Inside a sleek black carriage riding upstream toward the more affluent districts of Windhelm, three figures lay limp on the velvet floor, wrists and ankles bound tightly with ropes forged from a silver dreamy alloy that shimmered faintly whenever light brushed against it.
The alloy looked soft at first glance, almost liquid in the way it caught the glow filtering through the tinted windows, yet it bit into the skin like frozen steel. None of the three captives stirred. Their breathing was shallow, drugged into submission.
Outside, the sound of hooves striking polished stone echoed through narrow canals and arching bridges. The higher they climbed into the city, the cleaner the air became, tinged with expensive incense and distant music drifting from balcony gardens.
"We're being followed, Sir Duncan."
