By midday, the city of Esgard was already run with unrest.
It started in whispers—tavern talk, market murmurs, quiet bets being placed under the tables of back-alley dens—but by the hour before sundown, the anticipation had evolved to great.
The Arena Games, long the bloodstained heartbeat of the city, were returning in full force. And with them, the gladiator now called The Demon Blade.
Blackrat adjusted the cuffs of his plum-colored coat, flicked a fleck of lint from his lapel, and walked calmly through the chaos.
He moved like he belonged everywhere—among noble balconies and beggars' shanties alike—and in many ways, he did. His name was only ever spoken by those deep in street crime, and even then, rarely.
Most simply called him "the Rat." Those who knew better called him "A conniving bastard."
And today, he was busy.
