The bright morning sun cast long shadows on the dilapidated old village. The stone structures stood as crumbling monuments to the lives that once filled this place with laughter and firelight. Burn marks scarred the stone, marks even time couldn't erase — silent echoes of battles past.
Two figures walked through the village, illuminated in full by the golden light. Their gait was easy, even casual, as though they were tourists in some ancient ruin. But the ease was a mask. Beneath it stood two women born and honed in violence. They walked like dancers trained in silence, every step deliberate. No gravel shifted. No clothes brushed. Utter silence.
They listened.
"Storm's mercy," came a whisper from the trees on the left — too soft for ordinary ears, but enough for Eleyn and Seraphis.
Eleyn turned instinctively, her eyes narrowing just in time to see the ripple of light racing toward her.
