A cluster of chained scribes came out of the thickening swirl of snow. The grey man slid behind them. Mylasa swore to herself, and dodged forwards. The scribes’ silver chains jangled as she jostled them. Curses followed her. The shadow of the grey man was vanishing into an alley mouth. She ran, shedding pretence, knife sliding into her right palm, green cloak and skirts swirling behind her. He had seen her, and that meant that he needed removing now. Never mind the fact that the rest of his allies were still out there, never mind that it would mean that more might come. He had to die here and now.

She came round the corner. Black iron walls rose up and up and up above her. The grey man was ten paces down the alley, his back still to her. She ran at him, footsteps muffled in the thickening snow. She reached for his shoulder. Heavy flakes were swirling down. High above, the flare fires from the promethium works breathed fire and orange light into the dull metal sky. She gripped his shoulder and yanked back. The knife in her right hand rose, point first to meet his back as he fell.

He did not fall.

He spun. The thick grey fabric of the cloak yanked out of her hand. The steel cane in his left hand came around with him and hit her forearm with a crack of shattering bone. She cartwheeled back through the white-flecked air, shutting down the pain and shock flooding her. The man in grey seemed still as the world turned around her. She had an impression of sharp features framed by dark sideburns.

Mylasa landed and threw the knife in a single movement. The blade slid to a stop in mid-air. The snow slowed its fall. Frost covered the floating dagger’s blade. The man in grey looked at her for a long instant. Mylasa leapt, muscles flicking her body into the air as her left foot extended into a kick.

A wall of invisible force punched her from the air. More bones broke inside her. More pain. She hit the snow-covered ground, tried to roll, but found the point of the steel walking cane pressed into her neck. The man in grey stood above her. He held her own dagger in his left hand with the casual ease of a killer.

She took a breath. Something wet clicked in her chest, she spluttered, and tasted iron on her lips. She tried again and, rather than defiance, a question came from her mouth.

‘Who are you?’