Bastián took us into Seville just after nightfall, when the city had gone soft and gold at the edges and the heat still clung to the streets like a warning. The others rode in silence, dressed for a gathering that was neither a celebration nor a funeral. It was the kind of night wolves used to show strength after a threat had been crushed, or at least made to look crushed.
The underground hall sat beneath an old building near the river, hidden behind a narrow door and a staircase that smelled of sweat, and expensive liquor. By the time we reached the bottom, the noise had already hit us. Music boomed through the walls, laughter spilled across the room, glasses clinked, voices rose and fell in waves that felt too loud to belong to one place.
It was hot inside.
Not just warm, but hot enou
