The city of Caelthar slept uneasily. The fires from the warehouse raid had been smothered, but their smoke still clung to the air, winding through the narrow alleys like a ghost refusing to leave.
And in those alleys, shadows moved.
Not common thieves or hungry beggars—but men bred for silence, their very existence a secret. They bore no insignia, no crest of loyalty, but those who whispered of them called them The Crows.
Six of them slipped through the night, their steps soundless even on the slick cobblestones. Faces masked, eyes sharp as flint, they moved with the confidence of predators who had already tasted blood.
At their head strode a man taller than the rest, his frame lean and wiry. His name was Veynar, though few outside the circle of blades dared speak it. In the underworld
