Five days had passed since the whispers started. Five days of misdirection, staged arguments, bribed gossipers, and whispered rumors spread from taverns to temples, from whorehouses to high-district.
The city's faith in Ian's strength had plummeted like a corpse in a river.
Now, three cloaked figures stood atop a crumbling rooftop overlooking the heart of Esgard.
The moonlight draped the slate tiles in cold silver, and the city below beat with life—unaware of the storm brewing above.
Ian stood on the ledge, arms crossed, the cold breeze tugging at the edge of his cloak. Beside him, Eli leaned against a broken chimney, golden eyes obscured beneath his hood. And between them, sharp as a needle in a noble's parlor, stood The Black Rat.
Despite his street name, the Rat dressed like a nobleman lost in the wrong district—black gloves, neatly pressed trousers, a wine-colored vest under a tailored longcoat.
