The nine had begun to whisper his name in the streets.
They carried the Devil’s Mark on scraps of cloth, scrawled it on walls with soot and blood, carved it into tavern doors with stolen knives. The poor saw them as shadows of hope. The guards saw them as vermin spreading infection.
But someone else saw them differently.
The Watchers.
It was the third night after Kael’s rooftop clash when the blood came.
The nine had gathered in the warehouse, kneeling in a circle around the carved Mark, as Kael’s voice carried through the candlelight.
“You are shadows,” Kael told them, crimson eyes burning. “You bleed for me, you strike for me, you rise with me. Tonight, your task begins. You will spread deeper, you will gather more whispers, and you will—”
The words cut off.
The boy stiffened, he
