Mikhailis dropped to his knees, palms flattening on cold gravel that bit through thin gloves. Dust puffed up, swirling in the lantern glow before settling on the black fabric like gray snow. Steady, breathe, he told himself, trying to tame the hammer in his chest. Each beat still boomed louder, echoing inside his skull.
Across the ragged courtyard the lead thug stroked the violet heart-stone with obscene pride, cradling it as though it were a pet worth more than every life gathered in the festival square. Sick light crept over the man's pitted cheeks, lingered in his cracked grin, and crawled across the rune-web etched in the dirt—runes that brightened with every pulse, hungry green tongues waiting to feast on mana and flesh alike. One flick, one spike of power, and laughter and song would turn to screams and ash.
