Eamond practically sprinted the last block. He rounded the corner onto St. Marla's street, breath catching, eyes scanning the orphanage walls, the gate, the rooftops – searching for signs of forced entry, smoke, or anything that seemed out of place.
Just inside the open orphanage gate, neatly arranged against the sun-warmed stone of the courtyard wall like discarded sacks of flour, lay three figures. Hoods pulled low over their faces, hands bound securely behind their backs with thick rope, ankles similarly trussed.
They were completely unconscious, heads lolling, chests rising and falling slowly. There was no sign of a struggle beyond the ropes – no blood, no broken tiles, no overturned plants. It looked… tidy. Efficient. It was as if someone had taken out the trash and left it neatly bundled for collection.
A wave of dizzying relief washed over Eamond, so potent it almost made his knees buckle. They tried. They walked straight into the grinder.
