That morning, the air of Anarats was still heavy with the remnants of last night's storm. Gray skies pressed down upon the rooftops, snow piled on the streets up to the knees, even though the townsfolk had been trying to clear it since dawn. Torches that would normally be extinguished after sunrise still burned faintly, for natural light barely pierced the cold fog.
In the large chamber warmed by the fireplace, Sylvia opened her eyes. She sat up slowly, the thin blanket sliding from her shoulders. Her gaze immediately settled on the dark gown hanging on the clothes standing the Dress of Death. The gown shimmered faintly, jet black with violet accents like restrained flames, its fabric flowing as if absorbing the light around it. Beside it, other battle gear had been prepared: black gloves inscribed with elegant runes, the seldom-used Rapier of Night glinting like the midnight sky, and a pair of black high heels with sharply elegant tips.
