Mikhailis leaned against the wooden fra of the window, letting the morning mist curl around his fingers as he flicked the decrypted data chip between them. The cool condensation clung to his skin, thin tendrils of fog slipping between his fingers before dissolving into nothing. Outside, Luthadel's streets stirred sluggishly beneath the dense mist, early risers moving with the habitual caution of those who knew better than to trust the city's silence.
The room was dimly lit, the weak sunlight barely penetrating the thick fog pressing against the glass. His golden eyes traced the outlines of the noble district's distant spires, blurred by the ever-present haze. Sowhere beyond those walls, n and won played their gas of power, blissfully unaware that the very air they breathed was a battlefield.
Rodion's voice, crisp and clinical, echoed in his mind.
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