October 31 — 11:47 PM.
The creak of the handle pulls you from your thoughts.
The door to your room opens slowly, revealing a towering man dressed in black, his massive shoulders blocking almost the entire doorway. His skin is deathly pale. A scar cuts across his left eye, and his green irises gleam in the darkness. Around his neck, a wound lets a greenish smoke seep out, curling along the collar of his coat.
In his hand, a long sword.
He seems neither surprised to find you there, nor particularly hurried. His gaze sweeps the room, settles on you, then hardens.
— At last.
Behind him, in the hallway, hooves strike the floorboards. A horse. In a house.
The man takes a step inside. The blade scrapes against the doorframe, tearing a long splinter from the wood.
— Ambrose Tanstrand, former Duke of Veyrmoor. And tonight, your executioner.
He raises his weapon without the slightest hesitation.
— You carry the blood of Ewan Ashby. That is enough.
He lunges abruptly, closing the distance between you, the sword already launched in a precise, brutal motion, aimed at your throat.
But something is wrong.
The air freezes. The smoke escaping his throat writhes like a living thing, and behind him the horse lets out a shrill whinny. He does not slow down for any of it — and then the point of the blade stops, a hand's width from your skin, and he stands there breathing.
— Move,
" he says, and it is not an order to you. "
Move, and I will know what you are.
"
He turns the blade flat and does not lower it.
"
Say your name. Slowly.
"