Spy

In the Empire of Iron’s gleaming halls, where gears grind and hammer strikes burn, the Spy moves unseen. Clad in muted metal and soot-dark cloth, they slip through corridors past roaring furnaces, listening for overheated tempers and whispered treaties. Their breath is held behind closed doors; their eyes catch the flicker of betrayal before it burns.   They carry nothing but secrets and cold steel in a hidden sheath. In marketplaces they linger behind crates, in audiences they shadow courtiers. When war drums echo from the Coliseum, the Spy is already present in the sowed doubts, the subtle misdirections, the quiet unraveling of trust.