The square began to empty. Stages were disassembled. Blood was washed from the arena stones with spirit-infused water. The elders stood and left, their followers trailing behind like long shadows.
Quinlan didn't move.
He stood there, still and silent, watching the backs of the departing elders disappear into the gathering dusk.
Feng stood beside him, fuming quietly. But even she had no more barbs left to throw.
Then…
*Knock.*
*Knock.*
*Knock.*
A tapping sound came from behind them.
Quinlan turned.
An old man limped forward slowly, the setting sun casting long shadows over his body. His robes were simple but well-kept, the color a faded grayish-red. What made him stand out, however, was his body.
All four of his limbs were prosthetics—mechanical extensions made of metal. His arms hissed with every movement, the joints clicking. His legs stomped more than they stepped, and one knee groaned like an old gate each time it bent.
