The hearth fire in Villa 1 crackled steadily. It cast long, shifting shadows across the polished wooden floorboards of the living room. Vane sat at the kitchen island with a clean rag in his right hand and a tin of polishing oil open on the counter. The heavy star steel shaft of the Silver Fang rested flat across his lap.
He was supposed to be performing routine maintenance on the weapon. The microscopic ether conduits etched into the metal needed to be cleared of ambient buildup after extensive use. It was a methodical, grounding task. It was exactly the kind of repetitive physical action his mind usually craved to reestablish tactical focus.
Tonight, the focus refused to materialize.
