Verran rose from the fog like a scar carved into the land. Once, it had been a city of marble and pride, where men toasted to victory and gold lined every corridor. Now it was a graveyard of ambition. Smoke hung low in the air, carrying the scent of ash and iron. The streets were cracked, the walls painted with forgotten banners. Every echo sounded like a ghost calling from the past.
Jonas crouched beside a crumbling wall and scanned the rooftops ahead. "Two guards at the gate," he murmured. "Dante's crest. He's definitely here."
Rhea knelt beside him, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You sure we're ready for this?"
Jonas gave a short laugh, sharp and humorless. "Ready stopped mattering three days ago."
Isla stood behind them, wrapped in a dark cloak. The hood hid her face, but her eyes burned beneath it. "We move before nightfall," she said quietly. "The longer we wait, the tighter his hold becomes."
