Like Ghosts, they slipped into the brothel, two shadows swallowed by a greater darkness.
The place thrummed with life—a warm, sickly music of laughter, the slap of dice, the murmur of lovers and the soft clink of coin.
Lanterns swung on ropes, painting the rafters in moving gold; perfumed fumes wound through the air, sweet and cloying.
Servants and patrons filled the lower halls, but Aric and Serina took stairs that led upward, away from the common rooms and toward the nobles' section—the private suites where men who paid for discretion thought themselves safest.
The corridor to the guest rooms was lined with screens of lacquered wood, each one inlaid with motifs of coiled wyrms, petals, and flame.
Voices leaked through the thin seams—snatches of drunken boasting, whispered promises, a woman's giggle turned rough with wine.
Every footfall they made was measured, a contained rhythm.
