The safe house was a cold, damp refuge, the stone walls dripping with water in the weak light of a dim, flickering bulb. The air smelled of salt and earth, a salty flavor that clung to whatever it touched. Shadows built up in the corners, heavy and still, as if the cliffs themselves were looking at them. The room was a survival mess—canned goods and bandages in boxes, a metal table littered with tools and the old master's book, its pages open to cryptic symbols. A small cot creaked in the corner, its thin blanket barely covering Bethany, who rested against a pillow, her face white but her gray eyes blazing with a fire that fever could not extinguish. Her arm was bound, the wound beneath still open, her body frail but will unshattered. The sanctuary was a refuge, but a prison too, its isolation causing the chaos beyond to seem worse.Beyond, Valkoria was a city under siege, its streets shrouded in mist and terrorized. Drake's rule had been consolidated, and the morning saw a new scar.

Valkoria's great hall citadel was a glinting cage, its marble pillars reaching towards darkness thrown by massive chandeliers. Their crystals glinted like tears of ice, lighting up the red banners hanging below the vaulted ceiling, each emblazoned with Drake's serpent emblem. The air was heavy with aromas of roasting meat, scented wine, and the spiral of incense smoke from gold braziers. The white and black squares of the mosaic floor glowed, mirrored in the whirling flash of the light as it created a dizziness of shadow and light. Tables creaked beneath the burden of food—glistening pheasant, ripe fruit, and thin cakes—while the city's wealthy lounged and schemed, their jewels and silks a cruel contrast to Valkoria's starving streets. The hall thudded with hollow gladness, the celebration of Bethany's "death" and the surety of Norman's capture, yet beneath this all ambition and deception churned like a hurricane. Drake sat at the head of the hall, dark oak chair of power a throne. B

Valkoria was a city tearing itself apart at the seams, its pulse weak and labored under Drake's tyranny. Its streets, once filled with the cries of merchants and the hum of life, were now cracked and lined with trash—shattered glass, torn posters, and the husks of abandoned carts. The markets, where merchants once touted spices, fabrics, and sparkling trinkets, were almost deserted, their shops boarded up or plundered, their canopies drooping beneath the weight of neglect. A sour odor clung to the air, a compound of rotting garbage, uncollected refuse, and the acrid bite of smoke from far-off fires. Fog crept through the alleyways, gray and dense, dampening the cries of desperation—sobs muffled, the crisp report of a robbery, protesters' chants quickly hushed by Drake's goons. The city was a shadow of its former self, its heart shattered, its citizenry gaunt and despairing, their eyes sunken as they wandered the rubble of their existence.Crime was an epidemic, running rampant like w

Rain lashed down in lashing sheets, cold pitiless rain that turned Valkoria's streets into streams of mud and hopelessness. The city was in ruins, its wet pavement-smooth streets cracked and broken, its empty markets suspended in haze. Rot and smoke hung in the air with the wet chill seeping to bone. Lightning crackled the sky, its cutting light illuminating the ruins of buildings, their windows boarded and broken, their walls spray-painted with desperate pleas. The Grand Heavens, Valkoria's emblem of excess, stood defiant on a hill, its white stone wall glowing softly through the storm, its spires reaching toward the clouds. But even its excess could not be spared the city's devastation, the rain searing its walls like tears.Norman plodded through the alleys, a lone figure bundled in a tattered coat, the hood pulled low over his face to shield it. His boots splashed puddles, wetting his legs, but he continued on, his broad body hunched against the wind. His black hair, graying at th

The library abandoned under the destroyed streets of Valkoria was a sepulcher of forgotten knowledge, its walls of stone dripping with dew and slippery to the touch. A mist of suspended dust clung to the air, glimmering in the soft light of one oil lamp, its flame flickering upon a weathered table, its shadows quivering across the room. Shelves of ancient books leaned under the burden of years, their cracked leather covers, their yellowed pages of leaves. Cobwebs clung in corners, trembling in the draft that seeped through cracks unperceived, carrying the faint scent of mildew and earth. The floor was uneven, its stones smoothed by years, littered with shreds of paper and splintered quills. A box of supplies—bandages, canned food, batteries—leaned against one wall, its contents spilled across the floor, a reminder of their tenuous existence. The library was a refuge, but its silence was stifling, its shadows strained with anxiety over Norman's vanishing.Bethany stood against the tabl