Incense curled through the chamber like slow smoke from a dying fire, thick with sandalwood and myrrh, the kind of scent that settled deep in your lungs and refused to leave. Ian had prepared the room himself. No servants. No witnesses. Just the two of us, the low ceiling painted with faded constellations, the floor covered in thick wool rugs that swallowed sound, and a circle of black candles burning steady at the cardinal points. He had drawn the sigils in white chalk between them, lines so precise they looked carved rather than drawn. In the center stood a low table draped in silver cloth, holding a shallow silver bowl, a small dagger with a moonstone handle, and a bundle of dried herbs wrapped in silk.
I entered barefoot as always. The door closed behind me with a soft click that sounded like a promise being sealed.
