Leonhardt didn't wait for Dia to recover.
The chain was still warm in his hand, her blood-specked footsteps echoing behind him—but he didn't look back. She'd follow. Broken things always did.
He stepped into The Last Call.
No ceremony. No hesitation.
His blade moved once.
The massive slab of steel carved through the bar's front doors with a single swing, splintering polished oak, iron bolts, and faded memories in the same breath. The old carvings shattered underfoot. In an instant, he'd erased the warmth once etched into every line of the wood.
He walked inside.
Silence answered him.
Tables upturned. Chairs broken. A few low-burning lanterns still clung to the walls, their glow dim through the smoke.
It smelled like old liquor and newer blood.
No signs of the other members.
Not Queen. Not the Last Call members. Not the poison-seller.
They'd fled. Or died. Or both.
A shame. Leonhardt had been looking forward to the look on their faces.
