The world dressed itself for mercy.
Sanctified corridors strung white-gold banners before dawn. Shrine bells rang with a tenderness usually reserved for holy births and funerals alike. Merchants reopened sealed doors as if hunger itself had been a misunderstanding now politely resolved. In the streets of distant cities, people clasped hands and whispered relief into the cold:
“It’s over.”
“The Alpha will kneel.”
“The world will be quiet again.”
Hope moved faster than truth ever had.
Blackthorne woke to a different sound.
Not bells.
Boots.
Guards rotated twice as often. Refugees packed tighter into halls and storerooms as if proximity might anchor courage. The air itself felt braced, like the moment before a storm decides whether it will break roofs or pass harmlessly overhead.
Ka
