The car idled at the edge of the lower district, the engine’s low hum vibrating through the cabin like a heartbeat. Smoke rose from the narrow streets, thick and choking, carrying the scent of burning wood, ash, and fear. Damian’s hands rested on the steering wheel, tight, controlled, every knuckle white beneath his gloves. George sat rigid beside him, eyes darting to the chaos unfolding beyond the car’s windows. The district, once alive with commerce and chatter, now lay in ruin. Roofs smoldered, windows shattered, and the screams of children and the elderly cut through the night like knives. Damian’s chest tightened, but not with fear. With every pulse, he felt the fire of resolve growing within him. “Your Grace…” George began, voice quivering, “we should—” “Silence,” Damian said, his voice low, sharp, carrying the weight of command. “Watch.” From the smoke-shrouded street ahead, figures appeared. Knights, their armor glinting in the flickering light of the fires, advanced deli