the smuggler’s bible

Iseult

Iseult closes the door behind her. The room is cold. Ice crystals creep across the walls in snarled webs, glinting nastily in a sour blue glow coming from nowhere. The furniture is tasteful but understated, and every piece of it is currently on the ceiling.

It’s a neat effect, but Iseult has seen it before. She takes a step. Then another. The door locks with a snap.

Poor lost little morsel.

For a certain class of predator, stalking is part of the ritual. But what really matters—what counts at the end—is who pounces first. Iseult clenches her fist.