The night had grown heavy, a thick darkness that pressed down over Gonzalo's fortress. The corridors were dimly lit by the occasional torch, its flame dancing and casting long shadows across stone walls.
Even the guards seemed subdued, lulled into a sense of calm by the stillness that clung to every tower and gate. In her chamber, Vanya slept peacefully, the soft rise and fall of her chest masking the storm that was about to unfold.
Outside, the forest surrounding the rogue camp rustled with calculated whispers. Liora had planned this carefully, leaving no trace that might alert Gonzalo until it was far too late. Dante's rogues moved like invisible themselves—silent, mastered, with every step measured against the crunch of leaves and snap of twigs. Each rogue had been trained for moments like this: to slip through enemy territory, bypass guards, and leave no sign of their presence behind.
