The Old Guard Novels & Stories

"The guards at the dais are ours. One quick blade for the girl, a drink of hemlock for the Sovereign’s wine. Clean. Efficient. High-Crag reborn." I looked down at the elders. They looked so small from up here. So fragile. They were old men playing with fire, convinced that they were the masters of the flame. They didn't realize that the "scavenger" they despised was currently looking down at their exposed throats.

They’re terribly predictable. ‘Is that so?’ ‘Absolutely. Every event like this has the same three tribes.’ She gestured discreetly with her glass. ‘First, The Old Guard. Also known as The Patrons.’ I followed her gaze to a cluster of older guests. The women wore vintage, impeccably cut gowns in muted colours, their jewels not flashy but heavy with history. They spoke in low, measured tones, interacting in a tight, closed circle. They looked like they owned the building, which several of them probably did.