The storm thinned toward dawn, yet its voice lingered, murmuring in the gutters and bells. Nathaniel Harrow stood at the center of Ludgate, lantern extinguished, pistol forgotten, contract turned to ash in his trembling hands. Across from him, Grathok remained, a fortress given form, visor lowered once more.

They circled one another in silence, though neither moved a step. It was as if the city itself had slowed its breath to watch. Windows stood black, yet faces hid behind them, watching from cracks in shutters, too afraid to speak. Even the river seemed to wait.

Harrow drew in a ragged breath. He thought of the widows, the beggars, the lords who had fallen. He thought of the sigils carved into stone, of the keys that lay heavy upon his desk. He realized then what they had always been: not tokens of victory, but instruments of inheritance. Locks demanding new keepers.

Grathok lifted his gauntlet and traced a single line in the air, invisible yet heavy enough that Harrow felt it score across his skin. Then the visor tilted downward, as though to confer a crown.

The investigator staggered back. His heart hammered. “Is this it?” he whispered.

The visor turned toward him again, closer now. The silence deepened until it split the marrow of his bones. And then, at last, Grathok spoke. His voice was not a voice but the grinding of iron gates, the rumble of stone dragged across stone.

“your turn.”

The words struck harder than any blade. Harrow’s knees buckled. Yet even as he fell, he understood. The curse was not passed by mercy or ritual. It was passed by recognition. Grathok had acknowledged him, and that was enough.

The great knight’s armor dissolved into shadow, folding back into the storm. The sword remained, point-down in the cobbles, humming faintly with thunder. The keys upon Harrow’s desk would never be recovered; they now lay in his chest, heavy and cold.

He rose. The silence no longer pressed upon him. It emanated from him. The storm bent to his breath. A passerby stumbled, eyes wide, as if kneeling before him without knowing why.

Harrow reached for the sword. His fingers closed upon the hilt.

By dawn, there was no Grathok. There was only Nathaniel Harrow, his silhouette taller than any man, his visor an empty gate, his mission unspoken yet understood. The city had chosen.

The curse had found its next keeper.

Chapter XVI: The Last Appointment

Вдыхаю жизнь выдыхаю смерть

Chapter XVI: The Last Appointment

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