'It's the same rhythm.'
The thought refused to go away.
It echoed in the bones behind his skin.
He sat down at the long table and pulled his gloves off, laying them neatly beside a half-burned page. His fingers were steady. Too steady.
He hated that.
Because it meant he wasn't angry enough anymore.
It meant he was used to this.
Used to killing.
Used to finding nothing.
Used to being too late.
'Someone is staying ahead of me.'
And worse—
They weren't running.
They were waiting.
He leaned back, gaze rising toward the dome of shadow above.
Astral space bled through its cracks sometimes. He'd seen it. The way the stars bent just slightly, wrong angles carved into the sky. A reminder that some things watched without form.
But he didn't look away.
He was stronger now.
Faster. Sharper. Tempered.
But he was still one step behind.
And whoever was responsible for this—
They were about to find out what it meant to wake up a dragon and leave no address.
—
