The clock tower felt less like a sanctuary and more like an altar of judgment as the midnight wind whistled through the broken masonry. The tender silence that had followed Vera's surrender to Kassian was short-lived, quickly replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of a body being dragged across the rotted floorboards.
Damon emerged from the darkness of the stairwell, his breathing as steady as a mountain breeze despite the high-speed pursuit over the rooftops. In his left hand, he gripped the collar of Corvus's grey cloak. The "Collector" of the Guild no longer looked like a terrifying ghost of the Grey District; he looked like a broken doll. His face was a mask of blood and dust, and his right leg trailed at an unnatural angle.
Damon threw the man into the center of the tower with a clinical, cold efficiency. Corvus hit the floor with a pained grunt, gasping for air that felt like needles in his lungs.
