“YOU TRAITORS!”The scream was a wet, choked thing, torn from the ruins of his throat. It echoed off the damp, moss-covered stones of the deepest dungeon in the capital.A wet thwack and a spray of hot blood answered him.A mountain of a man, a half-ogre brute with skin like green-tinged granite, sliced through his left wrist with a cleaver. The blade was crude, notched, but it got the job done. His severed hand, still clenched, skittered across the stone floor.The brute, Brog, grunted and kicked the hand toward another of his former comrades.A feral-looking man with matted hair and glowing amber eyes snatched it from the air. He didn't hesitate. He tore into the flesh like an animal, the crunch of bone sickening in the sudden silence.Seraph Ignis, Knight Lieutenant of the First Knights, pride of the Sunstone Order, could only watch. His body, chained to the cold, sacrificial altar, was a landscape of ruin.His eyes had been seared by magical light, leaving him in a world of agoniz

The moon was bright and offered just enough light to make the shadows of Lord Valgus’s estate look like claws.Outside its 15-foot perimeter wall, a guard yawned and stretched his arms. He was halfway through a second yawn when a shadow detached itself from the larger darkness of the wall.The guard’s eyes widened. The shadow was massive, a solid black shape of impossible bulk.“Who’s th—”THWACK.The sound was a dull, wet pop, like a melon dropped on stone.Boudica ‘Bo’ Ironside, a mountain of a man, lowered the armoured fist that had just caved in the guard's helmet. He caught his body before it slumped and silently dragged him into the bushes. Fast and efficient.Bo gave two sharp raps on the stone. All clear.Deeper inside the compound, in the barracks near the stables, the real filth of Valgus's operation was sleeping. A dozen hardened bandits and a slaver crew he used for his dirty work, were snoring in their cots.A pale, ethereal-looking girl, Lyra Ashwood, slipped through the

Hours after the operation, the sun was just beginning to stain the smog of the common lands with a dirty, grey light.This was the capital's underbelly, a place of gutters, cramped dwellings. You could smell the boiled cabbage and unwashed bodies.But on one corner, there was a small, clean beacon known as the “Yunis Apothecary.”It was a simple, two-storey building, its windows clean, its door painted a respectable blue.Through the door, there was a small, tidy waiting room. Moving past the counter, you would come across a private backroom which was Kaelen’s actual examination office.Against the far wall was a heavy oak bookshelf. But it wasn't a bookshelf.A hand, Pyralis's, pressed a hidden latch. With a hiss of oiled hinges, the entire wall swung inward, revealing a flight of stone steps leading down into the dark.He descended.The cramped, herbal-smelling clinic above gave way to something else entirely.The Lair.It was a massive, magically lit subterranean chamber. Part high

The Astrea Night Market was on fire.Not literally, yet. But the energy was raw and lively.It was nothing like the stuffy, silent balls of the Royal Capital. This was the lower nobles' and rich commoners' secret, a place of rebellion. This was a party with life.The massive, two-story warehouse, once a place of shipping manifests and dust, had been transformed. Brightly coloured, thick silks were draped from the rafters.Magical, glowing orbs pulsed in time with a heavy, thumping bass beat that can be felt more than it was heard.The air was thick and hot, smelling of spiced wine, roasted meats, and a hundred expensive, conflicting perfumes.Hundreds of people—minor nobles in garish, animal-themed masks, wealthy merchants in gaudy jewelry, and common-land celebrities—were packed onto the dance floor. They were sweating, laughing, and drunk.On a small, makeshift stage, a bard with a magically amplified lute was singing a very rude, and very beautiful song about a "certain Lord who lo

In the deepest, most reinforced sub-level of the lair, Kaelen Yunis was walking around, calculating—he was in his element.The room was a sterile, white-tiled surgical theatre, a stark contrast to the comfortable chaos of the command centre in the front. It smelled of ozone, antiseptic, and a faint, coppery tang of blood.In the centre, Brog the Unbroken was strapped to a massive, tilted steel table. Thick, enchanted chains bound his wrists, ankles, and massive torso. He was unconscious, a network of wires and tubes snaking from Kaelen's humming alchemical devices into his thick, grey and green skin.Pyralis Cinderfall stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his metal fingers tapping on his artificial bicep.It had been a masterwork of chaos.While Aelia and the others were staring at the empty sewer grate, Bo and Elara had circled back. They'd grabbed the unconscious Brog, whose own men had abandoned him in the party chaos and dragged him with Pyralis.Now, their prisoner was Kaelen's ne