The palace was another world.
Outside its white walls, the city choked on blood, crime, and hunger. Inside, laughter rang through gilded halls, wine spilled like water, and silk dragged across marble floors.
In the east wing, noble daughters danced to harps while servants bowed low. In the west, drunken lords wagered whole villages in games of dice, their laughter loud enough to drown out the starving cries beyond the walls.
The palace lived in denial. A kingdom inside a kingdom. A dream built on corpses.
But dreams were fragile.
The royals weren't stupid. They knew the city was bleeding. They knew Rayon's name.
That's why they had the Sentinels.
The Sentinels were no ordinary guards. They were the king's personal weapons—men and women bound to the throne, trained from childhood, carved into something beyond human.
There were six.
Veyra, the Iron Saint – clad in silver armor, her body a fortress, her fists breaking walls like paper. Alrik, the Whisperblade – a killer who could step between shadows, blade always finding throats. Dareth, the Brandbearer – body covered in glowing runes, each strike releasing fire and thunder. Liora, the Silver Tongue – she spoke, and men obeyed. Her voice was a command threaded with power. Sorin, the Pale Hunter – bow in hand, never missing, his arrows faster than sight. Malken, the Hollow Priest – dressed in white robes, his prayers twisted flesh, making enemies bleed from within.
These weren't nobles playing war. They were predators, sharpened to kill threats exactly like Rayon.
While the Sentinels trained in secret courtyards, the royals feasted.
The queen reclined on velvet cushions, grapes placed in her mouth by trembling servants. The king's sons boasted of their hunts, of deer slain in forests while peasants starved.
One princess whispered of Rayon, calling him romantic—a boy from the slums daring to rise. The room erupted with laughter.
To them, Rayon was still a story. A rumor. A shadow not worth fearing.
But shadows crept closer than they thought.
On a roof just beyond the palace walls, Rayon crouched in silence. His hollow eyes tracked the torchlight, the patrols, the laughter that spilled over the walls.
His Web begged him to wait. To prepare. To strike smarter.
But Rayon wasn't planning to retreat this time.
He remembered Kael's chains choking him. The nobles' bounties. The orphan den burning.
Retreat was death in slow motion. Retreat meant giving them the right to breathe while he starved.
"No more running," he whispered, strings trembling around his hands. "This time, I pull until it breaks."
He rose, cloak whipping in the wind.
Inside, the Sentinels sharpened blades, drank wine, and waited.
Outside, Rayon Veynar stepped toward the gates.
The web was about to touch the throne.