Prime moved swiftly through the shadows, her heart pounding as she pieced together the tangled web of schemes around her.
The corridors of the Order's headquarters were dimly lit, but she moved unseen, the Mystical Arts of the Bloodcoil Sect making her one with the shadows.
The conversation she'd overheard in Kaelen's office echoed in her mind.
Aziz was the Heir.
The one they had all waited for. The Bloodcoil Sect, their teachings, their vengeance—all of it rested on his shoulders. If he died now, it wasn't just him who would fall.
The resurgence of the Sect, their dream of rising from the ashes, would crumble with him.
Everything they had sacrificed—every life given, every plan laid over years—would be for nothing.
But the boy had gone haywire.
Prime had seen it. Heard it.
The stories filtering back from Peklo Forest were enough to confirm it.
