The market had emptied too fast.
Riven was the first to notice.
One moment, there were crowds, colours, and clamour. The vibrant hum of the market had died, eerily so. The noble ladies with parasols, the gossiping barons and their powdered escorts, the flower girls and musicians—they were gone.
Not fled.
Gone.
Riven stood very still, his fingers tightening around the wrapped bundle of perfume bottles in his hand. The silence pressed in, broken only by the distant flutter of a fabric banner.
"Troy," he said softly.
"I see it," Troy replied, his hand already drifting toward the sword strapped beneath his coat.
The knights had noticed, too. Their stances shifted subtly, shoulders squared, feet braced. Professional. Alert.
That's when they appeared—men dressed in dark leather, emerging from alleyways and corners. They weren't subtle. They didn't need to be. At a glance, Riven counted twenty. There were likely more.
