Imperial checkpoints had multiplied like a plague over the past weeks. Every corner, every bridge—someone asking for papers, searching for a reason to drag you away.

You rounded a corner, keeping your head down, and walked straight into a line of white armor.

Your hand drifted, almost imperceptibly, toward your belt.

A hum. Low. Familiar. The kind of sound that crawled under your skin before you could place it.

Red light spilled across the wet ground like a wound opening.

Horned. Tattooed. Yellow eyes burning with something older than rage.