They found it.
Well—perhaps not "it" in the fullest sense. Not the fortress itself, not the hidden sanctum where the Association of Schadenfreude plotted their schemes, but something that mattered just as much: evidence. A trail. A sign that their path had not been a wild chase through the endless wastelands, but a pursuit that had brought them to the very doorstep of the enemy's heart.
Luke lay sprawled flat against the hot stone, chest pressed against the jagged rock, every muscle in his body stiff with the memory of those four figures who had emerged from the belly of the rocky hill. Even now, with the horizon empty and the oppressive silence broken only by the dry whistle of the wind, he could still hear the crunch of their boots against the dirt, still see the way their silhouettes cut sharply against the noon sun.
The Association of Schadenfreude.
