The pedlar raised a hand to shield his eyes.

The elf was lying on the ground, exactly where he had fallen; the woman was sitting by his side.

She was wearing a dress of pearl grey velvet, with sleeves of vivid blue, and her hair fell over her smooth, pale shoulders like strands of the purest gold. She was his destiny—his doom, if the locket’s whisper was to be believed.

But the locket was wrong.

He would take her, as he had taken all the rest, and—unlike the rest—he would keep her (in a blue crystal vial).

And he would take her hair, and weave it into a braid, to wear about his neck.