The hum lingered, steady and low, like the heartbeat of some unseen beast slumbering behind the stone. It reverberated in the marrow of their bones, making the squad feel small, insignificant, as though they stood not before a wall but an ancient predator that had simply not yet decided to open its eyes.
Mia did not move. Her hand tightened on her sword's hilt, but the blade remained sheathed. Her mind was split down the middle—one part screaming at her to press forward, to seize any chance of finding a weakness in the palace; the other urging her to turn back, to keep her squad alive until the gate was taken.
Around her, the squad shifted uneasily.
Sylvia's bow was raised, the silver-fletched arrow trembling ever so slightly as her knuckles whitened. Her sharp elven-like eyes scanned every inch of the wall, but she whispered under her breath, more to herself than to them. "That's not stone. It's skin. Skin with veins."
