They did not look like assassins.
They looked like librarians at war.
The first sanctioned hunters crossed into Blackthorne at dawn beneath banners of restored coherence—white sigils stitched with Heaven’s newest mark of authority. Their armor was light, ceremonial, etched with living script that shifted as they moved. No visible blades. No artillery.
Only memory-seals bound at their wrists.
Rowan’s scouts tracked them from the treeline with rising unease.
“They aren’t marching like an invasion force,” he reported. “No supply wagons. No rear guard. They’re… confident.”
Kael stood rigid at the battlements.
“Because they don’t believe they’re entering enemy land,” he said darkly. “They believe they’re entering a correction zone.”
The shadow whispered with quiet, lethal certainty.
Ar
