Velrosa looked to each of them. "We do not falter now. We strike clean. And we do not warn our enemies—we let them rot from the inside."
———
2 Days till Vote.
Esgard thrived beneath a swollen, ash-gray sky.
However not with rush of markets or the calm routine of merchants, but with something slower. Tighter. Like breath held before a scream.
The city always whispered, but today, it did so louder.
In the butcher's quarter, cleavers slammed down with rhythm, carving through meat and sinew as apprentices barked bets between swings.
Gory hands pointed at chalk boards with odds hastily scratched beside brandings. Above the din, one name kept rising—Ian.
Or more often, The Demon Blade.
"Fifty silver says he doesn't last five minutes," grunted a thick-chested man as he carved a flank from a hanging carcass.
