The candlelight guttered as a breeze slipped through a cracked window. Bernardo Gui did not look up at first; the Inquisitor continued writing with the deliberate patience of a man who knew the truth would reveal itself in time. Only when the room grew colder did he pause. Across the chamber, where the shadows gathered thickest, a tall, gaunt figure had appeared without sound. Its shape was wrong for a man—too still, too thin, and far too comfortable in the dark.

“Death has many servants,” Gui said calmly, setting his quill aside. “But few bold enough to step willingly into the light.”

The figure bowed its head slightly, the gesture almost mocking. Sowerberry, once a simple undertaker drawn into the darkness by forces he did not control, was now known as the Shadow of Death. He had not come to threaten—but to collect. In the long silence that followed, two terrible certainties regarded one another: a man who hunted monsters without mercy, and a thing that had long ago ceased pretending to be human.

“I am here to retrieve my due…” replied the Shadow.

“Ah…so she is out of time?” said Gui.