The soft, tiny glows of a thousand distant gaslamps rise past Langford’s gaze as he falls, despair rising bitterly to choke him.
Below, the dark ribbon of the Thames; around it, London sprawling away in all directions into the fog-shrouded night.
The greatest city in all the wide world, seat of the Empire of the Lion, the throne he’s been proud to serve. Its once-impenetrable ocean fogs writhing like churning waves, as they always did these last few years, under the billowing plumes of countless smokestacks, the fires that birthed the steam that moved everything. Mills stamped and shuddered, trains squealed, great cogs clattered, driving the Empire on into a brighter, richer tomorrow … and with a cruel suddenness, he is leaving it all behind, plunging into death unregarded.
It is all going to go on without him.
Dread Agent of the Tower and Sworn Sword of the Lion he may be—but, in the end, he is utterly unimportant, after all.
The Tentacles assassin clutches at him again, snarling something incoherent, the dagger-tipped fingers of a fanged gauntlet flashing, long and cruel and gleaming.
They clash together in the air, all too close to Langford’s throat.
