The palace-turned-stronghold was different tonight. The air carried a weight it never had before, as if every stone wall and silken curtain now whispered the same rumor: Rayon Veynar is untouchable.
His return from the massacre had been met with silence at first. His subordinates—Killian, Nyra, and Vale among them—watched him like they were seeing a ghost. But it wasn't disbelief; it was something closer to reverence, mixed with fear.
"Two thousand," Killian muttered under his breath that night, pacing near the war table. "Not even the beast they were chasing stood a chance… You slaughtered them and it."
Rayon didn't respond at once. He leaned back in his chair, shadows flickering across his face from the lantern-light. His Hollow Strings danced absently between his fingers, weaving and unwinding like they had a life of their own. He smiled faintly, but it wasn't the smile of arrogance—it was the calm of a man who had made a decision long ago.
"They thought numbers would save them," he finally said. His voice was steady, too steady. "But numbers mean nothing when fear eats through every man's throat before he can swing his blade."
The room went quiet. His words were less explanation and more reminder: he wasn't like them. He wasn't playing the same game.
The Underworld Reacts
By dawn, word had spread further than Rayon's organization could imagine. The underworld of the new city was shaken to its core. Whispers in the dens, the gambling houses, the black markets—everywhere, one name carried with it the weight of inevitability: Rayon Veynar.
Some rival leaders cursed his name, terrified that his shadow would choke out their own ambitions. Others licked their lips at the thought of what they might gain by aligning themselves with him. The Hunters' "flee on sight" order was no deterrent; if anything, it made him a legend.
"Flee on sight…" Vale said, laughing dryly as he read a smuggled notice from the Association itself. "You've become the nightmare they'd rather run from than face."
Rayon's eyes glimmered at the words. To him, it wasn't just a warning—it was a crown.
The Visitor
That same evening, as his organization tried to settle the sudden surge of new recruits and spies knocking at their gates, a figure moved through the halls unannounced.
No alarm was raised. No strings twitched in warning. The man simply appeared at the door of Rayon's chamber, dressed in a long cloak the color of midnight. His eyes were sharp, too sharp, as though they could cut the world open and read its guts.
Rayon didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, strings snapping taut behind him like coiled serpents ready to strike.
"You walk into my palace," Rayon said, voice low, "without permission."
The man smirked, tilting his head slightly. "If I needed permission, Rayon Veynar, I wouldn't be worth your time."
There was a silence between them, thick and heavy. The organization's lieutenants froze outside the chamber, afraid to breathe too loudly.
Finally, the man extended a hand—not out of respect, but as if extending a game piece across a board.
"My name is Severin Dros," he said. "And I didn't come to kneel or threaten. I came because this city is too small for what's coming. You and I—" his smile widened—"we either walk parallel, or we bleed each other dry."
Rayon's grin returned, slow and deliberate, as his strings quivered with anticipation. He didn't take the hand immediately. Instead, he studied Severin like a puzzle.
"Then let's drink," Rayon said at last. "If you're worth my time, we'll see it in the glass.