It was paved with polished white limestone that the commoners were paid to scrub at dawn, lined with high-tiered townhouses of carved granite, and populated by people who believed that a high enough stat sheet could insulate them from the reality of dying.
Then he walked down it.
The street froze. It was the specific, rhythmic freezing of a wealthy space, realizing that a biological anomaly had just entered the perimeter.
To the nobles of Jaar, power was a math problem. It was a matter of AP management, clean gear, and titles granted by a fading king. Lexel was none of those things. He walked with his hands behind his back, his posture entirely loose, wearing the exact same smirk that had survived a massacre in Beth and a decapitation in the square.
