Rain turned the sky into gray steam and toxic ash. Asteria's outer ring was gone. The rusted tin roofs, muddy alleys, and merchant stalls were erased. A wasteland of charred timber and shattered stone remained. The Vanguard mages had made their choice. They burned the slums to stop the Beast Tide. Aren stood in the center of the devastation. His hands were buried in the scorching wreckage of the tavern. His perception worked against him. The senses bombarded him with the morning. He smelled the sweet stench of roasting flesh beneath the rubble. He heard the whimpers of the dying trapped beneath collapsed roofs miles away. He could not hear Lily. "Lily!" Aren roared. He gripped a burning oak support beam. With a shout, he heaved the thousand-pound beam over his shoulder. He hurled it into the street. It shattered. He dropped to his knees. He dug through the hot ash and broken floorboards with his bare hands. He tossed aside flagstones and twisted hinges. He dug until his skin cra

The medallion felt cold and oily against Aren’s palm. Rain had washed the mud from the metal. It revealed the jagged, crown-like emblem forged in dark crimson enamel. He thumbed the rough edges as he walked away from the perimeter wall. The iron smelled of sulfur and coal. Inside his leather tunic, Lily’s torn shawl rested flat against his ribs. A reminder of why he was still breathing. He did not return to the triage ditch near the burning ruins. Rowan was capable enough to keep old Silas alive. Standing in the open ash would yield no answers. Aren needed to trace the iron. He descended into the collapsed aqueduct system. He stepped through the concealed drainage entrance and down the winding stone stairs into the underground black market. The damp air below smelled of burning mana, roasting spitted meat, and stale ale. Expensive magical crystals suspended from the cavern ceiling cast a glow over the crowded stone thoroughfare. Aren pulled his cloak tight around his neck. He slouch

Rain washed over the dead-end alley. It turned the pool of dark blood beneath the assassins into pale pink foam. Aren knelt in the mud beside the leader's body. His wet cloak clung to his shoulders. He searched the leader's tunic. His fingers moved with precision. In an inner breast pocket, wrapped in oilskin, he found a small notebook. The crimson crest marked the leather cover. Aren flipped the book open. His shadow vision translated the scribbles. It was an extraction ledger. Specific dates, times, and locations filled the pages. Subject 14 (Gray Market): Secured. Subject 18 (Eastern Drainage): Secured. Subject 21 (Slum Crypts): Secured. Near the bottom of the final page, fresh ink marked an entry from three nights ago: Subject 22 (Merchant Alley): Secured. Lily. Focus replaced the rage in Aren's chest. Twenty children had been snatched from the slums in the past six months alone. Aren closed the ledger. He shoved it into his belt pouch beside the medallion. He activated

The Broken Anchor sat at the dead end of a narrow cobblestone lane. It stood where the paved roads of the Golden District met the high eastern retaining wall. Rainwater gushed from a rusted downspout. It splashed onto the rot-eaten wooden sign swaying in the wind. Inside, the tavern was dark. It smelled of sour ale, wet wool, and old tobacco. Aren kept his hood low. His brown eyes scanned the room. A few off-duty estate guards sat near the stone fireplace. They diced and murmured. He walked past the wooden stairs toward the oak door leading down to the cellar. He pushed the door open. He descended the steep stone steps. The air below was damp. It smelled of turnip crates and dry oak barrels. Oil lanterns hung from the arched ceiling. They threw weak yellow circles across the flagstones. A young woman stood beside a stack of wine casks at the far end of the cellar. She wore a wool coat over the gray robes of a Holy Church novice healer. Her dark hair was pinned back. Her pale hands

Lanterns hung from the damp stone ceiling. Yellow light fell across the blood-stained flagstones. Vinegar, sour sulfur, and copper coated Aren's throat as he moved past the row of cages.Most cells stood empty. Their doors swung wide on rusted hinges. Straw littered the floors, mixed with torn scraps of linen and discarded wooden spoons.A low, gargling snarl echoed from the dark alcove at the end of the corridor.Aren stopped. His boots made no sound on the wet stone. He kept his bone-handled hunting knife low at his right thigh and let his shoulder rest against a stone pillar. His violet-ringed irises scanned the gloom.Three mutated enforcers stepped out from behind an iron partition. Their leather tunics were soaked in black fluid. Calcified bone ridges pushed through the skin on their forearms and jawlines. The largest carried an iron cleaver. The second wielded a spiked chain. The third held a cross-headed pike.They did not call out. They moved like beasts on a leash.The large