Sylens remained where he stood long after the body had been covered.
The cold had settled in his bones, not from the night air, but from the hollow space his brother's absence left behind.
By dawn, the inn was empty—save for him, the corpse, and the jagged blood-script that mocked him from the floorboards. He didn't clean it. He wanted it there. A reminder. A wound that would not close.
When the sun finally rose over Lyra City, the Mortal Fang moved in silence. No drunken swagger. No careless laughter. The city's underworld knew when its wolves were mourning.
The funeral was swift, brutal in its simplicity. A pyre was raised in the Fang's courtyard, and his brother's body—wrapped in black cloth—was placed upon it. No priest, no incense, no blessings from the gods. The Fang prayed only to vengeance.
