[Beneath Zahryssar — The Serpents' Den — Midnight]
The city slept, but beneath it something else woke. Deep below the veins of Zahryssar, where roots strangled stone and secrets rotted in patient silence, the serpents gathered, not nobles, not soldiers, but those who listened where others did not—who watched where others feared to look.
The unseen, the forgotten, and the necessary. At the center of it all stood Raviel. The torchlight did not soften him.
It sharpened him.
Figures emerged from the narrow corridors, one by one, like whispers given shape. Cloaked. Hooded. Their presence was marked only by the faint drag of fabric… and the measured rhythm of breath trained not to be heard.
No greetings were exchanged; there was no need. Raviel's gaze moved across them, counting, weighing, discarding, and accepting.
Then he spoke.
"What have you brought me?" The words were quiet, but they did not ask; they demanded.
