Dorian‘s pov.

The moment I reached the outskirts of the Taverna, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My boots crunched over the gravel path, each step heavy with tension I couldn’t shake. The Taverna was alive—voices, laughter, the clatter of tankards—but my eyes scanned the crowd with precision, dissecting every face, every movement.

Then I saw him.

Tiberius. Cloaked in a dark hood, perfectly still, seated in the back like a damn ghost. And what froze me ...