The city slept under a pale, silver moon, its alleys quiet except for the occasional scuff of boots or the hiss of rats scavenging in the shadows. But not all eyes were closed that night.
Hidden behind a stack of wooden crates near the orphanage, a small pair of eyes watched the events that had unfolded. A boy no older than ten crouched in the darkness, heart hammering in his chest. He had seen it all—the crimson spray, the lifeless body, the glint of the Devil’s Dagger in Lira’s trembling hands.
His breath caught, but he did not move. Fear anchored him in place, though a flicker of curiosity kept his gaze fixed on Kael and Lira.
Kael sensed it immediately. Not the boy’s body, which was small, weak, and insignificant, but the disturbance in the air—the faint ripple of fear and hesitatio
