The air in Velthorne was thick with panic.
Tap! Tap!! Tap!!!
Guards stormed through the cobblestone streets in frantic clusters, barking orders and pointing toward the rising smoke snaking up from the heart of the city.
Civilians peeked from windows and doors, their voices hushed, confusion etched on their faces. The castle bell rang—low and ominous—summoning soldiers to the royal quarters.
And yet, Damien walked undetected.
He moved like wind between shadows—silent, precise. His cloak shimmered faintly with the silver linings woven into it, allowing him to vanish into the space between lamplight and darkness.
Those who caught fleeting glimpses of his silver hair or the glint of a blade were never granted a second look. Damien made sure of it.
Velthorne had no idea it had just been gutted from within.
