The sky didn’t just darken; it turned heavy, pressing down on the Vance Manor with the weight of a physical blow. The air in the garden thickened, smelling of ozone and the dry, metallic scent of a storm that refused to break. "Elara, look at the sky," Mia whispered, her voice trembling. High above the cliffs, the clouds weren't swirling. They were splitting. A jagged, vertical tear appeared in the atmosphere, bleeding a cold, violet light that made the grass beneath their feet turn to ash. This wasn't a bank heist or a ritual. This was a Siege. A single figure stepped through the tear. He didn't fly; he walked down an invisible staircase of shadows. He wore a suit of shifting grey smoke that mirrored Vane’s, but his eyes were different. They weren't the embers of a fallen Duke. They were the flat, dead black of a Void Steward. "The audit is over," the Steward spoke, his voice vibrating in the marrow of Elara’s bones. "The Vance bloodline has spent its credit. The Ninth Circle is
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