"Where do you think you're going?"
The voice echoed with a grim finality, bouncing off the cold stone walls of the alleyway like a phantom bell toll.
Lugh's path was blocked, not by any ordinary soldier, but a member of the royal guard. A man draped in white uniform, and lacquered black boots of Pyrellis's elite.
But this wasn't Lugh's true body—it was one of his puppets, a husk of a man whose soul had long been snuffed out and absorbed into the vast sea of spirits Lugh carried within him.
The real Lugh had already slipped away from this area, far from danger. This confrontation was a test, and a decoy.
The puppet lifted its head, eyes dull yet moved by an intelligence not its own. Lugh peered through it, his real consciousness threading through in a way no puppeteer could ever hope to achieve.
