The third night after Lieutenant Talon received the sealed letter bearing Arthur Tesla's personal crest, the operation began.
Darkness blanketed Iron Hearth's lower district like a burial shroud. A thick fog curled along the cobblestones, seeping between alleyways and archways like a living thing. The three moons hung behind a veil of clouds, offering a little bit of light, and every torch in the vicinity had been extinguished hours ago.
Not a whisper came from the streets.
No laughter.
No footsteps.
Not even the sound of a stray dog.
Because this part of the district had been emptied.
Lieutenant Talon stood atop a sloped slate rooftop, the city sprawled beneath him in eerie stillness. His navy blue uniform—trimmed with silver and marked with the crest of the Law Enforcement Division—fluttered softly in the cold breeze. His eyes, trained and focused, stared down at the target: a squat, unassuming warehouse nestled between a crumbling butcher's shop and a shuttered apothecary.
