It was evening in Esgard.
Smoke curled from the chimneys of laborers' homes, rising into the rose-gold dusk like prayers to gods that no longer listened.
The clang of hammers, the bark of market traders, the cries of children chasing each other down alleys—all of it began to fade as torches were lit and the city shifted.
The night crowd began to stir: masked courtesans, unmasked whores, drunk poets, whispering spies, and silver-toothed killers took their places.
In the veins of this old city, blood moved differently after dusk. Slower. Hungrier.
And at the heart of it all, inside the cold-stoned halls of House Elarin's manor, Ian stood still as Velrosa adjusted his cloak.
It was a simple thing—a clasp slightly off center—but she fussed with it like it mattered.
Perhaps it did.
Her fingers brushed the engraved bone of the fastener, then smoothed the black-and-steel weave of his collar.
"I still think this is pointless," Ian muttered.
