The Assassin’s Arrival

Mikhailis lounged in the dimly lit common room of The Silver Veil, idly swirling a half-filled cup of tea between his fingers. The tea was lukewarm, its scent fading, but he continued the motion absentmindedly, watching the ripples dance across the surface. The heavy scent of mist and damp wood clung to the inn's walls, a quiet reminder of the city's ever-present shroud. Outside, Luthadel carried on in hushed whispers, merchants moving goods under thick fog, and watchful eyes lurking behind every shadow. The city breathed unease, and after last night's discovery, Mikhailis couldn't blame it.

Rodion had confirmed the worst—or perhaps, the most interesting—scenario. The mist didn't just exist as a natural phenomenon anymore. It was being manipulated, controlled down to the finest detail. And someone, somewhere, had altered a piece of that system in secret.