Rayon walked back into the city with the same casual air as if he had just gone out for a stroll. His cloak swayed, still damp in streaks of crimson. The weight of two thousand deaths clung to him like perfume, though he carried it with an almost arrogant ease—head slightly tilted, lips curled faintly upward, eyes dark and unreadable.
When he reached the safehouse, silence fell. His recruits—men and women who had followed him out of curiosity, desperation, or the promise of vengeance—froze as he stepped inside. Some were mid-conversation, others sharpening blades or pouring drinks. One by one, they stilled.
A hushed voice broke the quiet.
"…It's true then."
Another swallowed hard.
"Two thousand Hunters. Gone. And the beast too."
They looked at him as if staring at something not quite human anymore. Some lowered their eyes, others found themselves bowing slightly, unbidden. The air was thick with a new kind of fear—one that tasted almost like reverence.
Rayon said nothing at first. He poured himself a glass of cheap liquor from the counter, the sound of the liquid hitting the cup loud in the silence. He sipped, then finally glanced over his shoulder, smirking.
"What's with the long faces? You wanted protection, didn't you? You have it."
The tension broke—not with relief, but with a strange kind of laughter. Nervous, bitter, half-mad. His people realized what it meant. If the Association itself had branded him a calamity, then to stand with him was to be shielded by his shadow. No one would dare cross them now.
But outside that room, the world was not so calm.
The underworld buzzed like a hive kicked open. Crime lords who once feared the Hunters now toasted in hidden halls. Mercenaries who used to avoid Forsaken whispered Rayon's name like an anthem. Rival syndicates weighed their choices: ally with him, or move against him before his shadow swallowed everything.
Letters were sent. Spies rushed through alleys. Alliances that had been steady for years wavered overnight.
And one man came in person.
He arrived at Rayon's safehouse cloaked in emerald silk, flanked by two guards who moved like shadows. His presence alone seemed to part the streets; people whispered as he passed.
The door creaked open and the stranger entered, tall, broad-shouldered, his beard flecked with silver though his eyes burned young. His aura pressed into the room like a storm.
Rayon, lounging on a chair with one leg crossed, didn't bother standing. His eyes flicked up lazily.
"And who are you supposed to be?"
The man smiled, setting aside his cloak.
"My name is Severin Dros. Perhaps you've heard of me."
The name rippled through Rayon's recruits—some gasped, some muttered. Severin Dros was no small name. A kingpin of the southern underworld, a warlord in everything but title. His wealth rivaled noble houses, his army filled with killers who had fought wars for coin.
Rayon only raised a brow.
"Can't say I have. But if you've come this far, it means you're either stupid, or very confident."
Severin chuckled, pouring himself wine from Rayon's own bottle as though he owned the place.
"Neither. I'm curious." His eyes narrowed. "The Association fears you. My enemies fear you. And I, Rayon Veynar… I think you and I might share the same appetite for shaping the world."
He raised his cup in toast.
"So, let's talk. Ally to ally. Or wolf to wolf."
The room grew heavier, his words lingering in the air.
Rayon swirled the liquor in his own glass, watching the reflection of his strings shimmer faintly inside it. He smiled that slow, arrogant smile.
"Then speak, Severin. Let's see if your teeth are sharp enough."