The city had not recovered from Garrick’s death.
Only days ago, his bloated corpse was dragged through the streets, leaving behind whispers that refused to die. The guards tried to smother the rumors with steel and patrols, but fear had already seeped into the people’s bones.
Kael knew whispers alone were fragile. They rose and faded like smoke. If he wanted fear to last, if he wanted his court’s shadow to linger over the city forever, it needed form. A face. A mark.
Tonight, that mark would be born.
The orphanage’s ruined hall was silent except for the steady pulse of the Devil’s Dagger. The blade rested in Kael’s grip, glowing faintly crimson, its hum vibrating through the cracked floorboards. The three kneeling before him watched with heads bowed.
Lira, the Blade, burned with eager
