It was night in Arudonaven.
The city slept beneath a sky of pale silver and restless clouds, its streets quiet save for the occasional creak of wooden shutters in the wind and the distant bark of a hungry dog. The fires in the towers burned low, their light barely brushing the narrow alleys, and the gates stood shut not from fear, but routine.
The enemy was far, after all.
There was no siege here—no war drums or battering rams at the walls. The Herculeans had retreated like whipped dogs, and with them had gone the tension, the sleeplessness, the constant rhythm of marching boots and shouted orders. The city, lulled by the illusion of safety, had fallen into a kind of half-sleep, its vigilance thinned like watered wine.
Lucius stood in the dark, cloaked and still as a stone.
This was the hour he had been waiting for.
A soldier's greatest ally wasn't steel or numbers, but complacency of the enemy . And tonight, Arudonaven gave him that gift with both hands.
