The midnight bells of the Grand Cathedral tolled with a heavy, mournful resonance that felt increasingly out of place amidst the dying embers of the Black Rose Festival. A thin layer of fog had rolled in from the Southern docks, clinging to the ankles of the soldiers who stood like statues of obsidian in the palace courtyard. The scent of incense, usually a symbol of peace, now mingled with the sharp, acrid smell of oil. Constantine stood at the head of the formation, his black armor absorbing what little light remained in the sky. He did not need to speak; the intent was written in the cold, unyielding lines of his silhouette.
"The infiltration attempt was neutralized at the western gate, My Lord," Isabella said, stepping out from the shadows. She held a silver dagger, its blade wet with
