Cassian's POV

The night air was cold when I stepped out of Amara’s house, the kind of sharp cold that bit at the lungs and made each breath sting. But I hardly noticed it. My head was ablaze with a singular thought: Marchand had crossed a line, and if I didn’t act now, he would destroy everything I cared about.

I’d spent years letting people shape me, pull me like a puppet on strings. My father, Marchand, every so-called ally in politics who promised me power while cutting off pieces ...