Morning broke with a strange heaviness. The sun rose, but its light seemed weak, as if the city itself resisted the dawn. In the lower district, people gathered in clusters, whispering in frantic voices, eyes wide with disbelief and fear.
The body of Garrick the Merchant had been found.
Blood soaked his silken sheets, his fat face frozen in terror, eyes glassy and wide. Guards who had once pocketed his coins now muttered nervously, avoiding each other’s gazes. By midmorning, rumors spread faster than fire in dry grass.
“His throat was slit like an animal’s.”
“No, no—his heart. Straight through.”
“They say his eyes glowed red before he died.”
“Red? That’s the Devil’s mark, isn’t it?”
Fear crept into the voices of the people. Garrick had been hated, yes. He cheated and squeezed them,
