The night was dark and cold, with a biting wind howling through the ruins of the ancient castle. The faint glow of campfires flickered on the stone walls, casting a somber, oppressive silence over the camp, as if it were awaiting the arrival of a storm.
Bruce stood at the end of the road, like a gambler defying fate. His words were sharp, his tone provocative, yet his eyes were as calm as stagnant water. He was well aware that he was pouring fuel on the fire—but he was enjoying it. He needed a scapegoat, someone to take the blame, so that the upcoming crackdown would be justified.
Soon, he got his wish.
Four men emerged from the crowd, their eyes devoid of hesitation—batons and daggers drawn from their waists, charging toward him without warning or ceremony.
Bruce stepped back, quickly
