The midnight wind scraped across the jagged rim of the ten-mile chasm, carrying the dry, metallic tang of pulverized granite and cold ash. Above the shattered plains, a pale crescent moon hung half-shrouded behind drifting autumn clouds, casting a dim, silver sheen against the towering golden dome that sealed the solitary sect of the Sanatan Flame Sect.
Three hundred yards down the fractured western cliff face—far away from the main mountain gate—twenty shadows clung to the sheer granite wall like iron-clawed bats.
They were draped from head to toe in dark, oil-slicked leather cloaks that drank the moonlight, their faces concealed behind beaked iron masks painted the color of dried arterial blood.
At the front of the pack, clinging to a narrow shelf of cracked shale, the branch captain of the Blood Hawk Assassins pressed his palm against the cold stone. Beneath his iron beak, his lips curled into a greedy, feverish sneer as he stared up at the humming golden barrier.
