Page 6 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Four

AMIR

A s I approached the estate of Thomas Alexander—the infamous Timehunter—an eerie sensation crept up my spine.

The stone steps before me, vast and inexorable, rose from the earth like a monument to his power.

Pale limestone slabs, expertly curated and smoothed, bore the marks of time’s relentless touch—rain-softened edges and faint weathering that whispered of age and endurance.

Yet they remained strong, unmoving, an unspoken warning that those who ascended did so at his will.

My footsteps echoed as I climbed, the sound swallowed by the towering facade looming overhead. The steps were shallow, almost leisurely in their design, as though meant for men who never hurried—least of all, to escape.

Wrought-iron railings flanked me, cold beneath my fingertips.

Their patterns—twisting acanthus leaves and cruel, spiraling thorns—spoke of elegance laced with danger as if the very metal had been shaped to mirror the man who ruled within.

Here, wealth was not a mere display, but a weapon displayed for all to see.

The doorway at the summit of the steps loomed, framed by stone pillars and encased in dark, timeworn wood.

Every carving that adorned it—symbols of victory, strength, dominion—offered no comfort, only a promise of the disturbed mind that had ordered them into existence.

Above, the triangular pediment jutted forward, an unspoken sneer, as though the house itself watched and judged all who dared approach.

Lanterns flickered at either side of the entrance, their dim, ghostly light casting uneasy shadows along the facade. They swayed like restless sentinels, their glow barely piercing the thick, oppressive air, yet they made the stone seem alive—a house that breathed, watched, and knew.

The massive oak door was before me, a silent guardian, its polished surface a deep, almost bloody-red.

The lion’s head knocker—impossibly lifelike—stared at me with piercing eyes, its expression frozen in a perpetual snarl.

The beast’s gaze was almost predacious, a silent warning to those who dared disturb the house’s master.

I hesitated, my fingers twitching at my side.

Beneath the grandeur, beneath the masterful craftsmanship, this entrance reeked of calculated cruelty. Every detail had been chosen with purpose. This was not merely a home; it was a statement, a fortress of power belonging to a man who understood dominance.

Drawing a slow breath, I squared my shoulders. My hands smoothed over my waistcoat, adjusting the folds with meticulous attention before fussing with the crisp knot of my cravat. Appearances were everything in Georgian London. To slip, even for a moment, was to invite ruin.

But I had not come to slip.

I had come to deceive.

Lord Hassan of Anatolia. The title sat upon my shoulders like a suit of armor, impenetrable, forged in careful study and endless preparation. My disguise was flawless and calculated down to the finest detail. And yet—beneath the layers of silk and civility—my heart drummed a constant war beat.

One wrong move.

I grasped the lion’s head knocker, its weight solid in my grip. The brass was warm where my fingers touched, polished smooth by years of use. I lifted it, inhaled, and let it fall.

The sound rang through the morning air, brisk and commanding.

It was not merely a knock—a summons, an announcement of arrival. A declaration of the attention I sought.

And now, there was no turning back.

The door creaked open with a slow, eerie groan, revealing a comely young maid standing on the threshold.

Her long, dark hair was neatly tied back with a red ribbon, a stark contrast against her pale skin.

She was delicate, almost doll-like, yet there was something measured in her demeanor—something practiced.

“How may I be of assistance?” she asked, her voice smooth and melodic, like a gentle stream flowing over polished stones.

She spoke slowly, carefully, every syllable rolling off her tongue with a refined elegance that felt cultivated rather than natural.

It was the voice of someone who had spent years perfecting her speech to match the upper class—an artifice carefully constructed.

“I am here at the request of Lord Alexander. I am Lord Amir Hassan of Anatolia,” I said, offering a polite bow.

The maid inclined her head, her expression unreadable. “Of course,” she murmured, her voice as cool as frost. “You are expected, my lord. Do come in.”

I stepped across the threshold of Thomas Alexander’s estate, and an icy sensation swept through me—one that had little to do with the damp English air.

The grandeur I had anticipated was there, but it was not welcoming. It was cold, calculated. The air was thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken history, as if the walls held their breath, waiting.

The maid led me through a foyer where the furniture stood rigid, draped in heavy, lightless fabrics that seemed to drink in the dim light. The portraits lining the walls eyed me with the same disdain their subjects might have in life, their gazes hollow and condemning.

Joy had long been banished from this house.

A mausoleum of wealth remained—a place where shadows clung to the corners, where whispers of loss and lamentation settled like dust on forgotten relics.

And I had just walked into its depths.

The corners of the room were steeped in darkness, untouched by the weak slivers of sunlight that struggled through the tall windows.

The dim glow barely reached the polished floors.

For a fleeting moment, I half-expected to find a coffin at the heart of this mausoleum masquerading as a home, surrounded by silent mourners paying tribute to the long-departed.

Instead, there was only the stark emptiness—an oppressive void that seemed to mirror the cruelty for which Thomas Alexander was known.

The maid’s footsteps echoed through the hush as she led me up a sweeping staircase.

Beneath us, the carpet was threadbare, starkly contrasting the grandeur that had once thrived here.

This house had known better days, but time, like its master, had stripped it of warmth, leaving only the skeletal remains of its former splendor.

A voice rang out from beyond the halls—imperious and laced with impatience.

The maid stilled, her posture shifting with quiet caution. Her expression remained unreadable when she turned to me; her rehearsed politeness was impeccable yet absent warmth.

“I apologize; I’ve been summoned elsewhere. Lord Alexander will see you shortly,” she said, her tone clipped, impersonal. “Please proceed to the end of the hall and turn left. Lord Alexander’s study is the last door on the right.”

A single, shallow nod.

Then she was gone, disappearing down a dim corridor without another word.

Silence enveloped me once more.

Now, I was alone.

I followed her instructions, my fingers grazing the cold banister as I ascended, each step drawing me deeper into the lair of the Timehunter who had bludgeoned his name into history with blood and ruin.

Merciless and calculated, Thomas Alexander had orchestrated the downfall of so many Timebornes and Timebounds.

My fallen comrades. Their ghosts walked with me now, silent phantoms pressing against my spine, reminding me why I had come.

For justice.

For vengeance.

The air thickened with each footfall, heavy with the scent of aged wood and something bitter—something old and resentful that clung to the very bones of this house.

I had barely taken a few strides down the dimly lit corridor when something—someone—collided with me.

She stumbled against my chest, her nearness a jarring warmth against the cold I had wrapped myself in. My hands shot out instinctively, gripping her shoulders, steadying the fine-boned frame that trembled beneath my touch.

“Forgive me, I should watch where I’m going,” she whispered, her voice as delicate as porcelain, yet beneath it ran a current of quiet strength.

And then she looked up.

Eyes the color of a forgotten sky—wide, searching, brimming with a silent plea—locked onto mine.

The contrast between us was stark.

I was cloaked in shadows and deception.

She was a beacon of light trapped within the gloom of this house.

For a moment, I forgot where I stood. I forgot the mission, the vengeance, the weight of the name I carried.

“Who are?—”

Her voice faltered, the words collapsing on her tongue.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. Silence spoke louder.

I studied her—the confusion in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips, the way her breath trembled like she was already bracing for a blow.

There was no mask on her. No pretense. Just raw, unfiltered fear.

She met my gaze, and for a split second, I knew she saw it—the danger coiled in me like a serpent beneath still waters.

But also, something else. Not mercy. Not comfort.

Just... awareness. Recognition. Like she understood I wasn’t from this world of silk and protocol either. And maybe, I wasn’t her enemy.

Then—footsteps.

Deliberate. Heavy. I knew that rhythm before she reacted. That arrogant, malicious cadence that turned every corridor into a battlefield. Her father was coming.

She stiffened in my arms. Her panic struck me before she moved, radiating off her like a rising fever.

She tore herself from my grasp, but her wrist lingered in my palm a second too long.

I felt the tremor, the way her pulse jolted beneath my touch.

Her breath hitched, caught in her throat like it feared making a sound.

My fingers stayed suspended in the space she left behind—open, empty.

A promise I hadn’t made. A warning I hadn’t voiced.

“Elizabeth, come back here!”