Wrapped in a rather shabby grey cloak, Zion paced through the marketplace. His gaze swept back and forth, sharp and vigilant as he studied the crowd flowing through the narrow streets.
The place reeked of blood.
Pure human blood. Alive.
Never in his life had he thought he would return to Hianshu—not after the war had ended. He had believed that, along with the final clash, his steps would remain bound to the border, never allowed to cross it again. And it would have stayed that way, had it not been for the Emperor's orders:
"Go to Hianshu. Make sure the High Priests are not plotting something again." Those were the words of the Emperor.
For a long while now, the Emperor had grown restless, wary of the silence, uncertain of when—or if—a delegation would be sent to Revhara. Thus, Zion was tasked with coming here himself a year ago to observe, investigate, and confirm suspicions before they could take root.
What he learned upon arriving unsettled him more than he expected.
