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Evening does not fall in the forest; it climbs, one branch at a time, until even brave men decide the day is over.
The assassins did not care about brave men. They cared about roads and orders and the way blood moves when a heart is cut crooked. They moved like seven-star promises: quiet and fast and without kindness for themselves, which is the only kind of cruelty that never gets tired.
"I see three," Serit said, which meant he saw more. "And one shadow that should not be where shadows are."
Mia did not answer. She was too busy keeping her breath even through a tear in her ribs that made everything taste copper. She moved her line three paces left because three paces left was where the ground would make a wrong-footed step cost extra. Thea's second made a clicking sound with her teeth that could have been disappointment or admiration. Thea held her blade low and let her mouth be busy with the kind of words that keep people standing when their knees want to go soft.
