Meanwhile.
In the veins of Esgard where light dared not tread, where coin ruled louder than law and loyalty, Blackrat moved like smoke.
He wore no branding. No colors.
No title to announce him. But everyone knew.
The man with the shark grin and the night-colored eyes.
The one who made paupers kings and kings beggars.
They called him the Blackrat not for filth or fear, but for his survival. Rats thrive in rot, breed beneath empire, and live long enough to watch giants fall.
And Blackrat intended to live a little longer still.
---
He moved through the betting halls like a whisper dressed in gold thread.
Not all at once—never that.
That was how fools were noticed.
No, Blackrat was method.
Pattern. Patience.
First, he visited The Pale Mare, a lesser-known betting den tucked behind the tannery district.
