The night over Duskmoor was heavy and low, the clouds pressing down as if they, too, felt the weight of what lurked beneath the streets. The city’s towers stood black against the dim moonlight, their banners hanging limp in the stale wind. The bells had not rung since the temple’s fall; the silence was a wound that spread unease through every alley and courtyard.
Inside the Regent’s council chamber, candles burned low, their wax spilling like pale tears down iron holders. Maps of the city and its underground channels were spread across a long oak table, marked with pins and ink that bled from hurried strokes. The air smelled of old parchment, damp stone, and the sharp tang of fear.
Regent Harrow stood at the head of the table, his gaunt face half-lit by the flickering candles. His dark h
