The cave breathed like a living thing. Very cold, wet and cruel.
The dripping water echoed in rhythmic intervals, each drop like a countdown to someone's ruin.
Lorenzo sat on the cracked stone throne at the very back of the cavern, hood pulled low over his face, shadow slicing across the sharp line of his jaw.
His fingers toyed with the small vial of blackened liquid beside him—seraphina's fate, and the first step in his rising storm.
He tilted his head, listening to the distant moan of the wind funneling through the cave's mouth.
His lips curled, not in amusement but in calculation.
"It worked," he murmured, voice low, velvet-wrapped poison. "Seraphina is down, her panic will shake her soldiers defenses…. Distraction one."
He leaned his head back and exhaled slowly, as though savoring the taste of victory—quiet, controlled, patient.
But his eyes hidden beneath the hood burned the color of a man who'd lost everything and decided the world would pay for it.
