Thirty-Two
The door to Blaiz’s magnificent house is thrown open and the porch is empty of guards. Solma thinks the worst when she arrives. She grabs her knife and drops to a semi-crouch, creeping across the threshold, eyes darting towards the shadows. She half expects a foreign assassin to make themselves known at any moment. But the corridor is empty, and the floorboards creak menacingly under her weight.
When she reaches Blaiz’s office, the door is ajar and a dim, yellow glow comes from inside. Someone riffles through papers, muttering under their breath. It’s Blaiz. Solma recognizes the cadence of his anger. She imagines him, teeth bared, canines glinting in the candlelight, a vein jumping in his temple. She closes her eyes. And there he is again, looming out of the darkness, trapping
