Chapter 8 · free to read
Homeless, hunted, and standing in the largest untended grave I had ever seen in either life.
Four hundred years of Vael-Duran's poor, filed and forgotten. Bone. A name carved on every niche. And every single one of them had wanted something.
In one night the garden went from nine to two hundred and eleven. Nobody above ground knew it existed.
The city underneath the city. Plague-orphans, grave-thieves, and everyone Vael-Duran had quietly decided not to feed.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.