Dawn Walker-Chapter 176: Mysterious Figure

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They slipped back into the city like shadows returning to their cage before dawn. The walls swallowed them. The streets grew quieter. The lanterns thinned.

Sekhmet did not look back. Vera and Vela followed, hunger calmer now, discipline stronger. Bat Bat kept glancing at the rooftops like she expected Elena to be sitting there with a homework book and vengeance.

The night air felt cold on Sekhmet’s throat where the earlier bites had left faint marks. They were heading toward Dawn House, keeping to the darker routes, counting time by instinct.

Because if they returned too late, servants would notice. And servants noticing was how secrets died...

A few streets away, in a different part of Slik City, the world was still awake.

Not the streets.

Not the market.

The mansion.

The City Lord’s mansion did not sleep like ordinary houses. It stayed alert like a beast guarding its territory. Behind high walls and layered runes, private conversations happened at hours when ordinary people dreamed.

The luxurious office inside the City Lord mansion did not feel like a room.

It felt like a statement.

Thick carpets swallowed footsteps. Curtains of deep velvet blocked the outside world as if sunlight was unworthy of entering without permission. The walls were lined with shelves of old books and sealed scroll cases, each case stamped with sigils that glimmered faintly when the lantern light shifted.

Even the air smelled expensive — ink, polished wood, rare incense, and something faintly metallic underneath it all, like the room remembered blood even when no blood was present.

Tick - tock... tick - tock... tick - tock...

A clock in the corner kept time like an insult. In Null, most people pretended time did not matter. City Lords still used clocks because schedules mattered when you ruled a city full of monsters, merchants, and egos.

Behind a wide blackwood desk sat the City Lord of Slik.

Lily’s father.

He looked like a man who had never needed to shout. His posture was calm, shoulders straight, eyes steady. His hair was dark with threads of grey that made him look more dignified instead of old. His face carried the hard lines of responsibility, but not bitterness. There was a quiet authority in him, the kind that made guards unconsciously stand straighter just by entering the room.

Across from him sat a visitor. The visitor wore a cloak. Not the cheap cloak of a traveler hiding from rain.

A hooded cloak that looked like it drank light. The fabric was smooth and clean, too perfect, and the shadow under the hood was deeper than it should have been, like the hood was not hiding a face so much as hiding a presence.

The City Lord’s hands rested lightly on the desk. His voice was polite.

Not warm.

Polite in the way a ruler spoke to something he respected but did not fully understand.

"Eyera Dawn is not present in the city," the City Lord said. "He has been away for some time. I do not know when he will return."

The hooded figure did not move.

For a heartbeat, even the clock seemed quieter.

Then the visitor spoke.

The voice was calm. Smooth. Not male. Not female at first. Just... controlled.

"He might not be coming back," the figure said.

The City Lord’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Why," he asked.

There was a pause.

The visitor leaned forward just enough that the air in the room tightened, like pressure had increased without any wind.

"Do not ask unnecessary questions," the figure said softly.

The words were not shouted. But they carried weight. Not political weight. Power weight. The kind of weight that made the City Lord’s instincts flare quietly in his chest.

Then the figure continued, voice still calm.

"It is none of your business," the visitor said. "I am here to return a favor."

The City Lord did not change his posture, but his fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the desk. He spoke carefully.

"A favor," he repeated.

"Yes," the figure replied. "Just inform me if something goes wrong with Dawn House. Like dying wrong."

The visitor paused. Then added a line to be more specific.

"Especially his son."

The City Lord’s gaze sharpened. He did not ask how the visitor knew. He did not ask why a being like this cared about a merchant family.

He had learned long ago that when a godlike existence spoke, curiosity was a weapon that could turn and cut the hand holding it.

Instead, he answered with calm honesty.

"My daughter is a good friend of the boy," the City Lord said. "His name is Sekhmet Dawn. As far as I know, he is doing alright."

His voice lowered slightly.

"There are business problems," he admitted. "Pressure from rival merchant houses. But nothing life threatening. Not yet."

The visitor’s hood tilted slightly, like a bird adjusting its head.

"I do not care about business problems," the figure said.

The words were blunt. The word felt cold.

The City Lord did not react with offense. He understood. To someone beyond mortal politics, business wars were insects fighting over crumbs.

The visitor continued.

"Just inform me if there is any life threatening problem," the figure said. "If his life is at risk. If something reaches him that should not. Let me know."

The City Lord nodded once.

"Yes," he said. "I will inform you."

The visitor remained silent for a breath. Then, slowly, the figure reached up and touched the edge of the hood.

The City Lord’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in focus.

The hood came down. And the room changed. It was not dramatic lightning. It was not a storm. It was the simple revelation of something beautiful enough to feel wrong.

A woman.

She was young looking, perhaps in her thirties at most, but the kind of thirties that did not belong to mortal years. Her skin was flawless, not powdered, not painted, but naturally perfect. Her hair was dark, long, and smooth, falling like silk over her shoulders. Her eyes were the most unsettling part.