The streets behind Lowriver smelled of wet stone and cold iron. Ashra led us along narrow alleys, her steps quiet, sharp eyes scanning every shadow.
Liran's hand gripped the hilt of his short blade. His gaze swept the rooftops.
I felt it too.
A pressure in the air. Like a breath held too long. As if the city itself waited for something terrible.
"They're following us," Liran muttered.
Ashra nodded once.
"I saw them outside the Broken Seal. Two men in gray cloaks. Watching Dren's door."
I swallowed hard.
"Carrion Adepts?"
"Maybe. Maybe worse."
We slipped beneath an arch of black brick, moving quickly along the old canal. The broken stone was slick with moss, the water below low and dark.
There, scratched faintly into the wall, was the mark.
A serpent devouring its own tail.
The Ouroboros.
My father's seal.
But this was not his hand.
"Fresh," Liran said, crouching. "Still damp with black ink. Someone marked this no more than an hour ago."
"Warning," Ashra murmured. "Or claim."
Liran's jaw tightened.
"We're in their net now. Every step watched. Every corner marked. They want us to keep going."
I stared at the symbol.
Or lead us somewhere.
The Carrion Order didn't strike fast. They tightened. Circled. Until no escape remained.
"We need time," I said. "Supplies. Tools. If Marek lives, we'll need warding seals. Iron dust. Alkahest oil. The old protections."
"And the Grave-Warden won't speak freely," Ashra added. "His price will be truth—or blood."
"Where do we find the old gear?" Liran asked. "The Guild's vaults were burned. The markets are dry."
Ashra's eyes glinted in the gloom.
"Not all vaults. One remains. Forgotten. Below the Chapel of Silent Brass."
I stared.
"That chapel's cursed."
"So's everything old worth knowing," she said softly. "But the Order hasn't touched it. Not yet."
A distant sound broke the quiet.
Chains. Rusty. Shifting far beneath the streets.
Liran swore softly.
"The Chain. The real one. Beneath the Sanctum."
Ashra touched the wall.
"It's moving. They're readying the Vault."
I felt it then—a flicker in the air. The faint scent of burned parchment. A whisper, soft as breath, brushing my ear.
Corwin...
I turned fast. No one there.
But something had spoken.
Liran gripped my arm.
"Stay focused. They're pressing close, but they won't strike yet. Not until the Vault's open—or we make a mistake."
I shook off the chill.
"We don't give them the chance."
Ashra folded the map.
"To the Chapel first. Then Marek. Then the Catacombs."
Liran gave a grim nod.
"And every step... they'll tighten the net."
Above, on the rooftop far behind, a gray figure stood motionless—watching.
A pale iron mask glinted once in the dim light.
Then was gone.