known true hunger or fear.

Until tonight.

Light spilled from beneath the study door, a thin golden line in the darkened hallway. From within came the scratching of a quill on parchment. The Marquis, perhaps reviewing his accounts. Counting wealth extracted from others’ labor.

Sylas paused, listening. The household had settled into its nighttime rhythm. Guards patrolled the perimeter, not the interior. Servants completed final tasks before seeking their beds. Guests had departed or retired to assigned chambers.

The moment had arrived.

He drew his sword with practiced economy, the blade sliding from its sheath without sound.

Plain steel, unadorned but immaculately maintained. No jewels or engravings...nothing to distract from its purpose. Nothing to compromise its function.

The door opened silently beneath his hand.

The Marquis sat at a massive desk, back to the entrance, quill moving across ledgers with practiced strokes. He didn’t turn at the sound of Sylas’s entrance, likely mistaking it for a servant come to refresh his brandy.

"Leave it on the table," he said, voice heavy with the boredom of privilege.

Sylas closed the door behind him with a deliberate click.

The Marquis stiffened, finally sensing something amiss. He turned, irritation transforming to confusion, then to fear as he registered the sword in Sylas’s hand.

"Who—" he began, rising halfway from his chair.

Sylas didn’t waste breath on explanations. The blade moved in a single, perfect arc, opening the Marquis’s throat with surgical precision. Blood fountained, staining the ledgers recording centuries of exploitation. The nobleman clutched at his neck, eyes wide with disbelief rather than understanding.

They never understood. That was the tragedy and the justice of it.

The Marquis collapsed across his desk, fingers still grasping for the bell that would summon help that would arrive too late.

Sylas watched the life drain from him with the detached interest of a craftsman observing his work. No joy. No regret. Simply the satisfaction of necessary labor completed correctly.

The door behind him opened. A valet, drawn by some sound or sixth sense.

"My lord, I—" The words died as he took in the scene.

Sylas’s blade moved again, efficient and economical. The servant crumpled without a cry, eyes already glazing as he hit the carpet.

Regrettable, but unavoidable. The innocent sometimes bled alongside the guilty. The difference was that Sylas acknowledged their sacrifice, while nobles never even counted the cost.

He worked quickly now, arranging the bodies with methodical care. The Marquis he positioned in his chair, hands folded over the ledger as if in final contemplation of his accounts. The ceremonial sword that had hung on the wall, never blooded, merely displayed, Sylas placed across the nobleman’s lap.

’A lord should die with steel in his hands, even if he had never truly earned the right to bear it.’

From his belt, Sylas removed a small object...a carved wooden token bearing the symbol of scales, unbalanced. This he placed on the desk where it would be immediately visible. His signature. His purpose. His judgment.

The house remained quiet around him as he moved to the balcony, stepping out into the cool night air. Below, the gardens stretched in manicured perfection, oblivious to the blood spilled within their boundaries. Above, stars punctured the darkness, cold and distant as divine judgment.

Sylas descended the way he had come, each movement precise and controlled. No wasted energy. No theatrical flourishes. Just the clean efficiency of a predator returning from a successful hunt.

He retrieved his cloak from its hiding place, donned it with careful attention to its drape and fall. Within moments, he had transformed again, from killer to gentleman, from justice to respectability.

He scaled the wall and dropped to the street beyond, falling into an unhurried walk that would draw no attention from the night watch.

Behind him, the Marquis’s estate continued its peaceful slumber, unaware that death had visited and departed.

By morning, the bodies would be discovered. By midday, nobles across the district would be increasing their guards. By nightfall, they would be whispering his name in fear.

Sylas felt no triumph, no elation at the thought. Only the cool certainty that rot had been excised, one small piece of a disease that infected the entire system. One noble, removed from a world that produced them in abundance.

The night embraced him as he walked toward the city gates. His work here was finished. Other cities waited, other nobles whose blood would water the soil of coming change.

He paused at a crossroads, looking back at the golden glow of the noble district. They would be hunting him now with renewed vigor. Lord Ashgard’s knights, the noble houses’ finest blades, all seeking his head.

The thought brought the closest thing to a smile he had felt in years.

"Come then," he whispered to the night, to the distant stars, to the hunters who did not yet realize they were also prey. "Let us see who truly deserves the sword."