The clang of metal still rang in the air when silence fell again. Not the silence of peace, but of a battlefield holding its breath. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, assassins either fled or were dead, their black hoods torn and bloodied. The torches along the wall sputtered, shadows flickering like restless spirits.
Liora's chest heaved, her hands trembling as she tightened her grip on the dagger Rowan had tossed her. The weapon was slick, not just with sweat but with blood. Her eyes darted from the bodies to Lucien, who stood tall, blade angled down at his side, breathing steadily as though this were just another night's work. Rowan was a step away, his own sword lowered, gaze locked on his master.
"Not a word of this leaves these walls," Lucien said at last, his voice quiet but sharp, like the edge of a knife. His eyes, burning in the torchlight, swept between Liora and Rowan. "If word spreads that they breached this house, it will be read as weakness. Weakness is death."
