By the time the bells tolled midnight, the lower districts were already burning.
It started with a single fire — a warehouse in the Dock Quarter that stored black powder and smuggled arms for Verrick's spies. An "accident," they called it at first. An overturned lantern. Careless drunkards.
But then the second blaze erupted in the Tanner's Row, consuming the safehouse where Verrick's informants met under the guise of trade. And then a third, in Silk Alley, where the brothels doubled as listening posts for the Empire's secret police.
By the fourth fire, no one called it coincidence anymore.
Leonhart walked through the flames like a man possessed.
His coat hung open, shirt stained with soot and sweat. His sword, unadorned and worn, dripped red. Around him, his growing army of the forgotten surged — beggars, thugs, gutter knights, and former soldiers cast aside by the noble houses.
"Burn it all!" Donmar roared, kicking open another door. "Spare no rat that wears Verrick's colors!"
The men obeyed with brutal enthusiasm.
Oil was poured. Torches flared. Steel sang in darkened corridors.
Leonhart didn't need to shout. His mere presence drove them harder — the man who'd once been mocked as the 'fallen lion' was now a storm made flesh. Cold. Relentless. Beautifully terrifying.
They called him King of Ashes in hushed tones even as they followed him deeper into the underbelly of the city.
In the narrow streets near Hollow Bridge, Verrick's enforcers tried to regroup, thinking they could snuff out the flames.
They never saw Leonhart coming.
He cut through their line like a reaper through grain. His sword bit deep, severing limbs and lives with surgical precision. No wasted motion. No mercy.
One of Verrick's lieutenants — a hulking brute named Corven — charged him with a spiked mace, bellowing curses.
Leonhart sidestepped, caught the man's wrist, and drove his blade clean through Corven's throat. Blood sprayed, hot and thick, as the giant toppled with a gurgling scream.
The others broke then, their bravado shattering under the weight of true fear.
Leonhart let them run.
He turned to Donmar, breath steady despite the carnage.
"Send word to the docks," he ordered. "The 'Black Swan' tavern. That's where Verrick keeps his last clean routes out of the city. I want it ash by dawn."
Donmar nodded, wiping blood from his face. "Understood, boss. We'll gut them before sunrise."
Leonhart's eyes flickered — cold, calculating.
"No. Don't just gut them. Make them scream. Loud enough that Verrick hears it in his silk bed."
Donmar grinned, savage and eager. "Now that's the Leonhart I know."
But the man they spoke of — the young, golden boy who once smiled too easily — was long dead. Buried beneath betrayal, exile, and the weight of every broken oath.
In the tower above, Evelyne watched the flames with a stillness that unnerved even her closest maids.
Her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass, but she didn't drink.
"My lady," Verrick's voice came through the mirror — strained, panicked. "He's gone mad. He's burning everything. I lost three safehouses already. We didn't expect this—"
Evelyne's gaze was cold as winter frost.
"Of course you didn't. You thought you could prod a starving wolf without losing a hand."
Verrick sputtered. "We can still contain it—"
"No," Evelyne cut him off sharply. "Containment is over. We escalate. Now."
She turned to her captain of guards, a grim-faced woman named Serah.
"Mobilize the Black Irons. Declare martial law in the lower districts. I want every street choked with my banners before dawn."
Serah saluted, her face pale. "Yes, Princess."
Evelyne finally drank, the wine bitter on her tongue.
"So it begins, Leonhart," she whispered. "You tear down my spies, and I will crush your little rebellion beneath steel boots."
But even as she spoke, something twisted deep in her chest — a dark thrill she couldn't deny.
The boy she had once been promised to… the pawn she thought broken… was now baring his fangs.
And somewhere, in the blackest part of her heart, Evelyne wanted him to bite deeper. To rise higher. So that when she finally brought him down, it would be a victory worth savoring.
At dawn, the city awoke to smoke-filled skies and streets painted red.
Official proclamations blamed criminal unrest. Riots. Saboteurs from foreign lands.
But the people knew.
They whispered of Leonhart in the alleys — the exiled son who had returned not as a prince, but as a monster carved from the city's own filth and rage.
They whispered of Evelyne — the ice-hearted princess whose silken chains wrapped around every throat in the capital.
Two demons, rising.
And every soul caught between them knew: the city would bleed before this war was done.
In the chapel, Widow Fang lay on a makeshift bed, her body broken but her eyes bright.
When Leonhart entered, she forced herself to sit up, wincing with every motion.
"You made your move," she rasped. "And the city howls."
Leonhart knelt beside her, gripping her hand — rough, calloused, stained with soot.
"I promised you revenge," he said quietly. "And I keep my promises."
Fang's lips twitched. "You always were a stubborn bastard."
A beat passed.
Then they both laughed — hoarse, bitter, but real.
Outside, the bells tolled again.
Not for prayer.
But for war.