[The Great Bridge—Beneath the Burning Sun]
The wind screamed first.
It rushed through the ravine beneath the bridge, dragging sand and heat upward like a warning too late to matter. Five figures stood across the stone span, cloaked in black, hoods pulled low, swords raised toward the Malika of Zahryssar.
Their eyes were wrong.
Pitch-black, lightless, devouring the sun rather than reflecting it.
Captain Varesh stepped half a pace forward, shield lifting instinctively, sword angling toward the nearest threat. Around him, the knights adjusted—tightening formation, boots grinding stone, breath syncing as one.
"How," one of the younger knights whispered hoarsely, "did they know the Malika would be here?"
Varesh did not look away from the enemy; with low and sharp voice, he said, "That question can wait until we are alive to ask it."
Levin stood in the center of them all—still, composed, hands relaxed at his sides.
