The Following Week
The safehouse smelled like old blood and cheaper whiskey.
Alistair had shown them the location on a map—a dot in the middle of nowhere, halfway between Ashen Guard territory and the unclaimed lands where the Veil ran thin. No name. No markers. Just a place where people went when they didn't want to be found.
"You'll be mercenaries," he'd said. "Hired muscle looking for work. Don't flash your badges. Don't use your real names. And for the love of the Veil, don't start a fight you can't finish."
Cora had grinned at that. Lucian had watched her and said nothing.
The van dropped them at a crossroads outside town. The driver left without a word.
---
Lucian had changed more than the others.
