Ian had been back in Esgard for weeks now. Hidden. Watching.
But the city didn't know it yet.
Not truly.
Not with certainty, and not with the fire such a revelation would ignite.
He moved through alleys like shadow between breaths, covered beneath a cloak of dusk and silence.
In the slums, where soot clung to skin and children ran barefoot through puddles of blood and piss, his name was still spoken in whispers.
A curse, a prayer, a promise.
They said the Whisperer of Death had fallen. They said he'd returned. They said he was watching the Arena from behind the walls.
All of it was true.
And none of it was.
He waited.
Watched them wonder.
Let the silence stretch and the fear ferment.
But the city was waking. And Blackrat's men were already moving.
The whisper network of guttersnipes, broken gamblers, and undercity mages began spreading the word—quiet at first, like the rumble before a quake.
"Ian returns," they muttered in brothels and smoke dens. "He's back."
