The border town of Oakhaven was a place where the law of the land dissolved into the law of the blade. It was a settlement built on the grey edges of treaties, where the air smelled of damp sawdust, cheap tobacco, and the metallic tang of unspoken threats. The tavern, known to locals as The Broken Wheel, was the heart of this rot. It was a low-ceilinged structure of rotting timber and soot-stained stone, where the light of dying tallow candles struggled to push back the encroaching shadows. Constantine sat in the deepest corner of the common room, his back against the wall. He had discarded his royal silks and midnight-dyed leathers for the travel-worn wool and scuffed boots of a low-ranking noble of no particular house. His face was partially obscured by the brim of a weathered hat, and t
