The Warsaw Royal Castle at 3:33 PM was crowded with tourists.
I moved with the herd, through the opulent chambers, under crystal chandeliers. I felt like a ghost. The cold fire in my chest was a low, watchful ember.
Where are you?
I checked the calendar alert again. No room number. No instructions.
I found myself in the Marble Room. Portraits of old kings stared down. The crowd thinned here, moving towards the Throne Room.
The air in front of a massive landscape painting shimmered.
Not a heat haze. A literal distortion in reality, like a ripple on a pond's surface. No one else seemed to notice.
A figure stepped through the painting.
He was Anville, but wrong. Same sharp features, same artfully messy hair. But where Anville's clothes were crisp casual, this man wore a tailored black suit with a blood-red silk lining. His silver eyes didn't just pierce; they swirled with chaotic, dark motes.
DeVille. The Wishshredder.
He looked at me and smiled. It was all teeth.
