They moved on, then, half-merciful, half-mercenary. The city did not care for the nuance. Men shouted for order and the Daelmonts paraded fury in the streets. The council called for arrests. Names were printed in the papers that still dared speak truth.
Weeks passed like knives. Their strikes multiplied in detail and consequence—two bank accounts frozen; a shipping bond called back; a governor's aide arrested for embezzlement and left to rot. The Daelmonts learned to watch their own. Friends became suspects. Allies counted their names twice.
The cost piled in quiet places. Susan's bandages frayed. Steve's hands trembled. Hunter grew quieter. Roselle's smiles became rarer. Cain felt the city file itself into pieces and then attempt to glue itself back together with fresh lies.
One night, a message found them—a single white envelope slid under the barge's hatch. No stamp, no handwriting, only a phrase printed on pale paper: WE KNOW YOUR NAMES.
