They moved down the ridge in silence, boots finding stone and root with the practiced care of people who had learned long ago that noise meant death.
The violet torchlight grew brighter with every step, casting strange shadows that twisted and writhed like living things.
Kael led, Night-Fang drawn but held low, its glow muted to almost nothing. The dagger seemed to understand the need for stealth, its usual hunger banked like embers beneath ash.
The first guards appeared at the valley's outer ring—two soldiers in black armor, their backs to the approaching team, eyes fixed on the ritual below. They never heard death coming.
Kael's blade took the first one across the throat. Valen's knife found the second's spine. Both bodies lowered to the ground with barely a sound, blood pooling dark against the stone.
However, the group didn't pause to celebrate their kills. Instead, they continued their march as if nothing had happened.
The second ring was harder.
