He walked out of Kahve Keyfi, the cool Istanbul air a welcome shock to his face. The city lights twinkled like distant, indifferent stars. He looked at the sky, a vast, dark canvas. The Eye. Eastern Europe. Coming for you. He held the wooden box tighter, its subtle warmth a silent promise, and a deadly invitation. The journey had to begin at once.
Three days later, Julian Ravenscroft found himself in a remote corner of Eastern Europe. The landscape here was a stark contrast to the humid jungles of Myanmar or the bustling markets of Istanbul. Grey, jagged mountains clawed at a perpetually overcast sky, their peaks dusted with early snow. The air was thin, biting, carrying the metallic scent of damp earth and distant industrial fumes. It felt ancient, heavy with forgotten histories.
Their
