Ian stood at the edge of the balcony a while longer, the moon draping silver over Esgard's towers and tiled roofs.
Somewhere in the haze of night, the city slept uneasily—oblivious to the quiet war playing out beneath their cobbled streets and aristocratic masks.
But Ian was not thinking of the city.
Infact, his mind had wondered far off even while looking at it.
He was thinking of her.
Velrosa.
The ghost of her lips still lingered on his. Soft, sharp, commanding.
The scent of her hair—jasmine and winter steel—clung to his memory like smoke would to cloth.
He blinked again. And again.
"She's in your head now," he muttered to himself.
Irritated by the words as he were the truth of them.
"Oh look at you—mass murderer turned lover boy," came a voice from above.
Ian didn't look.
He knew who it was.
Perched lazily on the sloped shingles of the roof like a crow was Cardinal Fang. Or rather, what remained of him—twisted soulbound tethered to Ian's will.
