The Smell of Rat

The ruins of the disrupted leyline operation smoldered beneath the oppressive weight of the corrupted mist, which curled around the wreckage like a living entity, whispering through the broken conduits and shattered stone. Sparks flared intermittently from the remains of the disruptor, illuminating the battered forms of the surviving engineers and soldiers as they struggled to regain their footing.

Inquisitor Veylan stood motionless amidst the destruction, his silver-threaded cloak fluttering faintly in the disturbed air. The fractured sun emblem—the only remnant of the operative who had betrayed them—rested in his gloved palm, its pulsing light slowly fading. He tightened his grip around the metal insignia, his expression unreadable beneath his hood.

A betrayal. No, more than that.

An infiltration.