The night did not quiet itself for any man, nor did it bend easily to the will of those who walked within it, yet there were those who had learned to move through its chaos without belonging to either side, untouched by loyalty, bound only by something colder.
Michele Ferrara stood at the edge of the broken streets where shadow met dim light, his posture still, his breath slow, his eyes fixed upon the distant square where power collided in a way that unsettled even him.
His coat shifted faintly with the wind, though he did not move, his fingers resting loosely near the weapon at his side, not gripping, not ready—yet not unaware.
The echoes of the clash reached him in fragments, distorted by distance, yet unmistakable in their intensity, in their unnatural weight upon the air.
"…what the hell did you turn this into," he murmured, his voice low, edged with something that bordered on disbelief.
His gaze narrowed.
He had seen battles.
He had ended them.
