By now, the city was split.
The Nobles, trying to keep order, secretly fueling chaos to weaken rivals. The Crimson Coil, with Kael tightening his grip, hungry for Rayon's head. The Forsaken Web, feared, growing, but hunted.
Every district became a battlefield of whispers and blades. Every shadow could be a spy. Every street a trap.
Rayon sat with his lieutenants, bloodied but alive, planning. His hollow eyes burned with something new—not just vengeance, not just survival.
"Let them come," he said softly. "I'll pull the strings tighter. When they choke, the city will be mine."
The final spark came fast.
A noble's feast was bombed—silk, wine, and bodies burning in one blast. Fingers pointed everywhere: the Coil, the Web, rival houses.
The City Watch flooded the streets, clashing with gangs. The nobles raised private armies. The Coil unleashed assassins in waves.
And Rayon?
Rayon walked into the chaos smiling. Every step deliberate. Every scream part of his orchestra.
The city wasn't at war because of nobles or gangs. It was at war because of him.
And as he stood on a rooftop, hollow strings glowing like veins of black fire, he whispered:
"This is just the beginning."
The night exploded into chaos below.