The storm screamed. Rain slashed sideways, a thousand knives from the heavens. The canyon trail had become a river of mud, sucking at boots, swallowing the weak.Max knelt in the mire, blood soaking his shirt, his chain slack in his fist. Around him, Veylan’s enforcers closed in, a half-circle of sneers and steel. Their faces gleamed with rain and torchlight, eyes cold, jaws tight with anticipation, and behind them stood Veylan.He was untouched by the storm, his wide-brimmed hat casting shadows across sharp eyes. His coat gleamed, rainwater rolling from fine oilskin, his boots unmarked by mud. He stood tall, calm, as though the chaos around him was theater staged for his amusement. “Did you think,” Veylan said, his voice carrying through thunder, “that pride alone could make you more than a bondsman?”Max lifted his head. His hair plastered his forehead, his eyes red with exhaustion and rage, but they did not waver. “I am not your dog,” he rasped.Veylan smiled, slow and deliberate