The streets of a ruined city were always loud.
Even in war, even with death lurking around every corner, people still made noise—whispers in the dark, the hurried shuffle of footsteps, the distant clang of metal against stone.
But tonight, there was nothing.
No flickering torches. No murmured voices. No cries of the wounded.
Just silence.
And Hale Draven did not like silence.
Perched atop the remnants of an old watchtower, his sharp blue eyes scanned the empty streets below. His dark hooded cloak draped over him, concealing the light armor beneath. At his hip, a pair of curved daggers gleamed faintly under the moonlight.
A slow breath left his lips, misting in the cold air. His senses stretched outward, his magic thrumming beneath his skin—Water. The flow of all things. The tide that carried life and drowned it just as easily.
Water made him precise.
Water made him silent.
And right now, the water was still.
Too still.
Something was wrong.
