Hayazaki—or Fillis among these shadowy lords—stood at the center of the cavernous shrine, ringed by torchlight and silent anticipation. The hush among the underworld bosses was almost tangible. Gnarled stone arches curved overhead, as though long-dead architects had shaped this place for rituals far older than any criminal deal. Now it served as a makeshift arena for lethal sport.
He sensed Myn hovering near the edge—crown askew, staff in hand—quietly orchestrating the show. That pang of betrayal in Hayazaki's chest refused to fade. Yet he forced his breathing calm, Malara toxins swirling in his blood, doping fueling every nerve. He noted Surya and Angela lurking in the shadows, glimpsed just once when the torches crackled bright. They stood ready, but for now they held themselves back.
