The barn doors swung open, spilling cold daylight and the copper scent of the market’s nervous sweat onto our little war party. Mireclaw strode out first, cloak swirling behind her, black tail slicing the air with imperious, venomous grace. The handful of Vigilance brutes she’d scraped together fell into line, a motley clutch of iron and leather, faces sallow and eyes haunted, every one suspicious and hungry for authority like they might choke on it if given half a chance. Their iron armour caught the sun in greasy streaks, their hands resting heavy on sword hilts and cheap shields, staring at Master with the silent awe you reserve for either executioners or prophets.

Master stayed silent. The dark circles at his eyes were stark. I wrapped myself around him, always too close, always a little too obvious in my gloating. Every step I took was a warning, tail slashing, ears flicking, the wild twitch of Embercrack tea still burning through my veins. Let them watch. Let Mireclaw see.

She climbed up onto a crate, drawing every gaze in the square, and flung her voice sharp as a thrown blade. “Listen up. This is no longer the Vigilance of empty talk and council bickering. We’re moving north, striking the Black Fang turf before it can dig in and rot out our streets. Anyone who isn’t ready to bleed for this revolution should walk away now.” Her green eyes burned over the crowd, pausing on each recruit, challenging, promising. “I want discipline, I want obedience, and above all, I want their heads on pikes by sunset. There will be no mercy. There will be no retreat.”

A ripple passed through the ranks, nervous, brittle, but I could feel the bite of adrenaline in the air. A tall woman in patched iron spat on the ground, nodding. “About time we bled someone else for a change.”

Mireclaw basked in the brief flicker of loyalty, her smile all daggers and honey again. “Good. Stay tight, follow my lead and if you see the Master or his cat ahead, you keep your mouths shut and your blades ready.” She leapt down, a controlled landing, cloak swirling, eyes catching on mine with a mix of loathing and wary respect.

I could barely keep still, claws flexing against the urge to tear into someone just for the taste. My mind was fire and broken glass, every sense crackling. I brushed past Master, head tilted, letting my laughter curl out across the square, mocking, dangerous.

Master just watched, eyes empty of everything but calculation. That’s how he was, a storm bottled up, always waiting for the perfect moment to break. I pressed against his side, tail winding around his arm, my purr a low, warning hum that only he could feel. This was our hunt, our kill. And if any of Mireclaw’s brutes stepped out of line, I’d gut them before the Swarm even caught wind of our scent.

We pushed through the last stretch of market, every footstep echoing in my bones, caffeine fever humming in my veins so loud it was almost music. The Vigilance, Mireclaw’s little band of would-be revolutionists, formed up behind us, patchwork iron glinting in the smoky daylight. Even half-starved, half-drunk on slogans, they looked like real soldiers beside the dregs Black Fang called muscle.

We crossed into the tunnel mouth at the border, fishing district stench thick in my nose, damp air clinging to my fur, ears flattened against the noise of my own heart. The three Black Fang members posted there barely deserved the title. Leather too thin, blades rusted, eyes wide and already nervous, standing guard like sheep who’d been handed wolf skins and told to bark.

The Vigilance didn’t wait for orders. They swept forward in a jagged line, weapons raised high, no discipline, no drill, just the hungry momentum of desperation dressed up as courage. I twitched, paws itching for blood, but Master just watched, hands still, gaze sharp as ever, letting the idealists play hero. My tail lashed, involuntary, every muscle primed to leap, to kill, to claim, twitch, twitch, twitch, my whole body singing with the need to move. But this was their fight. For now. Master didn't move thus I didn't.

I watched the first blow land, an iron sword arcing through the air with all the grace of a thrown crowbar. The roll of fate trembled on the edge of every heartbeat.

7, The Vigilance attack rolls, +2 each:
17, 12, 14, 9, 19, 8, 13 +2 = 19, 14, 16, 11, 21, 10, 15 

No contest.

The first Black Fang grunt let out a high, wavering scream as a Vigilance blade punched through his gut, blood painting the tunnel wall in thick, arterial arcs. His rusty knife clattered uselessly, hope spilling out along with his insides. The second tried to run, but an iron-clad boot caught him behind the knee; another sword bit through his back, splitting leather and bone, the sound sharp and wet. He crashed face first into the muck, hands scrabbling at the stone, mouth working for a name that wouldn’t save him. The third, maybe the youngest, tried to plead, a shrill, desperate cry about “just holding the line, boss, just doing what I was told!” It ended in a gurgle as two swords pinned him to the tunnel’s earth, chest heaving until it didn’t.

The Vigilance were nothing but poor, broken idealists dressed in iron and stubborn hope, but even hope sharpens to a blade when pressed to a throat. Their enemies dropped fast, no time for last words, only the wet sound of revolutionaries learning what it meant to be the iron in Maw Mine. Screams rang out, echoing: “The Vigilance is a militant vigilante faction based in Maw Mine! We protect our own from Clan Embercrack and the gangs! You hear me? The Council of Three is dead, Mireclaw leads us now! This is our turf!”

Blood pooled in the tunnel, thick and metallic, running down to the Fishing District. Even I stilled for a breath, twitching in place, mind jittering, watching the way the Vigilance looked at their kills. Some spat, some just stared, hollow and shaking, realising this wasn’t a pamphlet or a speech anymore. This was rule by iron and fear, and they’d just stepped over the line.

Mireclaw strode through the carnage, boots splashing blood. Her tail swished, face hard as granite, green eyes shining with triumph and caution both. “North tunnel is ours,” she snapped, voice slicing the tension, “and the Black Fang is finished here. Hold the line. Search the bodies. Nobody leaves until I say so.”

I bounced on my heels, the tea making my world a crackling lightning storm. My fur stood on end, every shadow a threat, every sound a challenge. Master’s silence grounded me, the only calm eye in the cyclone. I stayed close, but my eyes never stopped moving, my body twitching, ready to rip out throats if anyone so much as glanced at him wrong.

The tunnels of Maw Mine weren’t built for hope. They were built to move bodies, smuggle secrets, and bury mistakes, sometimes all at once, if the night was especially ambitious. Down here, the air is stale with old dust, the stench of brine, rust, and all the things the city wants to forget. Above us, the world pretends to be civilised. Down here, there’s only the raw arithmetic of survival, what you can take, what you can keep, and what you can walk away from. Idealism? That’s just another corpse waiting for a name.

The last shouts of the Vigilance echoed behind us, barely more than fever-dreams of freedom now, wet and frantic in the air. Master’s muttered curse, “idealistic fools” summed up the price of their convictions. They’d come for glory, for a better district, for the naive promise that some new order could be built from the gutter up. Instead, their faith scattered across the stones in a red spray, dissolving in the murk. The split in the tunnel wasn’t just stone, it was a fork in fate. Left and north, two roads to nowhere. Even the rats seemed to know better than to pick sides.

Ahead, the Black Fang gang members were sprawled and slouched across crates, weapons half-drawn, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. Seven of them, no more, the kind of bottom-feeders who thought a lucky night meant you walked home with the same number of fingers you started with. They were soft. They were bored. They didn’t know they were already ghosts. Mireclaw’s three remaining revolutionists didn’t wait for orders, maybe they knew there’d never be a better chance to die for something that sounded noble in a pamphlet.

They charged, all flashing iron and good intentions. For an instant, there was hope, a flicker of old stories, the kind where the desperate few beat the odds. But the tunnel isn’t a stage for heroics. The Black Fang snapped awake, teeth bared, knives flicking into hands, eyes gone wild. They swarmed, a living snarl, and in seconds it was carnage. Clubs caught skulls. Knives found ribs. Four Vigilance died in a heartbeat, wet gurgles, a brief spasm, and then the dirt embraced them. Only three were left, pressed together, backs to the wall, blades shaking in hands that had only ever swung at training posts or air.

Mireclaw herself faded into shadow, cloak drawn tight, eyes hungry, watching her idealists slaughtered without lifting a finger to save them. Maybe that was her plan, a few less mouths to feed, a little more glory for the survivors. More likely, she just knew better than to step between the Black Fang and their fun. Cowardice and cunning look a lot alike in the dark.

Master and I hung back, out of the flickering torchlight, letting the meat shield earn its name. I saw the calculation in his eyes, the sort of cold, detached math that only comes after you’ve buried your last illusions. These were not soldiers, not friends, not even useful fools. They were cannon fodder, bodies to slow the knives, so that when we struck, the odds would be in our favour.

“Our meat shield lasted basically two seconds,” Master said, voice dry and cold as rain running off a tombstone. No drama, no sorrow. Just the facts. The city grinds you down until that’s all that’s left.

He tapped my thigh, silent order, silent ownership. “Go get them, girl.” The words set my world on fire.

That sound, girl, slammed through me, pleasure and fury entwined, the caffeine in my veins peaking into a spike of manic, crackling energy. I was the knife in his hand. I was the storm in his shadow. The world snapped into focus, colours too sharp, every sound slicing into my skull, every scent an electric promise. My tail lashed, ears flat, every nerve begging for violence, for his approval, for the thrill of being seen, being used, being his. I didn’t need to be told twice.

I shot forward, spear levelled, feet barely touching the stone. The Black Fang were still circling the Vigilance survivors, mouths twisted in jeers and threats, eyes glazed with bloodlust. They never saw me coming.

The first one spun, too late.

Attack Roll , 13 + 8 = 21, The caffeine was working overtime.

My spear punched through his thigh, drove him to his knees, then up, tearing through muscle and bone, blood spraying in a hot jet across the tunnel. I twisted, ripped it free, and he crumpled, hands clenching at the wound, eyes wide in disbelief as his life drained away. Before the next could react, I was on him, caffeine making my limbs rubber and steel, unpredictable, too fast, too wrong to fight. I drove my elbow into his throat, claws scraping skin, crushed his windpipe. He gurgled, eyes bulging, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.

A third tried to tackle me from the side, he got claws in his face,

Attack Roll 2: 16 + 8 = 24

A knee in his gut. He went down hard, skull cracking against the tunnel wall. I giggled, high, shrill, not even trying to hide the joy. Blood splashed my cheek. It tasted right.

Master was with me now, cold efficiency in motion. He didn’t waste a word, didn’t let a single drop of energy spill without purpose.

Masters attack roll 10 + 5 = 20 +5 steel vs low quality gear

He sidestepped a desperate swing, steel blade flashing in the torchlight, one perfect arc, and another head rolled free, the body collapsing in a boneless heap, spraying blood like a broken fountain. He moved on, not even glancing down, eyes scanning for the next threat, the next problem to solve.

When it was over, the tunnel was a butcher’s gallery, bodies in pieces, blood pooling underfoot, the iron tang so thick it overpowered even the rot and brine of Maw Mine. Mireclaw stepped into the aftermath, her face the mask of someone who’s played every side and never quite won, not even now. She looked at the carnage, then at Master, then at me, weighing us like scales, like enemies, like a last chance.

Master wiped his blade clean, no drama, no pride, just survival. He looked at me, just a flicker, but I saw it, approval and possession wrapped together like silk and barbed wire. My tail curled tight around his waist, my body humming with triumph and devotion. He reached out, scratched behind my ears, a reward and a warning both. I melted into the touch, purring like thunder, flashing my teeth at Mireclaw. She wanted him, she’d never have him. Not while I breathed, not while my blood still boiled with love and violence and caffeine.

The Vigilance survivors stared, hollow-eyed, at what they’d become. Not heroes, not martyrs, but monsters with iron in their hands and blood on their boots. Fear was king now, and I wore it like a crown.