The Night of Reckoning

The moon, a sliver of bone against the bruised velvet of the night sky, offered little illumination as Harald’s small band crept through the shadowed grounds of the usurper’s fortress. Each rustle of leaves, each distant owl’s cry, was amplified, a drumbeat against the taut silence of their advance. Harald moved with a predator’s grace, his farmhand’s strength now honed by a desperate purpose. He felt the weight of Lia’s presence beside him, a quiet anchor in the swirling currents of his apprehension. Her hand, when it brushed his, was cool, steady.

“The west wall,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath. “Hemlock said it’s the least guarded, but the most treacherous.”

Lia nodded, her eyes, even in the gloom, seemed to pierce the darkness. “He spoke of pressure plates, Harald. And tripwires woven with a silencing charm. One wrong step…”