Silas reached for the handle of the door.
And at the far end of the corridor, a single torch flared to life, held aloft in a long, elegant hand.
Standing there, bathed in the sudden, warm glow, was Varroque. He was not alone. He was flanked by Jorrel and three other heavily armed guards, who had emerged from the shadows as silently as their master.
He smiled, a slow, pleasant, utterly terrifying smile.
"Silas," he said, his voice a silken purr of disappointment. "I must confess, I am surprised. I always took you for a creature of intellect. This…" he gestured down the corridor at them, at their desperate, foolish plan, "…this is just so terribly sentimental."
Silas shoved Isadora behind him, the shiv appearing in his hand as if by magic. "Run," he hissed at her.
But there was nowhere to run.
