The dungeons echoed with the distant clang of iron and murmured threats, but Ronan wasn't focused on the captured assassins. Their screams, their trembling fear—it all meant nothing to him in that moment.
The plan had failed. Not his plan, but Troy's. And while Riven was upstairs, bandaged and resting with a limp that twisted Ronan's stomach every time he thought about it, Ronan was down here already preparing for what came next.
Because it didn't matter that the assassins had been caught. That was a temporary victory. The real enemy still sat in the council chambers with perfectly ironed robes and patient smiles. The Elders.
They'd grown bold. Bold enough to start moving in the daylight. Bold enough to clear out noble witnesses from a crowded market without a trace of struggle. It had been too clean—too organized. It meant only one thing.
"They've started picking sides," Ronan muttered to himself, staring down at the cold stone floor of the hall outside the holding cells.
