The city had not slept.
The Devil’s Mark was everywhere. Carved on walls. Burned into tavern doors. Etched onto the gates of the market fountain. Even the guardhouse itself bore the spiral, bold and jagged, mocking every sword and shield that tried to protect the people.
At dawn, the barracks erupted. Soldiers swarmed the streets, torches and blades clattering, boots pounding against the cobblestones. Captains shouted orders, their voices breaking as fear wrapped itself around even the most hardened men.
“Find the culprits!”
“Scour the alleys!”
“No wall goes unchecked!”
But no amount of shouting silenced the trembling in their ranks. Some soldiers muttered prayers as they marched. Others spat to hide the quiver in their throats. A few swore they saw the mark glowing when they turned
