The first thing Mikhailis felt was Elowen.
Not her body. Not warmth. Not the soft dark perfume of leaves and night-blooming flowers that always seemed to stay near her clothes.
Her magic.
It brushed the chamber ahead like roots moving under wet soil, quiet and controlled, the kind of presence that did not need to shout to change the shape of a room.
For one short beat, relief almost touched him.
Almost.
Then something else slid across his senses from behind.
It was so different from the Walkers that it made the hairs at the back of his neck rise before his mind finished naming it.
Not ritual calm.
Not the patient, mechanical discipline of people who believed the region could be cleaned like rot cut from flesh.
This was sharper.
Narrower.
Personal.
A murderous intent so focused it felt thin.
Like a needle.
Like someone had taken death, stripped off all drama, all hatred, all speech, and left only the part that knew exactly where the throat was.
