The moment Lord Alaric's words left his lips, the luxurious study transformed.
The shadows in the corners deepened. Coalesced. Detached themselves from the walls. Eight figures, clad in the stark, functional black leather of the Inquisition's covert squads, materialized from the gloom.
Their movements were utterly silent. Not the silver-clad Templars. These were the Inquisitors' scalpels. Their spies and assassins. They fanned out. A perfect, inescapable semi-circle. Their shortswords and consecrated daggers were drawn.
Edward was trapped. The door was behind him. The armed assassins were in front of him. And the architect of his demise was sitting comfortably, sipping brandy.
