The cold bit at his skin like truth.
Gabriel stepped onto the stone balcony; the hush of the meeting sealed behind polished doors. Out here, the city breathed beneath low clouds and flickering lamps, unconcerned about the empire's power plays. The wind was brisk, clean, untouched by spellcraft or court perfume. It reminded him of the field, the bite of etherstorms, the hum of leyline interference, the ash-and-rune scent of the real world.
He reached for a cigarette he no longer carried.
Old habits. He hadn't smoked since returning to the capital, but the phantom sensation persisted: burnt fingers, smudged reports, late nights full of arcane grit and genuine purpose. That life was gone. Replaced with silk chairs, gilded contracts, and noble smiles that bit like fangs.
He sighed. He had decided to walk away from the project and from Claymore. It was time.
