Armani
Rena nearly jumps out of her skin when I rest my hand on her shoulder. The sudden contact sends a visible shiver through her slender frame. The ancient fortune teller across the weathered oak table taps her gnarled finger deliberately on the ornate card before her, its edges worn from countless readings.
"But because the card is upside down, you see, it means there will be a protector," the crone explains, her voice carrying the weight of mysterious knowledge. Her rheumy eyes, surprisingly sharp, look up at me through silvery lashes. She nods with knowing confidence. "Perhaps Lord Armani himself?"
"Of course," I respond smoothly, though I have absolutely no comprehension of what mystical nonsense she's peddling. The cards spread before us are adorned with faded symbols and crypti
