By sundown, the story had reached every corner of Lyria. From the perfume-soaked parlors of the aristocracy to the damp cellars where the city's rats in human skin played at cards, the message was the same—Fenric Vareldis did not bluff.
In the taverns, the usual raucous music played softer. Even the bards chose their ballads carefully, replacing tales of scandal with safe, predictable legends of long-dead heroes. No one wanted their tongue to be the next trophy on the city gates.
Fenric, meanwhile, had not left his office since the execution. The scent of ink and old parchment clung to the air, mingling faintly with the metallic tang that still seemed to follow him after every killing. A dozen maps lay spread across his desk—some political, others far more personal. Lines of movement, supply routes, names circled in red.
Aria stood at the window, watching as a patrol marched past the courtyard below. "The underground's quiet," she said. "Too quiet."
