The city did not sleep after Zaria’s strike.
Whispers spread through Polaris like wildfire: the Queen had bled rogues in their own nest, carved her vengeance into the heart of their ranks. Survivors whispered her name in terror. Her people whispered it in hope.
But Drevon’s ears caught every whisper. And he would not let them carry unchecked.
The counterstrike came sooner than anyone expected.
⸻
It was barely three nights after the textile mill. Zaria sat in the council chamber, her circle scattered around the table as Marcus projected schematics of new defenses onto the wall. Clara scribbled notes, her brows furrowed. Liora leaned back in her chair, tossing a knife idly from hand to hand. Enric sprawled with restless energy, eager for another hunt.
Damian stood near the window, sile
