The sewers stank of rot and memory and the slow decay of a kingdom that had long ago forgotten its conscience.
Zekar did not allow himself to name the odors. He moved instead at the head of their small procession, golden eyes cleaving the dark as though it were no more than gauze. The torch Ryker carried guttered uselessly in comparison. Light was a courtesy. Zekar's sight was inheritance.
Behind him, Ryker kept pace despite the familiar hitch in his stride, that old wound from a battle neither of them ever spoke of. His good hand rested upon the hilt of his blade with the casual intimacy of long companionship. He did not fidget. He did not falter. He simply endured.
And behind Ryker walked Emery.
She did not hesitate.
