Caelus touched his throat. It was bare. He breathed—deeply, raggedly, like a drowning man breaking surface.
Caelus stared at the frayed rope. Then at the golden noose pulsing against his throat. knotty ruff: golden knots
For the first time, fear cracked Caelus’s proud face. “Can you cut it?” Caelus touched his throat
“That’s the third time this week,” growled the innkeep, Thorne, polishing a glass that never got clean. “The Grey Tides are rising. More frayed souls washing in every dawn.” Caelus stared at the frayed rope
He was tall, gaunt, and dressed in the salt-stained coat of a ship’s captain who had lost his ship, his crew, and possibly his mind. But what drew every eye in the room was the rope around his neck.
On the third night, the golden knot screamed. A high, thin sound like a harp string breaking. The Weaver’s shadow loomed against the inn’s wall, claws outstretched.
Caelus laughed, but it was a hollow, splintering sound. “Then why does everything I touch turn to triumph? My enemies drown. My debts vanish. Women throw themselves at my feet.”