Night fell over Lowriver like a black tide, washing the streets in chill silence.
In the upper quarter—beyond the light of the lanterned bridges—a quiet procession wound its way through the alleys. No torches. No banners. Only the soft rasp of iron-shod boots on stone and the faint clink of chain.
The Carrion Order moved.
Their masks of pale iron gleamed dully beneath the moon. Their robes hung still as death shrouds, stitched with forgotten glyphs that shimmered when caught by shadow. There were five tonight—no more than that—and yet the scent of old ash and bitter alchemies followed them like a plague.
At their head walked the Adept who had spoken to Corwin beneath the Chapel.
His mask turned slowly, watching the sleeping houses, the shuttered shops, the crooked bridges of the old district.
"The Circuit stirs," he murmured. "The Chain weakens. The child of Endren will not abandon the path."
A second Adept stepped from the gloom—her mask wrought with twisted sigils, her hands curled and blackened by alkahest burns.
"Then he must be broken. Or bound." Her voice was dry as parchment.
The leader was silent a moment.
"No. Not yet. He bears the Vault's secrets. The old tools. He may serve... if properly guided."
A soft sound behind—a whisper of air disturbed.
A third figure knelt in the shadow of the alley. Its mask was smaller, smooth. A Lurker—one of the Order's hidden assassins.
"Word from the low quarter," it hissed. "The girl—Ashra. The thief. She trades for arms at the River's Edge. The blade-man—Liran—visits the Black Foundry. Gathering iron. Preparing."
The Adept's pale mask turned towards the river, distant and dark.
"They sense the net. The last coil of their Circle reforms."
His metal fingers spread wide—slow, patient.
"Let them. Every step draws them closer to the Chain's breaking."
A soft chime—once, twice—sounded from beneath his cloak.
The Adept drew a crystal lens from within the folds of his robe. The faint shimmer of alchemical sight played over its surface—lines of fire tracing the city's veins.
"There. In the old tenement. The crippled scribe. Dren Hollow. He who gave the boy the map."
His voice deepened.
"Bind him. Tear his secrets from flesh and bone. Make him sing the lost names."
The Lurker bowed, melting into shadow.
The others stood in silent accord.
The Adept turned his gaze to the sky—where no stars shone.
"The Circle died once. Burned and broken. They would rise again on the bones of their fathers."
His fingers closed around the crystal lens, shattering it to dust.
"We will bury them deep this time."
The Carrion Order moved into the dark, their iron masks vanishing into the alley's throat.
Above them, on the Chapel's distant spire, a single crow stirred—watching with eyes as black as pitch.
And far below, in the vault's depths, the old chains groaned once more.