The Free City woke to stillness.
Smoke still lingered over the ruined fortress, but beyond the slums, life carried on as if nothing had happened. Merchants hawked their wares, bells rang from temple towers, and nobles sipped wine behind guarded walls. Only those who lived near the Hollow Coin knew the truth—that the night had torn one syndicate out by the roots.
But in the houses of the rich and powerful, silence was heavier than smoke.
---
Maria and Elizabeth knelt on the carpet of a darkened chamber, their foreheads nearly brushing the floor. A single oil lamp burned on the desk before them, throwing long shadows that swallowed the man seated in the high-backed chair. His face was lost to darkness, his voice the only thing that gave shape to his presence.
"You're certain?" His words were calm, but cold enough to freeze the breath in their lungs.
"Yes, my lord," Maria said quickly, her voice steady only through practiced submission. "There is no mistake. He is her son."
The man leaned forward slightly, but the gloom clung to his features. A faint scrape of leather against wood, the shift of his weight—and then silence stretched until Elizabeth dared to raise her head.
"So… he lives," the man murmured at last. "Her son. Interesting."
Maria took a careful breath. "If I may, my lord… you've been searching for him for so long. Are you certain you do not wish to meet him?"
"No," the single word came sharp and final. "To meet him now would raise too many questions. His identity must remain unknown. For now."
Maria nodded, though her chest tightened with concern. "As you command, my lord."
A faint, irritated click of the tongue echoed in the chamber. "Tch. Send someone to watch him. Closely. I want to know where he walks, who he speaks to, what he dreams of at night. He may not know what he is, but I will."
The shadows thickened with his words, pressing heavy on the sisters' shoulders until they lowered their heads again.
---
Elsewhere, in a far brighter office perfumed with oils and smoke, Anne lounged behind her desk with a cup of wine. The brothel's madam, Joan, sat opposite her, tallying accounts with ink-stained fingers. Their quiet work was broken when a guard stepped in, bowed stiffly, and laid a sealed letter on the desk.
Anne cracked it open with a fingernail, her eyes flicking across the page. Then laughter burst from her, rich and sharp.
"Joan! Come and see this."
The older woman leaned in, frowning, and scanned the letter herself. Slowly her lips curved into a dry smile.
"Hah. That little rascal of yours is trying to buy us?"
Anne tossed the parchment aside and leaned back, still chuckling. "Naïve, isn't he? I'd wager he sent half a dozen of these letters across the city, begging for truce and favor."
Joan arched an eyebrow, glancing at Anne. "And you? Are we going to save him again, as usual?"
Anne's cheeks tinged with color, though she hid it beneath a smirk. "Of course I am. That boy… he's too stubborn to survive otherwise. And… I can't help it. He's got my sympathy."
Joan shook her head with an amused smile. "You've got a soft spot for him, Anne. Just try not to let it get you burned."
Anne waved her off, sipping her wine. "Let them think he's weak. Let them underestimate him. That's all the advantage he needs—for now."
---
In the quarter of the merchant lords, Glover ate breakfast at a table stacked with figs, cheese, and steaming bread. The clink of knives and the murmur of servants filled the air until Sebastian, his steward, entered and bowed low.
"A letter, my lord."
Glover broke the seal, his brow furrowing as his eyes darted over the lines. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
"Well, well," he murmured, setting the parchment down beside his plate. "So the boy thinks he can play at being a syndicate." He reached for his cup, swirling the wine. "Let's see how long he survives the table he's chosen to sit at."
Sebastian raised a cautious brow, but said nothing. He had served Glover long enough to know that grin meant schemes were already forming.
---
Far from the city, a column of riders carved their way along a winding road through sun-bleached hills. At their head rode a beastman broad of shoulder, his fur dark as midnight with streaks of bronze glinting in the dawn. His mane was bound in a warrior's knot, and his amber eyes burned with a predator's patience. Steel plates covered his chest, his arms, even his tail, and the warhorse beneath him snorted clouds of steam with every breath.
This was Kareth, warlord of the Panther Tribe—and father of Charles.
Around him marched nearly a hundred guards, warriors thick with muscle and steel, their black banners snapping in the wind.
One of his captains urged his horse closer, lowering his voice though the column's rumble swallowed most words. "Are you certain there is no other way, my lord? Must we really kneel before that lion bastard?"
Kareth's jaw tightened. "Tch. You know as well as I do—we have no choice. It is humiliation now, or death later." His gaze cut sideways, sharp as a blade. "Or are you challenging my decision, Orrin?"
The captain bowed low in the saddle. "No, my lord."
"Good," Kareth growled. "Then remember this: today we bow, but tomorrow… tomorrow we sharpen the claws. The Lion Kingdom bleeds like any other."
The warriors around him roared their agreement, but Kareth's eyes were already fixed on the horizon. Beyond those hills lay politics, humiliation, and submission. Beyond that—vengeance.
---
Back in the Wandering Heart, Charles stirred in the dim light, his body sore and his chest still humming with the lingering fire of the mana surge. He blinked against the shadows, unsure if the trembling in his hands was fatigue—or something else.
A soft breeze rattled the window shutters, carrying the faint scent of smoke and dust from the Hollow Coin ruins. He could feel the mana inside him, still restless, coiling and twisting like a caged snake.
Something made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He froze, ears straining. The room was empty, yet… he wasn't alone.
A whisper of movement, too soft to name, brushed against the edges of his perception. Someone had been here. Watching. Waiting.
Charles' fingers itched toward his sword, but he stayed still, his mind racing. Whoever it was, they had not revealed themselves—yet.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt the weight of being hunted, even when he thought he was alone.
The night held its breath.