The card turned once.
Not sideways. Not upside down.
Face up.
A faint line of silver-black light ran along its edge, and Lucien felt the meaning before the window gave it words. The draw had not come twisted. It had not come hungry for payment. It had not come with that quiet, malicious weight he had felt from Death Jester. This was the clean side of the card, or at least the closest thing the Black Arcana had to clean.
[Dirge of Blades: The Funeral March.]
[Drawn Side Up.]
[Available Options.]
[Omen.]
[Manifestation.]
[Vestment.]
Lucien's eyes moved across the words quickly.
There was no time to examine them properly. No time to test, question, or admire the new card. Six men stood around him with weapons drawn, their greed thick enough to stink worse than the alley's drains. He had gotten what he came for. The condition had been fulfilled. The card had been obtained. Now he only needed to use it before Prav's generosity decided to become fatal.
His finger twitched toward the glowing option.
Manifestation.
Before he could touch it, the narrow-faced thief charged.
It was obvious.
Painfully obvious.
The man came in with his knife held too wide, shoulders hunched, feet slapping against wet stone, breath already loud in his throat. He moved with the confidence of someone used to frightening softer men before the blade ever needed to land. To a young noble fresh from ceremony and family shame, perhaps it would have worked. A flash of steel, a sudden rush, a savage face in the dark. Panic would freeze the blood long enough for the knife to find something important.
Lucien only stepped half a pace aside.
His plain sword rose, kissed the inside of the man's wrist, and turned the knife away. The parry was small, almost lazy, because large movements belonged to men trying to impress ghosts. The thief's momentum carried him forward. Lucien's blade returned on the same breath, not with a beautiful courtly line, not with the polished flourish Delan would have beaten into a squire, but with the ugly economy of a man who knew throats opened more easily than pride.
The edge passed beneath the thief's jaw.
The man stumbled two more steps before his body understood what had happened.
Then he dropped, one hand clamped uselessly to his neck, blood spilling hot and dark between his fingers.
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For a moment, the alley should have frozen.
That was how it usually went when men realized death had arrived without asking permission. A body on the ground changed the weight of a robbery. It reminded everyone that coin could be spent only by the breathing. Panic should have settled over them, or at least caution.
Instead, one of the men laughed.
"Look at him," the broad one said, grinning at the dying thief. "First one in and first one down. Always knew Rusk had shit feet."
Another spat near the body. "Less split for him."
Greed held them together better than loyalty ever could.
Lucien watched the dying man twitch on the stones and felt nothing noble rise in him. No regret. No disgust at himself. No tremor of innocence dying in his chest. That death had happened years ago, in places far less dramatic than this alley. He had not killed because he wanted to. He had killed because the man had rushed him with a knife, and in Prav there were only a few answers to that question.
The broad thief rolled his shoulders and stepped forward next.
This one was better.
Not good, but better.
He was bigger than the first, faster too, with a short sword in his right hand and the kind of balance that came from brawling on broken streets instead of training floors. His nose had been broken more than once, and one of his ears was swollen thick from old fights. He looked at Lucien's stance, then at the dead man, and his grin showed yellow teeth.
"Proper little noble cut," he said. "Fancy training and all. Bet they taught you to bow before stabbing too."
Lucien did not answer.
The thief's grin widened. "This is the street, lordling. Street don't bow."
He kicked the broken crate beside him.
It shot across the wet stones toward Lucien's legs, splinters jutting from its side. It was a stupid trick, which meant it was dangerous. Against a noble trained in a yard, it would have worked beautifully. The young swordsman would cut by instinct, because training loved clean answers. Blade through wood. Clear the obstacle. Reclaim the line.
Then the sword would bite into old planks, stick for half a breath, and half a breath was enough for the bigger man's short sword to carve open the ribs.
Lucien ducked.
He did not move back.
He moved forward.
The crate skidded past his shoulder and crashed into the wall behind him. The broad thief's eyes widened, but his swing had already begun. He had expected resistance in the wrong place. His blade came across where Lucien's chest should have been, heavy and committed, meant to punish panic. Lucien was already inside the cut.
His left shoulder brushed the man's coat.
His sword moved once.
A short line across the side of the neck.
No flourish. No speech. No wasted hate.
The broad thief made a wet sound, dropped his sword, and fell to one knee before collapsing face-first beside the crate he had kicked.
This time the alley did go quiet.
The remaining four men stared.
Lucien straightened, his own blade angled downward, blood sliding along the edge in a thin dark thread. His breathing was steady. Too steady, perhaps. He could feel the difference between his body and his mind now more clearly than ever. This eighteen-year-old body was fresh, fast, and unruined, but it did not yet hold the endurance of the man who had spent years clawing through ditches and monster roads. His wrist was already feeling the strain. His shoulder remembered strength it did not yet possess. His stance had skill the muscles had not earned.
That mismatch would get him killed if the fight dragged on.
The remaining thieves seemed to realize something similar.
"He knows sword work," the one with the rusted saber muttered.
"No shit," another snapped.
"He's still alone," said the man with the butcher's blade.
That settled it for them.
Greed bent around fear and became violence again.
The four moved at once.
Not with discipline. Not with formation. But four blades did not need elegance in a narrow alley. One came from the front with the saber. One rushed from Lucien's left with a dagger low near the stomach. The butcher's blade lifted high, crude and heavy. The last man circled toward his back, hoping to catch him when he turned.
Lucien's free hand opened.
The black card appeared against his palm.
The moment his fingers touched it, the air behind his eyes went cold.
"Let's see what Fate has in store for you," Lucien murmured.