Kiuga remained where he was as the hours crawled by, watching the unrest swell like a living thing. What had begun as scattered gatherings had become a flood. Every street visible from the rooftop was packed shoulder to shoulder with people. Balconies overflowed.
Windows were thrown open.
Rooftops held spectators and agitators alike. The chants rolled through the city in waves, rising from one district before being taken up by another until the entire inner city seemed to be speaking with a single voice.
Death. Death. Death.
Kiuga knew the words weren't directed towards him, but as the hours went by, he had grown more and more depressed just listening to the hate. The hate had grown so thick he could smell it and even touch it. So the north had spied on him, and his own people would dare put him in bed with the same people who tried to kill him.
