The slow, sarcastic clap echoed in the sewer junction, a sound utterly alien to the damp, dripping stone and the scent of blood. It was a sound of performance, of a spectator who had thoroughly enjoyed the show. Morwenna, the Lady of the Veil, stood at the mouth of the tunnel, her form a study in quiet, deadly grace. Behind her, a dozen of her personal guard, the elite assassins known as the Veiled Hand, materialized from the shadows, their bone-and-silver masks turning them into an anonymous, terrifying chorus.
The moment of near-intimacy between Christina and me shattered, the fragile connection severed by the cold, hard reality of our situation. We had been so focused on the immediate threat, on the dance of our survival, that we had forgotten the most important rule of this world: there is always a greater predator watching from the shadows.
