Windgrave had become a city of whispers. Fog rolled through the streets in thick, suffocating waves, hiding dangers that Jonathan could feel more than see. He had learned to trust his instincts, each shadow a potential threat. The events of the previous year had sharpened him—Hamon was no longer merely a tool; it was an extension of his very being.
A messenger approached, breathless, holding a crumpled note. "Master Jonathan… the eastern manor… it's been ransacked. Strange symbols, black candles… it's the enemy's work."
Jonathan's eyes narrowed. The enemy was no longer content with reconnaissance. They were making their moves in bold, calculated strikes. He mounted his horse, the chill of the early morning wind cutting through his cloak. Every alley and abandoned street brought him closer to the truth.
At the manor, he found traces of ritualistic activity. A faint pulse of dark energy lingered, leaving a trail only a Jorwick heir could sense. Jonathan's sword pulsed in response, Hamon energy flaring brightly. From the shadows, a figure stepped forward, cloaked and masked, dagger glinting. The battle erupted instantly.
Steel clashed against energy, sparks flying as Hamon met the enemy's dark enhancements. Each strike was measured, precise, as Jonathan anticipated and countered the movements of an enemy that seemed to know him almost as well as he knew himself.
In the aftermath, the figure vanished, leaving a sigil burned into the floorboards—a warning, a promise, and a challenge. Jonathan pressed his lips together. The war for the Jorwick legacy had entered a new phase: subtle no longer.