The city had drowned in whispers of Rayon Veynar.
The Forsaken Web was no longer just a gutter gang—it was a shadow empire.
And Rayon? His eyes had already left the alleys.
The palace gleamed at the city's heart, walls of white stone touched by moonlight, banners swaying above. Behind those walls lived the ones who ruled, judged, and forgot. The nobles and royals who let slums rot while they bathed in gold.
Rayon sat at the edge of a rooftop, dark hair ruffled by the night wind, staring at that glowing fortress. His hollow eyes didn't blink.
The palace… the real puppeteers. They think they sit above strings. But every king has a thread in his neck. And I'll find it.
A Different Kind of Night
But not every night was war.
Back in the Web's warehouse, the atmosphere was different. Music played on a cracked fiddle. Recruits laughed, drank, and played dice on broken crates. The stink of sweat and liquor filled the air.
Rayon sat with his lieutenants, a bottle of cheap liquor in front of him. He wasn't drunk. He didn't get drunk. His hollow eyes watched his people—their crooked smiles, their scars, their fleeting joy.
For once, there was no blood. No fighting. Just life.
Beside him, one of his top lieutenants—a sharp-eyed woman named Maris—nudged his arm.
"You ever gonna smile for real, boss? Or's that face carved into stone?"
Rayon's lips twitched faintly. "Smiles are wasted on nights like this. Tomorrow, half these idiots might be corpses."
Maris snorted, swigging her bottle. "Then smile now, while they're still breathing. You've earned it."
Rayon didn't answer. But for the first time in weeks, he let the corners of his mouth soften. Not much. Just enough for Maris to smirk back.
Later that night, Rayon lay on his cot in the back room, the sounds of laughter dim beyond the walls. Maris slipped in, tossing her jacket aside, scars catching the lantern light.
No words. Just the weight of exhaustion, the heat of survival. Bodies colliding, scars against scars, hunger taking a different shape.
When it was over, Rayon lay in silence, staring at the ceiling. Maris curled against him, already asleep.
He didn't hold her. Didn't stroke her hair.
Because Rayon wasn't built for comfort. His mind was already elsewhere—on strings, on power, on the palace glowing in the distance.
I can't love. I can't nurture. I can only pull.
He closed his eyes, hollow and cold, while Maris breathed softly against his chest.
At dawn, Rayon stood alone on the roof again, staring at the palace.
He thought of the nobles' laughter. The guards' armor polished with gold while children in the slums starved. The chains Kael bore on his body.
And his lips curled into something sharper than a smile.
"The city bows," he whispered. "Now it's time the palace bends."
Behind him, the Forsaken Web gathered. Recruits, lieutenants, killers, thieves. Waiting. Watching.
Rayon didn't need to shout. He only raised his hand, and strings shimmered faintly in the dawn light.
"New target," he said simply. "The palace."
The Web roared.
And so began the next pull of his strings.