The meeting location was carefully chosen, an abandoned warehouse in the mid-districts, far enough from palace scrutiny but accessible enough that three separate groups could arrive without drawing attention.
Torchlight flickered against water-damaged walls while Viktor Virelya stood at the center like conductor preparing orchestra of chaos.
Three distinct factions gathered before him, each separated by deliberate space that spoke of distrust and different grievances.
To his left clustered displaced merchants, men and women who'd lost everything in the demon attack.
Their shops burned, their inventory destroyed, their livelihoods reduced to ash and insurance claims that would never cover actual losses.
They wore middle-class clothing gone shabby, faces carved with desperation that made them vulnerable to promises they'd normally question.
To his right stood grieving families. Parents who'd buried children. Spouses who'd lost partners. Siblings mourning siblings.
