Blackthorn Row was a sleep, even the trees did not whisper
The fog arrived first, thick and rolling, swallowing iron lampposts and curling around wrought-iron gates etched with ancestral sigils. It pressed against wardlines like a living thing, testing, tasting, retreating only where ancient magic told it to. The houses stood shoulder to shoulder, tall and narrow, their brickwork dark with age and power. Every doorway carried history. Every stone remembered blood.
Serena Blackthorn opened her front door into that fog and froze her white hair covering her shoulders like a shawl.
Valan stood on her threshold.
He was dressed in black, of course, but not ceremonial. Practical. Leather fitted close to his frame, reinforced along the shoulders and forearms, boots worn smooth by long travel.
