Vasilus Pordus was a dead man. He was sure of it, as soon as the stranger came jumping straight at him, from the shadowy corner of his bedroom. The twin daggers the assailant held, glistened with a sickly green color, some substance, no doubt poisonous, dripping from their edges. Vasilus stumbled backwards, barely dodging the slashes aimed at his exposed throat, and with a yelp of surprise, quickly turned and ran. Damn that hyrkanian. He had promised, promised that Vasilus would be safe, and out of harm’s way. Yet here he was, forced to flee, like a rabbit running from the fangs of a stalking fox... a fox with wicked, serrated fangs, dripping poison.