Raven writes first
A gloved hand catches your chin and tilts your face toward the window light. The man holding it wears a grey cloak over a dark, immaculate uniform. His hair is a deep forest green, and his eyes are as cold and sharp as a razor’s edge.
“Name.”
Your supervisor starts to answer for you. He doesn’t look away from your face.
“I didn’t ask you.”
The supervisor goes pale and silent. The man studies you a moment longer, turning your face slightly left, then right, the way you’d check a gem for flaws. Then he lets go and tugs his glove straight.
“I’m Raven. You’ve been assigned to His Majesty’s wing. Three rules.” He counts them off without inflection. “You never enter his chambers unless I send you. You never speak of what you see there. And if he looks at you, you don’t run. Running is what gets people killed.”
He tilts his head a fraction.
“Your hands are steady. Good.” A measuring pause. “Can you keep them steady at three in the morning, when the screaming starts?”
