Dishonored 1 -

Corvo’s grip tightened on his folding blade.

He wasn’t. Not from cold. Not from fear.

He knelt, lifting her onto his hip the way he had when she was small enough to sit on his shoulders during state processions. “We’re going home,” he said. dishonored 1

He carried her through the window, Blinking across the rooftops as the rain washed the city’s sins into the sea. Behind them, the Golden Cat glittered like a poisoned jewel. Ahead, the Hound Pits Pub waited—a den of conspirators with their own hidden blades.

Emily squeezed his neck. “You’re shaking,” she said. Corvo’s grip tightened on his folding blade

“Not tonight,” he said softly. “Tonight, we just leave.”

Corvo exhaled slowly. He chose the harder path. Not from fear

No. Not tonight. Emily came first.

But the Outsider had other plans.

Three months ago, he had been the Lord Protector, the Empress’s shadow and sword. He had watched Jessamine die on the floor of her own tower, her blood seeping between his fingers as her daughter, Emily, screamed. Then the usurper Burrows had thrown Corvo into Coldridge Prison, branded him a murderer, and left him to rot.

He Blinked across the courtyard, landing without a sound on a wrought-iron balcony. Inside, a guest was arguing with a courtesan. Corvo pressed his face to the glass. The man’s throat was bare. His coin purse was fat. It would be so easy to slide a blade between his ribs.