The ship shuddered slightly, the turbulence of entry pulling the air outside into a roaring fury. The vast expanse of space, infinite and black, was soon replaced by the swirling storm of Pelegeion’s atmosphere. Flames streaked from the ship’s underbelly as it tore through the dense clouds, the vessel’s engines cutting through the chaos with calculated precision.

  First, there was the noise—the rush of the ship’s immense power cutting through the atmosphere, the air itself screaming in resistance. But even in this violent descent, the ship’s trajectory remained perfect. Every movement deliberate, controlled. The craft was a monolith, a beast of function, intent only on reaching the ground.

  The clouds parted beneath it like curtains drawn open to reveal a shimmering world below.

  The turbulence subsided as the ship emerged from the thick layers of cloud cover, and the glowing surface of Pelegeion stretched out like a jewel caught in a web of light. Below, the capital city sprawled in crystalline clarity, gleaming like a labyrinth of mirrored stone. Towers twisted upward, their spires crowned with gilded domes and architectural beauty so ostentatious, so polished, it bordered on the obscene.

  From the height, it was as though the city were alive—its web of lights blinking and pulsing with a rhythm that almost mirrored a heartbeat. The shifting hues of neon—reds, blues, and golds—glinted from the sprawling lower districts, giving the landscape a surreal glow. Above the city, vast structures hovered, suspended in air by anti-grav engines. These floating marvels were the crowns of the elite, rising high into the heavens to observe the city they owned.

  As the ship continued its descent, the true scale of Pelegeion became apparent. The city was more than just an urban jungle—it was an emblem of power, of control, of artifice. Its grand architecture clashed with the natural beauty that lingered at its edges. Far off, massive cliffs cut into the landscape, sharp and jagged, though they were distant enough to seem like the remains of some forgotten age.

  And above it all, the sky itself was a brilliant wash of purple and gold, streaked with the faintest hint of dawn. The two moons of Pelegeion hovered in the distance, their pale light shining down over the city, casting long, haunting shadows across the towers.

  The ship's descent became a slow, calculated glide as it began to approach the landing platform. The storm of atmosphere had long since been left behind. The silence inside the craft, thick with anticipation, felt like a final moment before everything changed.

  Pelegeion waited. The city’s cold perfection only deepened as the ship neared the landing zone—a place reserved for those of power, of stature. The Emperor’s envoy had arrived.

  The arrival of the Imperial envoy was a spectacle, an imposing procession that unfolded before them. The first to disembark from the ship were the chilling sight of Dante Saint’s personal forces, the Blade Attendants,. Their movements were methodical, synchronized, and disciplined, like soldiers in perfect formation. Their cloaks were dark and flowing, and their hoods were drawn low, casting their features into shadow. A cloth covered their faces, leaving only their eyes visible—eyes that gleamed with a cold, calculating focus. They moved with a silent precision that made them seem almost otherworldly, like shadows slipping into the light. The sigil of the Fist of Lightning—the three jagged arrows within a clenched fist—was visible on their cloaks, marking them as loyal servants to the Emperor. There was no question about their purpose; they were the Emperor’s instruments, soldiers above all else.

  The Verlone soldiers, positioned to guard and keep the crowd at bay, watched the Blade Attendants with wariness. These figures weren’t just another layer of the Emperor’s entourage—they were a reminder of the military power the Emperor could unleash at will.

  Virelia observed them with keen eyes, but her instincts weren’t yet on high alert. She had seen such warriors before—her mind cataloged their presence without alarm, at least not yet. It was the next group that stirred something deeper within her.

  The next figures to step off the ship were different. A strange, unsettling feeling gripped her chest as she noticed them—men and women whose demeanor was a sharp contrast to the precision of the Blade Attendants. These figures moved in a loose formation, yet their presence radiated a palpable strength. Virelia’s eyes narrowed as she took them in.

  They weren’t like the Blade Attendants. These figures moved with a kind of fluid grace, almost predatory. They didn’t wear cloaks or masks to obscure their features, but their expressions were unreadable, hidden behind steely, monstrous masks—each one depicting a grotesque, stylized monster’s face. Their movements were smooth and practiced, as if every motion had been ingrained into their very being. The masks—each one meticulously crafted—seemed to distort their faces, transforming them into something other than human. The monsters they wore seemed to echo something deeper, something Virelia couldn't quite place. A connection to the darker places in the galaxy, perhaps, or the beastly nature of the Inner Ring? Either way, she could tell that these individuals were not simply soldiers—they were something far more dangerous. Her gaze flickered briefly to the Verlone Praetorians, elite soldiers standing vigil along the spaceport. They shifted uneasily at the sight of these masked figures. A cold chill ran through the crowd, and Virelia’s instincts flared, alert to the danger these individuals posed. There was no mistaking it: they were fighters, and powerful ones at that.

  The air shifted again, and the next wave of arrivals seemed to ease the tension somewhat, though their presence could hardly be called reassuring. Members of the Imperial Court emerged next, gilded in rich combinations of gold, white, violet, and blue—opulent, extravagant, and far removed from the grim utilitarianism of the soldiers. They were a striking contrast to the Blade Attendants and the mysterious figures who had preceded them. Their clothes shimmered, their demeanor carefree, and their laughter was light and easy, a sharp juxtaposition to the grimness that had preceded them.

  Among them was the Emperor's Herald, a tall figure holding a gleaming golden scroll—the Edict of the Emperor. His arrival was heralded by his gilded robes, a sharp contrast to the austere nature of the rest of the entourage. With the scroll in hand, he appeared every inch the dignitary, but Virelia knew better than to let appearances fool her. The politicking of the Imperial Court was just as dangerous, perhaps more so, than any blade. But all of that—though it demanded her attention—was a mere backdrop to the man who had brought them all here.

  Finally, Dante Saint descended from the ship. The shift in the air was palpable. His descent from the ship was almost surreal. As he stepped onto the spaceport, his presence immediately commanded attention, not through grandeur or dramatic gestures, but through a quiet, restrained intensity. He didn’t wear a cloak like the Blade Attendants or the members of the Imperial Court. Instead, his robes were dark, grey and black, with the faintest sheen of aged Imperial gold lining the hems. The gold had long since lost its luster, tarnished by time and use. His attire was simple, practical, and showed no inclination toward the extravagance that surrounded him. It was functional—like a warrior's uniform. His robes were not designed to impress, but to endure.

  The first thing Virelia noticed about Dante was the scar that marked his face. A stark, cross-shaped slash ran across his features—sharp and brutal. The vertical cut tore through his left eye, slicing across the cheek, while the horizontal cut began just under his right eye, cutting through the nose, and continued across the left cheekbone. The scar wasn’t some battle-earned trophy; it was something colder, something permanent, a harsh reminder of the violence that had shaped him. His stubble did little to hide the severity of his features, only emphasizing their angularity, the sharp planes of his face. The lines of his face were hard, defined by years of hardship and struggle, with the bone structure of someone accustomed to living in a world of conflict.

  His dark hair, grown out and parted neatly down the middle, framed his face, though it did little to soften the severity of his appearance. His steel-grey eyes glinted with a detached, almost calculating intensity, betraying little emotion as they scanned his surroundings. There was an emptiness to them, a coldness that felt almost mechanical. And yet, there was a depth, a quiet understanding of the world—a world that he seemed to have experienced in ways no one else could fathom. His eyes could look right through you, as if measuring you for something, but offering nothing in return.

  The Imperial Blademaster moved with purpose, his steps deliberate and precise. There was no flourish in his stride, no attempt at grace or grandiosity. His movements were efficient, unhurried, but purposeful. As he walked, there was something almost snake-like in the way he coiled and uncoiled, like a predator assessing its next strike, calculating and poised. Every motion felt controlled, restrained. He didn’t need to be flamboyant or showy; his very presence, the way he held himself, exuded danger—quiet, subtle, but ever-present.

  Virelia's eyes never left him as he descended, her sharp gaze noting every detail. His scar was a reminder. This man was a Blademaster, just like her. She could see it in the way his presence lingered, the stillness of his body, the quiet violence behind his eyes. He had come up the same way as she did, as they all did. Through blood and death, scaling mountains of corpses to reach the top. The scar was a mark of his journey, and though she did not fear him, she could not deny the subtle recognition in the back of her mind. This was a wake-up call from the sneering and snide comments in the earlier Council in the Spire.

  A Blademaster was always a Blademaster. Not anything lesser.

  But there was something strange about Saint. Something unsettling. Virelia’s instincts screamed that she could defeat him if it came to that—her confidence in her own abilities was unmatched, and she had beaten more than one Blademaster in the past. But he wasn’t like the others. His presence didn’t carry the typical arrogance, the need for dominance. No. His was a quiet, calculating power. He was a still lake, but Virelia could feel the potential for a storm beneath the surface. She couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but she could feel it—a flicker of unease that lingered like a shadow at the edge of her thoughts.

  He didn’t seem dangerous. Not outwardly. And yet, there was something about the way he moved, the way he carried himself, that whispered of an unspoken threat. It wasn’t the typical threat of a Blademaster. It was something more refined, more controlled. Something Virelia couldn’t quite grasp. Maybe it had something to do with living in the Imperial Court. Saint seemed so perfectly self-contained, as if he didn’t want to give away anything. Whatever it was, Virelia knew one thing: Dante Saint was not someone to take lightly. Even if she could defeat him, there was a part of her that understood that the battle would not be as simple as it might seem. Something was different about this one. Something she would have to keep in mind.

  The steady hum of the Imperial transport faded into the background as the boarding ramp extended, its polished metal kissing the ancient stones of the Verlone spaceport.

  The air outside was heavy with unspoken tension — the weight of thousands of eyes pressed against invisible barriers, held at bay by stern-faced Verlone soldiers.

  Dante Saint emerged from the ship.

  Each step he took down the ramp was soundless, deliberate, without waste.

  No cloak to billow dramatically. No ornaments to announce him.

  Only the austere flow of his dark robes, stitched with the aged gleam of Imperial gold along their edges its luster dulled by time, not by carelessness.

  As the grey light struck him, it revealed the hard planes of his face, its sharp cheekbones, the firm line of his mouth, and above all, the scar carved into his flesh: the cross shaped wound, where a blade had cruelly raked him. The vertical line cutting from brow through his left eye down to his cheek, the horizontal slicing from beneath his right eye across the bridge of his nose. It did not mar him. It crowned him. A symbol of survival.

  His steel-grey eyes swept outward from under dark brows, calm and pitiless, dissecting the welcoming party before him.

  He saw it all in a moment.

  First, Duke Caelan de Verlone. He was tall. Slender. Almost ethereal. His platinum blonde hair, fell to his shoulders like molten silver and his pale skin was seemingly untouched by the suns of Pelegeion. Sharp, honed intelligence glittered in his emerald eyes. A prince out of some ancient tale, perfected to the point of fragility. Dante's gaze lingered — not with admiration, but calculation. This man was too perfect, too controlled. Each one of his gesture precisely measured, each breath calculated. This man who had invested his life not into projecting an image of unassailable nobility, but into being unassailable nobility. Which meant that once the facade cracked, everything he was would fall apart.

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  Perfection does not endure strain. When it breaks, it shatters.

  Dante tucked that away. Useful.

  Virelia de Verlone. She was different from her Duke. Her silver hair, the only trace of her age, was cropped short in the pragmatic style of soldiers, framing a stern face carved with experience and patience. Her beauty was not soft, not fragile — it was the beauty of polished iron, of a sword honed endlessly against the whetstone of survival. Dante recognized it instantly. The beauty of a fellow Blademaster. Old, far older than she looked. Far older than Dante. And still strong. Still lethal.

  Her emerald eyes met his, unflinching. In their silent clash of gazes, Dante read her, the quiet, nearly invisible tilt of her chin, the slight narrowing of her gaze. She believed she could defeat him.

  A breath of amusement stirred beneath his ribs, though his face betrayed nothing.

  Pride. Pride offers a thousand openings. She does not even know she has already shown me one.

  The Stewards surrounding the Duke and the Blademaster, guards of protocol and politics, stood like stiff mannequins, desperately masking their unease behind masks of propriety.

  The Verlone Praetorians, shining in their ceremonial armor, radiated discipline.

  But Dante saw the patterns — the rigidity of their training, the insistent habits on appearances that made them predictable.

  Ceremony has dulled their edge. They would fall in a real war.

  Around the barricades, the crowd pushed forward, a living tide of curiosity, awe, and a hunger barely concealed. It was rare to glimpse an emissary of the Emperor. Rare to feel the Imperial Hand descending upon their distant world. And Dante saw it reflected in their faces: hope, fear, resentment, longing.

  The tendrils of independence that had begun to coil around the Outer Ring were visible in every sidelong glance, every tightened fist. And yet, today, they stood silent under the gaze of a single man.

  The Emperor was right. The Inner Ring’s hold over the Outer Ring has weakened. They must be made to remember what power feels like. What inevitability looks like.

  As the Herald stepped forward, his golden scroll gleaming under the gray skies, and began to proclaim the will of the Throne, Dante Saint stood still. No bow. No gesture of submission. Only the silent, immovable presence of a man who had bled under a hundred suns, who had carved his survival out of the jaws of monsters and men alike.

  Profane Twilight, sheathed at his hip, rested lightly against his side, the dark, fluid-like silvery blade hidden within, a promise of violence sleeping beneath the surface. From the shadows beneath his steady eyelids, Dante continued to watch. Already the first pieces were on the board. Already the echoes of the past whispered like the desert wind. Another great reckoning was coming. And this time, he would not fight through conquest. He would fight through understanding.

  Luceran Vaunt’s voice rang across the spaceport with the clarity of a polished bell, trained to carry above soldiers' boots, crowd murmurs, and the dying winds:

  "Hear now and bear witness, citizens of Pelegeion, nobles of House Verlone, stewards of the Outer Ring."

  "By the decree of His Radiance, Sovereign of the Throne Iridian, Master of the Inner Ring, and Protector of the Four Quadrants, the Emperor extends his gaze to the loyal realms beyond the core."

  The words echoed off polished stone and glinting steel, but Duke Caelan de Verlone heard little of them.

  His gaze, sharp beneath the perfect mask of noble indifference, had locked onto the figure at the base of the ramp. Dante Saint. For a heartbeat, Caelan studied him in silence. Tall, lean, with the composed stillness of a seasoned courtier — or so it appeared. There was no pomp to him, no theatricality.

  Only a quiet, unsettling inevitability, like a storm cloud too vast to notice until it blotted out the sun.

  Beside Caelan, Virelia Verlone stood unmoving, her arms loose at her sides, her cropped silver hair motionless even in the soft coastal breeze. Their exchange was subtle, buried beneath the pageantry.

  "That man," Caelan murmured, his voice a thread of silk, heard by none but her, “is an adept politician. A sharp blade in political velvet."

  Virelia's violet eyes narrowed slightly, tracking Dante’s steady, efficient gait — a walk without waste, without excess.

  There was nothing polished or elegant about it.

  No preening courtliness.

  Only purpose.

  "He’s more than a politician," she said under her breath.

  "But yes. Dangerous."

  And yet, despite the way her instincts prickled at the sight of him, the cold weight he seemed to carry like a second skin, Virelia's seasoned mind settled into a quiet, undeniable conviction, as she reassured the Duke:

  "I would defeat him.”

  That certainty — born of decades, of battles won, of foes cut down — smoothed away her wariness.

  She had faced monsters wearing finer flesh.

  Dante Saint was no god.

  Caelan caught her glance and allowed the faintest of smiles, cold and knowing.

  "Yes," he said. "Formidable. But still within reach. If needed."

  Neither of them noticed the smallest tension at the corners of Dante's eyes, the way his gaze had already swept over every Steward, every Praetorian, every armored figure in the spaceport.

  The way he had already weighed and judged them. He heard their whispers. Soft threads of sound, barely carried over the breeze. He could not discern words — but he did not need to. He knew the shape of doubt. The rhythm of underestimation.

  Good, he thought. Let them wonder.

  He was calm.

  The desert wind whispered in his mind — dry, relentless, patient.

  It spoke to him of snakes coiling unseen beneath the sand, of blades striking when the sun was in the enemy's eyes.

  In front of the assembly, Luceran Vaunt continued reading the unfurled gleaming Edict scroll, its gilded words catching the dying sun like flame:

  "In recognition of service, and in pursuit of the renewed unity of the Empire, His Radiance appoints Dante Saint, Blademaster of the Imperial Court, as his Envoy and Advisor to House Verlone."

  Another beat. The crowd’s murmur rippled outward like a wave.

  "In all matters of state, diplomacy, and governance requiring Imperial insight, Envoy Saint shall serve as the voice of the Emperor — his eyes, his will, and, should necessity demand, his hand."

  A subtle threat veiled in perfect ceremony.

  "House Verlone is called to offer him the courtesy, respect, and obedience due to one who carries the Emperor's authority in truth and deed."

  "Thus speaks the Throne. Thus shall it be."

  Luceran Vaunt’s voice fell away into silence, the echo of his final words lingering over the assembled ranks like a second, colder atmosphere.

  The Herald’s final words fell into silence, carried on the cooling evening breeze.

  The Edict gleamed in the dying light, a symbol more for the crowd than for those who mattered.

  Dante Saint remained still. No surprise rippled through the Verlone ranks. No shift in posture. No outburst of emotion from Duke Caelan, Virelia, or their Stewards. As expected.

  The Emperor's authority, the weight of the Throne’s command, had been announced; but it was a formality. A necessary ritual, already anticipated by every mind present.

  Nothing had changed. No fear. No loyalty. Only calculation, still churning behind perfect faces.

  Dante's gaze flicked once more across the assembly — calm, dispassionate. The charade was complete.

  The board was set. Now, the real game would begin. And in the game that was coming, the ones who smiled the most would bleed first.

  Without a word, Dante Saint moved.

  He stepped forward, the dark folds of his kimono-like robes flowing around his silent tread, Profane Twilight brushing lightly against his left hip beneath the layers.

  Behind him, his entourage stirred into motion:

  The Imperial courtiers, draped in elegant fabrics of gold, white, violet, and blue, flitted forward like bright moths drawn to flame — their laughter false, their smiles brittle.

  Luceran Vaunt, the Herald, moved more stiffly, the great golden scroll cradled against his chest like a shield.

  Adam Graves, bareheaded and cold-eyed, walked a half step behind Dante, his black battle robes marked by the silent coiling of a silver serpent across his chest. And then the Shadows of the Blade Attendants,

  cloaked in darkness, faces hidden behind monstrous masks: fanged beasts, leering spirits, hollow-eyed predators. They flowed silently, disciplined, terrible.

  The Verlone soldiers at the edges shifted slightly at their passage.

  Even the Praetorians, polished and impassive, could not fully hide their unease at the Imperial approach.

  Dante’s footsteps rang hollow and final against the marble.

  Every movement precise. Every step inevitable.

  As he approached, Duke Caelan de Verlone and Virelia de Verlone remained still, awaiting him.

  The Duke's face was a flawless mask of courteous welcome, his emerald eyes calculating even as he prepared to extend the formal greeting.

  Virelia, beside him, stood like a stone carved in the shape of a woman — still, controlled, watching with the cold awareness of a warrior weighing another.

  Dante’s steel-grey gaze brushed over them both as he drew near. He did not bow. Instead, he stopped precisely three paces from the Duke. The breeze whispered against the marble, stirring the gold-trimmed robes of both parties. Behind him, the courtiers lowered their heads, some offering florid gestures of reverence. The Blade Attendants stood like statues. Adam Graves did not bow either.

  He simply rested a hand lightly at his side, where a hidden dagger waited beneath the folds of his robe.

  Dante Saint spoke first — his voice low, even, resonant like the toll of a distant bell:

  "Duke Caelan. Lady Virelia. By the will of His Radiance, I am sent to stand among you — to advise, to guide, and to ensure the Emperor’s will is kept whole and unbroken."

  No flourish. No false warmth. Just the simple, inevitable truth of what he was. A shadow sent by the heart of the Empire to remind them who ruled. A brief silence hung in the cooling evening air after Dante’s words—crisp, heavy, like the pause between the final notes of music and the applause.

  Duke Caelan de Verlone offered the faintest smile, courteous yet restrained, never allowing his true thoughts to surface. His emerald eyes, brilliant and calculating, met Dante's steady gaze without flinching.

  “Envoy Saint,” Caelan spoke, his voice smooth and measured, a perfect balance of respect and dignity. “House Verlone welcomes you, in both your role as advisor and as a living reminder of the Emperor’s wisdom.”

  He tilted his head slightly, gracefully indicating the assembled entourage.

  “We honor your presence, and the renewal of bonds between the Imperial Throne and our humble quadrant. Yet,” Caelan paused delicately, the faintest hint of amusement sparkling in his eyes, “such important matters should not be discussed standing on cold stone in fading light.”

  He gestured toward the distant, shimmering spires of the Verlone estate, rising above verdant gardens and silvery trees. The setting sun gilded the marble, a promise of warmth and grandeur.

  “My family has prepared a grand celebration tonight, a gathering worthy of the Emperor’s envoy.” His voice dipped lower, rich with subtle implication. “Let us speak further at leisure, in comfort and elegance—within halls worthy of your mission.”

  Virelia, unmoving beside him, regarded Dante impassively, though beneath the composed mask of her face, thoughts coiled quietly. The Duke’s invitation was not mere courtesy—it was strategic. The estate was Verlone ground, familiar territory. There, Caelan could deploy every resource, every subtlety of power, with practiced ease. The Duke continued smoothly:

  “There will be music, performances of rare talent, and displays that celebrate the pinnacle of Verlone culture. We shall converse freely, openly.” His smile deepened, cordial yet edged. “Tonight, you are not merely our honored guest—you are family, Envoy Saint. Let us welcome you home.”

  The words were gentle, but beneath them lay sharpened edges, the velvet glove covering iron.

  Dante Saint did not move. His expression remained calm, unreadable, as if he saw through every careful gesture to the deadly undercurrents beneath. The desert whispered at the edge of his mind, patient and eternal: Welcome home indeed.

  For a moment, Dante Saint simply stood there, the evening light drawing sharp shadows across the lines of his scarred face. The silence stretched — not long enough to be insulting, but long enough to remind the gathering that he decided when to speak. Then, with a faint inclination of his head — just enough to acknowledge, never to yield — Dante answered:

  “House Verlone’s hospitality honors both the Emperor and myself. I accept your invitation, Duke Caelan. I look forward to experiencing the full splendor of your domain.”

  His voice was measured, smooth — a blade sheathed in silk. The perfect tone, revealing nothing, offering no weakness. Behind him, the Imperial courtiers relaxed fractionally, flashing practiced smiles.

  The Blade Attendants remained silent, statuesque, their monstrous masks catching the dying sun.

  Inside, however, Dante Saint barely registered the exchange. This was expected. Predicted. Planned for.

  No spike of emotion stirred within him — no irritation, no amusement. Only the vast, endless patience that had been carved into him by the merciless Desert. The desert wind within him was still for now —

  silent, waiting, coiled like a serpent beneath the sand.

  There would be music. There would be wine. There would be laughter.

  And there would be the first true movements of the game. All of it meaningless. Only the purpose mattered. Only his mission.

  The sun dipped low behind the gilded spires of Pelegeion, casting long shadows over marble streets veined with green and gold.

  The caravan of hovercars moved like a silent river through the upper districts —

  past gardens blooming with engineered perfection, past fountains spraying light like liquid diamonds, past statues carved to embody impossible ideals.

  At the forefront, rode the Verlone welcoming party —

  the Duke, Virelia, their Stewards, and Praetorians gleaming like ceremonial sentinels.

  Behind them, the Imperial courtiers preened in their luxurious vehicle, their laughter brittle against the coming dark.

  And at the rear — silent, armored, coiled — came Dante Saint’s hovercar.

  Within its dim cabin, only muted light filtered through polarized windows.

  The Shadows sat arrayed around their master, masked with the monstrous visages of alien predators and forgotten gods. Each figure still. Watchful.

  At Dante’s side sat Adam Graves, his hood lowered and his face bare.

  Adam leaned in slightly, his voice low and steady — composed, but never casual:

  "The advance team completed their assignment this morning. Everything has been secured. They have also finished preparing two lists. One for those we may need to remove. And one for those we may turn to our advantage."

  He paused, brief but purposeful, before adding:

  "Do you have further instructions for them?"

  Dante said nothing. His eyes drifted lazily over the beauty of the passing city — the carefully manicured trees wrapped in delicate golden threads, the flowing silks hung between the towers, the lush opulence sculpted into every corner of the district.

  To most, Pelegeion was breathtaking.

  To Dante Saint, it was vulnerability made manifest.

  The Verlones had bound their power to ideals of beauty, of perfection, of unassailable purity.

  It was a clever illusion — a potent one. It bought them admiration from their citizens, loyalty from their vassals, envy from lesser Houses.

  But illusions fray.

  Strip away their cultivated beauty...

  Expose their corruption...

  And they would be nothing more than another ugly, rotting dynasty strangling its own people for survival.

  Without their facade, the Verlones would be no better than the worst of the Inner Ring —

  hollowed-out tyrants dressed in golden masks.

  He spoke quietly, almost musing:

  "No. Not for now. Let them stay put."

  Adam nodded once, the barest flicker of acknowledgment. The hovercar rose higher, skimming above a sprawling marble plaza lined with fluttering green-and-gold banners, climbing the final road toward the glittering towers of the Emerald Spire. The desert within Dante did not stir not at all. It was silent. Perfectly still. Perfectly coiled. As they approached the estate gates, Dante’s right hand moved, brushing lightly against the hilt of Profane Twilight at his hip.

  A silent gesture. Not of threat. But of promise.

  When twilight fell upon House Verlone, it would fall swiftly.