London was bleeding.
The fog curled through the crooked streets, thick and red as old blood, swallowing the gaslights, the gutters, the broken dreams of men who no longer looked up when they walked. Above the rooftops, the shattered moon hung low and furious, a gaping wound stitched with ghost-light. It watched him. It always watched.
The Count of Veyron moved like a shadow down Greystone Lane, his boots striking hollow notes against the cobblestones. He was draped in a black coat that drank the light, a serpent-headed cane tapping softly in his hand. His hair, wild and dark, fell about his face like a halo corrupted. One eye gleamed gold, hot and alive. The other shimmered with a cold, silvery violet — a thing not born entirely of this world.
They said the crimson fog was a curse.He knew better.
It was a crown.
Around him, London shivered. Buildings leaned in close, whispering secrets in broken brick and rotting wood. Rats fat as cats skittered through the alleys, chased by things darker still. Somewhere in the distance, the bells of St. Luthien's tolled a slow, grim note, as if mourning the death of something no one dared name.
A boy stumbled out of the mist ahead, no older than fifteen, his coat too thin, his face too hollow. He looked up at Veyron with wide, desperate eyes.
"Please, sir," the boy rasped, "a coin—"
The Count smiled. A beautiful, empty smile.
"Hope," he said, his voice velvet over razors, "is the most expensive thing in London tonight."
He flicked a coin into the air. It spun once, twice, catching the sour moonlight, before vanishing into the crimson mist. The boy lunged after it like a starving dog.
Veyron did not look back.
He walked on, toward the heart of the city, where the true rulers sat behind iron gates and velvet curtains, fat on secrets, drunk on blood. They thought themselves untouchable. Eternal.
Fools.
"They kneel before their throne," he murmured to the night, "unaware it was built on lies."
Above him, the moon shivered.The city breathed.And the first great move was set into mo