The warehouse was a cavern of dust.
Sunlight filtered through the grimy windows high above, cutting through the gloom in thick, mote-filled beams. The air inside was stagnant, heavy with the cloying, sweet scent of fruit that had been left to rot in the crates.
Mirabelle burst through the side door, Varric and his soldiers right on her heels. "Revas! Wait!"
But Revas hadn't waited. He was already a blur of motion in the center of the vast room.
He had cornered a man against a support pillar. The figure was dressed in the nondescript grey leathers of a dockworker, but a curved dagger lay on the floor where he had dropped it—a blade stamped with the distinctive, jagged mark of the Syndicate.
"Found one," Revas grinned.
He wasn't touching the ground. He hovered slightly, his coat billowing around him like wings of smoke. He held the man by the throat, lifting him three feet into the air until his boots kicked uselessly at the nothingness.
