The noble district bled gold into the night sky. Sylas walked its outskirts with unhurried steps, moving beneath pools of torchlight without hurry or hesitation. The sword at his hip, disguised with common wrappings, rested against his thigh with familiar weight. A gentleman returning from an evening's entertainment, nothing more.
Noblemen's guards rarely troubled gentlemen.
He adjusted his hood, ensuring his green hair remained concealed. Not from shame, Sylas had long since abandoned such useless sentiments…but from practicality. Green hair made for memorable witnesses, and tonight's work required discretion until the proper moment.
The Marquis of Everton's estate rose before him, a bloated monument to excess. Three stories of imported stone, windows gleaming with interior light, gardens sprawling in cultivated chaos. Sylas had studied it for seven nights now, learning its rhythms as intimately as a butcher knows a carcass before the first cut.
