Nyxtriel landed soundlessly on a crumbling rooftop near the heart of the city's poorest district.
Below them, the streets were different from yesterday—more guards. Patrols doubled, eyes sharp.
The city was tightening like a noose.
Daemon jumped down with a quiet thud, adjusting the black cloak.
The abandoned house Nyxtriel mentioned stood crooked at the edge of the street, half-buried in the creeping shadows of taller buildings. Broken windows. A sagging door.
Daemon slipped inside.
The moment he entered, a dozen frightened faces turned to him.
Fifteen children—ragged, filthy, hollow-eyed—and five women huddled together near a broken fireplace.
At first, their eyes lit up.
A noble. A savior, maybe.
The children ran toward him, hope breaking across their starved faces.
"Sir, please help us!" one boy cried.
"Save us!" a girl sobbed, clutching his leg.
Daemon didn't move.
He didn't smile.
Then Nyxtriel stepped in behind him, her pale form like a wraith in the doorway.
