The pristine white marble floor of the Falcon's Roost was slick with fresh, dark blood. It painted the walls and pooled heavily around the legs of the elegant silver desk in the center of the room. Dozens of heavily armored Vanguard assassins lay dead across the stone, their black plates cracked, their throats cleanly opened.
Standing right in the middle of the carnage was Regent Cassian Vane.
The ruler of the high council looked terrible. His silver armor was dented and dripping with fluid, his long gray hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. But his eyes were completely clear. They carried the terrifying, absolute focus of a man who had long ago stopped viewing people as living things.
In his left hand, he held a heavy iron dead-man's trigger, its thick red cables running directly into the glowing terminal of the capital's automated defense grid.
