Back in the city of Ilis, dawn began to creep across the horizon, painting the edges of the sky in hues of gold and pale rose. The city, still half-asleep, basked in the quiet hum of early morning—its streets empty, its lanterns flickering dimly as the sun's light slowly reclaimed them.
Atop one of the tall buildings overlooking the capital, shadows stirred—rippling like ink in water—before solidifying into two distinct figures.
Marcus and Galen emerged from the veil of darkness. Marcus now stood dressed not in his shadowed assassin attire, but in his casual wear—dark trousers, boots, and his long-sleeved shirt—looking perfectly at ease despite the night's bloodshed. Galen, on the other hand, appeared as though he had been dragged through hell and back—his face pale, his body bruised and beaten, his breath still ragged.
