the smuggler’s bible


Balefire gleams through the high windows in the back hall, bathing Dorian in a sickly blue light. He scans the shadows—they stand out stark and black against the walls, but some of them shimmer at the edges. He suspects there are more than there ought to be.

“Ipse venena bibas,” he mutters, reaching into his coat for a vial. He tips it back, then crushes a small grey feather in his other hand. It smears like ash across his palm.

“Are you serious?” Dorian says as lightning flashes outside. “Cut it out with this phantom of the opera bullshit.”