The moonless night cloaked the Voss chateau in abyssal black, its ancient stone walls rising like jagged teeth from the frostbitten earth, devouring the feeble glow from scattered outlying lamps.
Wind whispered through skeletal oaks, carrying the metallic tang of impending rain, but Rhys moved as its shadow—fluid, inexorable, a specter forged in vengeance's forge.
Black tactical gear enveloped him from boot to hood, matte fabric swallowing light; the surgical mask fused to his face ensured anonymity, thin gloves a barrier against the world's fingerprints.
He was the phantom Victor had raved about in fevered whispers, the unseen force unraveling the dynasty thread by thread.
The grounds patrol had been diverted by a remote signal to Rhys's wrist device, their radios crackling false al
