At their head strode a taller figure whose presence hit Soren like a physical blow. Even with his face half-hidden beneath a hood, there was no mistaking him, the confident stride, the way he held his curved blade low and ready, the predatory tilt of his head as he assessed the corridor's occupants.
Sylas.
Weeks had passed since their encounter in the forest outside Northaven, but Soren would have recognized him anywhere.
The assassin moved like no one else, each step deliberate, each gesture efficient to the point of beauty.
The Inquisitors reacted with surprising speed, forming a defensive line across the corridor. Scripture-chains rattled as they raised them like weapons, metal links glowing with pale blue light as they began to chant in that ancient, resonant tongue.
Sylas didn't hesitate. His blade flashed once, impossibly fast, and the nearest Inquisitor crumpled with a sound like punctured bellows.
