Night settled over Esgard softly.
The moon was a pale slit in a cloud-laced sky, thin and watching. Beneath it, the city breathed in slow, muffled gasps—torches guttered along bridges and archways, and shadows stretched long in alleyways choked with refuse, smoke, and silence.
And in those shadows, Fang moved.
Far from how a man would.
Not even like a ghost.
But like a decision made by the dark.
One blink—empty.
Next blink—there.
He stepped from a wall where no passage existed, a ripple of purple-black mist coiling from the hem of his robes. Soulbinders weren't bound by space the way mortals were.
And Fang was no ordinary soulbound.
He was once an Assayer.
He knew how they hunted.
He knew how they moved.
He knew what it meant when one of their leaders hadn't shown their face.
It meant the game was still being played.
It meant the predator had not yet finished watching.
