[Ray's POV]
The festival was a sensory assault, a deliberate weapon against my kind. My greatest asset—my sense of smell—was rendered nearly useless, drowned in a thick, cloying soup of scents. Sizzling pork fat fought with cloying perfumes, the earthy crush of herbs underfoot mixed with the sharp, sour tang of spilled ale. It was impossible to filter through the olfactory chaos for the cold, metallic scent of a witch's magic or the aggressive, territorial musk of a hostile werewolf. And the masked man? He was a ghost. I didn't even have his scent to begin with. My right hand, resting on the pommel of my sword, clenched into a fist of pure frustration. If only that masked man hadn't slipped from my sight so easily.
