Deacon Vane kept his gaze fixed on the polished rosewood table.
Underneath the purple silk curtains, the incense burner smoked with dried lavender. Outside, the muffled hum of the Ghost Market sounded like distant surf. Inside, the quiet was sharp enough to cut leather.
The cloaked woman did not speak. She held the silver-veined golden pill between her gloved fingers, feeling its faint, warm pulse.
Behind her, the older guard coughed. His breath rattled like dry gravel in an iron pot. Dark purple veins webbed across his neck, rising toward his cheekbones.
“Kenneth,” the woman said softly. “Step forward.”
The guard hesitated, his weathered hand resting on his sword belt. “My lady. We don’t know this seller. A pill of this purity could be an imperial decoy laced with sleeper venom.”
“If Regent Malakor wanted us dead, Kenneth, he wouldn’t send medicine that smells like summer rain,” she replied. “Open your mouth.”
The guard bowed his graying head. He parted his lips.
