RHYSAND’S POV

The guard’s blood was still warm.

It pooled beneath his skull in a slow, obscene spread, dark against the pale marble floor.

The smell of iron hung thick in the corridor, sharp enough to taste, mingling with the acrid bite of gunpowder that clung stubbornly to the air.

It settled in my lungs with every breath, grounding and sharpening me.

I stood over the body and felt nothing. No shock or horror. Only clarity.

The message on the wall stared back at me, smeared ...