Another week passed, and the city finally fell into an uneasy quiet.
No more assassins attempted to scale Riley's walls. No more shadows crept across his courtyard at midnight.
No more blades flashed in the dark.
It was as if the entire underworld had collectively decided that provoking him was the same as writing one's own suicide note.
Everyone had seen the aftermath.
Bodies carried out day after day, blood staining the once–clean stones near his gates.
Rumors swirled wildly—some said Riley moved like a demon, others whispered he was a reincarnated war god, and a few terrified fools insisted he wasn't human at all.
The truth didn't matter. Fear did.
And fear was more than enough to stop the flow of would-be killers.
Even the greediest men, the ones who would normally crawl over broken glass for a handful of gold, refused to take the contracts anymore.
A treasure house bursting with wealth couldn't tempt them. What use was gold to a corpse?
