Chapter 78: Noisy
I stand in my office, bathed in the pale glow of the moonlight streaming through the tall windows. Its cold, silver light paints everything in shades of quiet resolve, but inside me, the storm is far from calm. My gaze lingers on the moon for a moment longer, its stillness a stark contrast to the chaos simmering beneath my skin.
I turn slowly, finding the sentinels kneeling before me, their heads bowed low, the weight of my fury pressing down on them like an iron shroud. They can feel it too—the tension, the unspoken threat of what comes next.
"You see," I begin, my voice cutting through the stillness like a blade, sharp and cold, "by the first morning light, I want the Robbens ruined."
*
Throughout the night, the capital was drenched in blood. Shadows moved silently between alleyways and across rooftops, where Thorne’s people executed his orders with cold precision. The moonlit streets bore witness to carnage. Buildings that housed corruption, filth, and sin were razed to the ground without mercy. The unmistakable stench of burning wood and blood wafted through the capital, a grim reminder that no corner of the city was safe from Thorne’s wrath. Many screamed and fell beneath the unrelenting strikes of his men, while others — those who appeared to hold sway, the ringleaders of these dens of vice — were dragged from their hiding places, kicking and pleading, before disappearing into the night.
In a quieter part of the capital, far from the immediate chaos, stood an unassuming estate. The building, hidden from the common eye by tall iron gates and overgrown ivy, seemed quiet — almost serene — in contrast to the slaughter taking place elsewhere. Inside, down a dimly lit corridor, was a room that smelled of leather and dust. It was a modest office, with old books lining the shelves and papers scattered over the desk. The heavy wooden door creaked open slowly, revealing a figure seated behind the desk in the shadows.
The man in the chair barely stirred when the door opened, but the very air in the room seemed to grow heavier. Thorne, bathed in the dim glow of a single flickering lamp, sat with his fingers steepled, eyes cold and unmoving. The blood on his clothing had dried in patches, and though he had washed his hands, a dark stain of violence seemed to cling to him — an aura that permeated the space around him, making it feel colder than it was.
A man in his fifties entered cautiously, his hand resting on the door as he closed it with a soft click. His face, lined with age, immediately paled as his eyes fell on Thorne, seated like a predator in the dark. He stifled a gasp, his breath catching in his throat as recognition — and fear — swept over him. The man, Judge Corvin Malgrave, had heard the whispers in the streets, of Thorne’s retaliation, but he hadn’t anticipated being summoned. Not like this.
"Corvin," Thorne said, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable edge of authority, like the cold steel of a knife.