Dawn Walker-Chapter 103: That Smelled Like Trouble VI

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The maids noticed instantly. Their spines straightened. Their gossip faces disappeared.

Bat Bat’s eyes widened. "Auri!" Bat Bat shouted.

Auri bowed slightly to Bat Bat with polite seriousness.

"Bat Bat," Auri greeted.

Bat Bat puffed up proudly.

"Praise me," Bat Bat demanded.

Auri nodded.

"Wow, you are so smart," she said. "We bats respect you. You are the number one."

Bat Bat looked satisfied.

She looked so satisfied, in fact, that a maid near the wall silently mouthed, thank you, to Auri like she had just prevented a natural disaster.

Sekhmet exhaled slowly and looked at Elena.

"Elena," he said.

Elena’s gaze met his.

"Yes," she replied.

Sekhmet’s voice lowered slightly.

"Come with me," he said. "Privately."

Elena blinked once.

Then she nodded immediately.

"Yes," she replied.

Bat Bat’s eyes widened in alarm.

"No!" Bat Bat shouted. "Private talk is bad! Private talk means trouble!"

Sekhmet stared at her.

"It means adult things," Bat Bat added seriously, as if she had learned this from Lily and decided it was now law.

Elena’s expression turned sharp.

Bat Bat immediately shut up.

Sekhmet turned and began walking toward the inner corridor.

Elena followed.

Auri remained in the hall, calm, watching.

Bat Bat stood frozen, wings twitching, eyes wide.

"Master," Bat Bat whispered as Sekhmet walked away. "Don’t die."

Sekhmet did not look back, but his voice floated over his shoulder, dry and steady.

"I survived pergurtoy," he said. "I will survive Elena."

Bat Bat shivered.

"Good luck," she whispered solemnly.

Somewhere in the city. (Iron house....)

The Iron House estate sat on higher ground than most merchant mansions in Slik, as if the family believed altitude itself was proof of superiority.

Tall black gates stood like teeth.

Iron spikes. Red banners. Carved wolf heads on stone pillars. The kind of design that did not say welcome. It said obey.

When Dickon returned, the guards at the entrance opened the gates quickly.

Clang... clang...

They bowed low, pretending not to notice the tomato stain still drying on his sleeve.

Dickon noticed anyway.

He always noticed.

He marched through the courtyard like a storm trapped in human skin. Servants scattered out of his path. A young maid carrying tea turned pale and fled into a side corridor without waiting to be ordered.

Tap... tap... tap...

His boots were loud, not because they were heavy, but because he wanted them loud. He wanted the world to hear his anger.

Behind him, his two guards followed.

They walked carefully now.

Not respectfully.

Carefully.

The way men walked behind a rabid beast that was still wearing a leash.

They reached the main hall of Iron House. It was wide and cold, decorated in hard materials that did not soften sound. Marble floors. Iron chandeliers. Walls lined with trophies of conquered deals and broken rivals. Even the air felt sharp, as if you could cut your tongue on it.

Dickon turned suddenly.

His face was handsome, but the expression twisted it into something ugly. Pride wounded was always uglier than honest rage.

"You," he said, voice low.

Both guards straightened like children caught stealing.

Dickon’s eyes flicked over them, then his lips peeled back into a smile that was not a smile at all.

"You lost," he said.

The first guard swallowed. "Young master—"

Dickon moved.

Wham!

His fist struck the guard’s jaw.

The guard’s head snapped sideways. Blood flicked from his lip.

Thud!

The guard stumbled, caught himself, and immediately bowed again, not because he respected Dickon, but because he knew what would happen if he didn’t.

Dickon’s voice rose.

"You lost in the street," he said. "In front of everyone. In front of vendors. In front of beggars. In front of the entire city’s hungry eyes."

The second guard started to speak, voice strained. "That Dawn boy—"

Wham!

Dickon kicked him in the ribs.

The guard grunted, crashing down on one knee.

Crack!

The sound of armor plates shifting echoed across the hall.

Dickon paced in a tight circle like a wolf trapped in a cage.

Tap... tap... tap...

He pointed at them sharply.

"You are Iron House guards," he said. "You are paid with Iron House money. You wear the Iron House symbol. You breathe Iron House air."

He leaned forward, eyes bright with furious humiliation.

"And you were thrown aside like trash," he hissed. "By a boy who has been missing for years."

The first guard wiped blood from his mouth and kept his head lowered. "Young master, he was... stronger than rumors suggested."

Dickon’s laugh was sharp.

"Stronger than rumors," he repeated. "Yes. That is the problem, isn’t it."

His gaze darkened.

"Those rumors were supposed to be truth," he said. "Those rumors were supposed to be his tombstone."

The guards said nothing.

They had learned that silence was safer than honesty.

Dickon turned and slammed his fist into a marble pillar.

Bang!

A spiderweb of cracks shot across the surface.

The servants in the far corner flinched.

Dickon stared at the cracked marble as if it offended him personally.

"I should have killed him myself," he muttered.

He straightened slowly, breathing through his nose.

"In the beginning, it was easy," he said, half speaking to himself now, half speaking to the guards. "A missing boy. A training mission in purgatory. No one expects those children to return whole."

His eyes narrowed like he was staring into memory.

"So I gave them the story they wanted," he continued. "I gave them tragedy. I gave them fear. I gave them certainty."

He walked toward the long table in the hall. On it sat neatly arranged letters, merchant reports, and rumor sheets. Iron House did not only sell goods. It sold information. It sold poison that looked like gossip.

Dickon dragged a hand across the papers, fingers shaking slightly.

"Two years," he said.

The first guard looked up briefly, confused.

Dickon’s eyes snapped to him.

"Two years," Dickon repeated, voice cold. "I have been burying Sekhmet Dawn for two years."

The guard lowered his gaze again.

Dickon leaned on the table, voice turning into a quiet confession.