It began with a knock.
Not the kind a friend gives. Not the gentle tap of a messenger. This was the kind of knock that arrived in your spine before it reached your ears, the kind that didn't just ask for attention but demanded it. It rang through the Hydra hideout with an authority that didn't belong inside its low, coral-lined halls.
Fedlimid was already by the door when the second knock came. He opened it with his usual caution, one hand behind the frame, the other on the knob. The moment the hinges gave way and light spilled in, every instinct inside him said back up.
Rhys Flydart didn't walk in. He stood.
A mountain carved from stormwater and iron. His shoulders were too wide for the frame, and his black beard, thick as iron wire, curled with the kind of carelessness only earned by men who didn't have to care. His hair shifted subtly around his face, strands swaying as if obeying a current no one else could feel. It wasn't wind. It was him.
