... A month. Thirty days since Bane Bloomer had woken in this adolest shell, a pale imitation of manhood, yet possessing the vital spark of youth. Bane mused, his refle in a puddle shimmering with gutter grime. The face was unremarkable, almost fettable, a bnk vas he would soon repaint with i. The eyes, however, were his own – cold, calg, the pupils sharp points of obsidian in the dim light of Tawal's underbelly.

  Tawal. A city festering in the shadow of the Obsidian Creed, its once proud walls now stained with the grime of and the uling sigils of demonic worship. Gangs warred ireets, petty fiefdoms carved out of desperation and fear, while the Creed tightes grip from above, a suffog b of dogma and dread. Perfect breeding ground for chaos, Bane had decided. And chaos, as he kneportunity.

  He’d spent the month , learning the city’s rhythms, its power structures, its weaknesses.

  He’d insinuated himself into the fringes of two rival gangs - the Crimson Knives and the Ironcd Fists - pying them against each other, a delicate danisinformation and manufactured flict.

  It was a crude game, but necessary to establish a foothold, to uand the currents of power flowing through this wretched pce.

  Now, however, a loose thread o be severed.

  “You’re pying a dangerous game, boy,” the man wheezed, his voice thick with stale ale and apprehension. Garok, they called him. A hulking brute, muscle straining against cheap leather armor, a lieutenant in the Crimson Knives.

  He stood before Bane in a narrow alley behind the Drunken Rat tavern, the stench of rotting refuse ging to the damp brick walls. Garok’s haed on the pommel of a crude iron sword, his eyes narrowed, suspi curdling his features.

  Bane remained impassive, leaning against the wall, a picture of nont ease that belied the lightning crag beh his skin.

  “Dangerous? For whom, Garok?” he asked, his voice smooth, almost silken, a stark trast to the alley’s rough edges.

  Garok shifted his weight, the iron sword scraping against its scabbard. “Don’t py coy. Wets around. Whispers in the shadows. They say you’re talking to the Fists. Saying things you shouldn’t.”

  Bane allowed a flicker of amusement to touch his lips, a cold, predatory smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Whispers are just that, Garok. Air moving through empty spaces. Don’t let them spook you.”

  “Empty spaces?” Garok spat on the ground, a glob of phlegm nding with a wet thud.

  “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t see you sniffing around both kennels? You think you py us both for fools?”

  Bane sighed, a sound of feigned weariness. “Garok, you misuand. I’m merely…effit. Why limit myself to one source of ine when two are readily avaible? It’s simple pragmatism.”

  “Pragmatism gets you dead in this city, boy,” Garok growled, finally drawing his sword. The rusty metal glinted dully in the weak light. “Loyalty is worth more than silver. You chose to be disloyal.”

  “Loyalty,”

  Bane echoed, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “A quaint cept. Useful fs, perhaps. Not for men who seek to rise above the rabble.”

  He pushed himself off the wall, the nguid movemeive. “You see, Garok, you’re right about ohing. I am pying a game. And in this game, pawns like you are…expendable.”

  Garok lunged, a clumsy, telegraphed attack. Bane didn’t even flinch. As the iron bde arced towards him, Bane’s mind unfurled, a psychic wave rippling outwards.

  Garok stumbled, his eyes widening in fusion, his muscles seizing, his movements suddenly sluggish, heavy as lead. He roared in frustration, trying to fight through the invisible pressure crushing his will, but it was like wading through treacle.

  Then, the lightning came.

  Not a fsh from the sky, but a tained, focused burst, erupting from Bane’s outstretched hand. Arcs of raw, blue-white energy crackled around his fingers, coalesg into a jagged bolt that smmed into Garok’s chest.

  The smell of ozone filled the alley, acrid and sharp. Garok’s roar turned into a choked gurgle. His eyes bulged, veins throbbing in his neck, and his body spasmed violently as the lightning coursed through him, frying nerves, burning flesh. The iron sword cttered to the ground, fotten.

  The psychic pressure intensified, Baightening his mental grip, amplifying Garok’s pain, twisting his terror into a oched, detached, as the man’s face torted, sweat beading on his brow, his lips pulling ba a silent scream. It was…iing, this raw dispy of human fragility. Data to be collected, analyzed.

  Finally, with a flick of his wrist, Bane released the psychic hold. The lightning dissipated, leaving behind the lingering st of bur and singed hair. Garok crumpled to the ground, a twitg, smoking heap. His eyes were wide open, staring bnkly at the grimy sky, refleg nothing but the dull light and the encroag darkness.

  Baepped over the corpse, his boots g on loose stones. He gnced back at Garok, a flicker of something akin to…satisfa? No, not satisfa. Efficy. The problem was solved. The loose thread severed.

  He wiped his hand on his worn trousers, dismissing the lingering static of the lightning. Tawal was a city of shadows and violence, and Bane Bloomer inteo thrive in its darkness. He was not a hero, not a savior. He was something else entirely. Something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous. The ior of chaos, and he was just beginning to cim his legacy.