The mist in the park had turned into a steady, biting drizzle, the kind that soaked through layers of wool and chilled the skin to the bone. Amara sat on the bench, her breath hitching as she processed the cold, sharp truth of her friend's confession. The man sitting next to her wasn't just a survivor of a tragedy, he was an instrument of an old, bloody war.
"A hunter," she repeated, the word tasting like copper in her mouth.
Hansen didn't flinch. He didn't even turn to look at her. He kept his gaze fixed on the stagnant pond, his profile looking as if it had been chipped out of flint. "How do you know about it anyway, Amara?" he asked, his voice low and mocking. "Oh, no. Don't bother to answer it. I know exactly where you get your 'facts.' I know who's been whispering into your ear while you're tucked away in that glass tower."
He finally turned his head, his eyes flashing with a jagged, bitter light. "It's the Dragon, isn't it? Darien Dravik."
