Baltimore had changed. The city she remembered was gone. The roads remained, the colour of the stone stayed the same, the faint sour scent still lingered near the river docks. And yet, as Vinea rode through the northern gates with Paul, Simon, and her ten knights in formation, everything felt off.
It was too clean.
The slums she'd once passed with Asmodeus faded, the old traders' square walled off and silent. The narrow alley where she'd once kissed him in secret—gone. Turned into a checkpoint lined with guards. They wore the crest of Grigor. The spirit, however, wasn't there.
No children chased dogs through the gutters. No gamblers called from crates outside the taverns. No street performers played their stringed songs on corners. She didn't feel life or vibrance here, only order.
"Feels wrong," Simon muttered beside her, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat over his eyes. "Too polished. Like a freshly made corpse."
Paul didn't speak. His eyes were on the rooftops.
