The alley behind the guest wing of the packhouse was a realm of oppressive dimness and suffocating quiet. Shadows, deep and menacing, clung to the cold, unforgiving stone walls, and the few distant torchlights barely flickered, casting long, distorted forms that danced with every whisper of the wind.
Erik leaned against the far end, a hunched, almost furtive figure, checking behind him twice, his eyes darting nervously into the gloom, before the distinct rustle of expensive silk alerted him to her presence.
Livia emerged from the deeper shadows, a spectral figure in a long, flowing gray cloak that swallowed her form. Her lips were pressed into a thin, unyielding line, and her eyes, though shadowed, were sharp, impatient, burning with a cold fire.
“You’re late, Erik,” she hissed, her v
