The slums didn't sleep anymore. Every corner whispered about Rayon Veynar—the boy who slaughtered seasoned killers and walked out untouched. His name wasn't a rumor now. It was a curse. A promise. A storm.
But Rayon didn't care about whispers. Whispers were cheap. He wanted the truth.
And truth came with blood.
Inside the Forsaken Web's warehouse, his recruits trained like starving dogs. Bruises, broken ribs, cut lips—none of them complained. Rayon demanded results, not excuses.
He walked through them like a shadow, strings dancing at his fingertips.
"You break bones, you keep fighting," he said coldly, stepping over a boy gasping on the floor. "You lose an arm, you learn to use the other. You fall, you crawl. You stop moving… you die. That's the world."
The recruits nodded, sweat dripping, eyes wide. None dared speak back. Not when his gaze could cut deeper than blades.
Rayon wasn't building fighters. He was building weapons.
The Nobles Move
High above the city, the council of nobles made their first move.
The bounty doubled. Then tripled. Assassins were dispatched. Spies planted in the slums.
"Crush him quietly," one noble said. "If he becomes a symbol, the city will burn."
But another smirked. "Perhaps that's what we need. Let the boy draw blood. If the Crimson Coil and the Watch cut each other apart over him, we pick up the pieces."
Already, Rayon was becoming more than a threat. He was a tool. A pawn in games older and deeper than he realized.
The Coil's Response
Meanwhile, in the broken cathedral, Kael sharpened his blade.
The survivors knelt, trembling as he carved a line into the stone floor with his strings. His presence was suffocating—every breath they took felt like it belonged to him.
"He thinks he's untouchable," Kael said quietly. "A child. A rat who's tasted blood and believes himself a wolf."
The line he carved wasn't just a mark—it was a chain, glowing faintly, heavy with power.
"When I see him, I'll show him the difference between strings and chains."
That night, Rayon sat on the warehouse roof, staring at the city lights. His hollow eyes reflected the fires in the distance.
He thought of the Coil. Of Kael. Of the nobles sharpening knives in their gilded halls.
And he smiled faintly.
"They think I'm a boy playing at war." His voice was soft, almost amused. "Good. Let them think. When I pull, they'll all dance."
The strings hummed around his hands, invisible but alive.
Rayon wasn't just surviving anymore. He was weaving.
And the city was already caught in his web.